Linda Castle (2 page)

Constance lifted the veil on her traveling ensemble and allowed herself a better look at Temple. She had chosen a seat at the back of the train car, and in truth, she doubted he even knew she was there.

His battered knee-high boots were carelessly resting on the back of the seat in front of him. Dull brown pants were stuffed tightly into the high tops. Other than that, all she could see was the crown of his worn hat. His tawny hair, which he always wore a little longer than was considered fashionable, was concealed along with the dark brown eyes she remembered so well.

She smiled in anticipation of his reaction. It had been ten years and she had grown up. Even Temple Parish would have to see how much of a lady she had become since he left her father’s house. Constance had
planned their meeting and the shared expedition down to the last detail, including taking the liberty of contacting the man Mr. Montague had hired to be the guide for C. H. Cadwallender and Temple Parish.

Constance felt a small shiver go through her body.

She had always dreamed of working side by side with Temple, as his equal. She couldn’t wait to sit down and have a serious discussion with him about the hominid bones found in China, or the theories about what had actually happened to all the amazing creatures that were being unearthed.

Yes, Constance mused, it was her girlhood fantasy come true. Working with Temple Parish in the middle of Montana. And perhaps she would finally learn what had caused the terrible estrangement between Temple and her father and why the other professors at Dandridge said his name with contempt and then only in whispers when they thought she could not hear.

After she returned to New York with the specimens and received the praise due her, perhaps her father would stop treating her like a child. And maybe, just maybe, she could bring about a reconciliation of the two men she cared for.

T
emple stepped off the train and looked around. Morgan Forks wasn’t much of a town—in fact it wasn’t a town at all. It was a sorry collection of run-down stores and a couple of saloons. There wasn’t even a proper hotel on the dusty street.

“Oh well, I’ve worked in worse locations.” He winked at the small, gap-toothed boy who had suddenly materialized to carry his cases from the depot. “Point me in the direction of Peter Hughes,” he told the lad.

The child took off straight as an arrow in the direction of the closest beer hall. With a town so small, it followed that the center of activity would revolve around the watering hole.

Once inside, Temple threaded his way through a maze of empty tables. The wooden floor was coated with a thin film of dust where his boots left faint prints with each step. It did not escape his notice that his prints were the only recent ones. A bartender swiped at dull glasses behind a long plank while a whipcord-lean man was resting his boot on a spittoon.

At the very back of the room Temple spied one
occupied table. A grizzled old man with a two-weeks’ growth of beard was focused on a glass of amber liquid. His dusty clothes and overall appearance put Temple in mind of a prospector, the likely choice for a guide into the Montana badlands. The boy led him to the table without hesitation.

“Are you Peter Hughes?” Temple asked.

The old man looked up and acknowledged his presence with a small lift of his hoary brows. “Yep.”

“I’m Temple Parish.” Temple extended his hand.

Peter’s brows rose higher as he stared at Temple’s callused palm but he made no move to grasp it. He returned his attention to the glass and took another sip of his drink.

Temple let his hand fall to his side. “Are you the man hired by Filbert Montague?” He heard the impatience in his voice. It had been a long trip by train and he was anxious to find the bones and return to New York.

“Yep,” Peter grated out.

Temple frowned. It was obvious Peter Hughes was a cantankerous old galoot who liked to have every syllable yanked out of him by the roots. Under different circumstances Temple might have enjoyed the struggle, but right now he simply wished to be taken to the canyon he had heard about.

“Are you ready to guide me to the canyon?” Temple was becoming irritated.

“Nope.”

The succinct reply took Temple aback. “Well, when
will
you be ready?”

“Don’t know.” Peter Hughes finished the amber liquid in his glass and looked up at Temple suggestively.
He placed the empty glass on the scarred tabletop with precise and exaggerated movements.

Temple sighed. “Barkeep, another drink for—my friend.”

“Thanks,” Peter said with a toothy grin.

“Don’t mention it. Now can you tell me when you’ll be ready to take me to the canyon?”

“In ‘bout five minutes, I’d guess.”

“Five minutes, huh? What is going to happen in five minutes that requires us to wait?”

“That’s when the other fella I’m taking is supposed to show up.”

Temple felt the hair on his nape prickle. C. H. Cadwal lender was in New York, with a broken leg. Temple had the sensation of being manipulated and he didn’t like it.

“What fella?”

“Mr. C. H. Cadwallender, I believe the telegram said.”

“Cadwallender?” Temple couldn’t believe it. Had C.H. found a way to make it? Could he have persuaded the doctor to cut the cast off early? Happy anticipation surged through Temple. He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table, suddenly willing to sacrifice a few minutes. The boy who had carried his bags was still standing patiently beside him watching the exchange from beneath sun-tipped lashes.

“Here, son, for your trouble.” Temple flipped him a shiny silver dollar. It was a silly and damned extravagant thing to do, but the boy reminded Temple of his own youth, when a tip from a gentleman meant the difference between eating or going to bed hungry. The child caught the coin in one hand and scurried away grinning.

Temple and Peter Hughes sat in stiff silence while the minutes ticked by. A sort of drowsy lethargy crept over the dusty barroom. It didn’t take long for Temple to grow restless. He glanced at his pocket watch in annoyance.

The more he thought about it, the more absurd the notion. C.H. was not here. This was obviously somebody’s idea of a joke—a bad one—and Temple wasn’t known for his sense of humor. “I thought you said C. H. Cadwallender was supposed to be here.” He glared at Peter and returned the timepiece to his trouser pocket.

“I am here, Temple,” a cultured feminine voice said from behind his back. “I’m ready to go now.”

Temple stood up so quickly he knocked the chair over in his haste. He turned to find himself staring at a voluminous canvas coat and large-brimmed hat covered by a veil of netting designed to keep insects out. He blinked in confusion at the apparition.

“What? Who the hell are you?” he asked the overdressed female.

Constance peeled up the netting and pushed her spectacles up on her nose. She peered at Temple, who didn’t seem to have the slightest notion who she was. “I am Constance Honoria Cadwallender—C.H.,” she said with a pleased grin. “I am going to be accompanying you to the canyon. I am ready now, if Mr. Hughes is quite prepared to leave.” She glanced at him and saw him gulp down a mouthful of his drink. His eyes seemed to bulge and she realized that Mr. Hughes was not quite ready—as a matter of fact, Mr. Peter Hughes had fallen off his chair because he was laughing so hard at the look on Temple Parish’s face.

Constance looked at Temple for reassurance, suddenly
unsure of herself, but instead of comfort in his eyes, she found him glowering at her as if she were somehow the cause of Mr. Hughes’s odd attack of mirth. It was perplexing, but men, with the exception of her father, had always perplexed her.

Mr. Hughes fell silent for a moment and she thought it was a good sign, but then he glanced at Constance and the skin around his eyes wrinkled ominously. His eyes watered.

“Oh, for pity’s sake! Don’t start that again,” Temple blustered. The man behind the bar was chuckling, and Constance wondered if she had interrupted some joke.

She started to ask Mr. Hughes, but he staggered up from his chair. He rushed to the doors and stepped through them before a loud guffaw erupted from him. He more or less tumbled into the street. A little puff of dust wafted through the doors screeching back and forth on rusty hinges.

“Astonishing!” Constance shook her head.

Temple turned and took a step toward her. When he stopped, he was close enough for her to see him clearly—even if she hadn’t been wearing her spectacles.

“Temple—I am pleased to have the opportunity to work with you.” Eager enthusiasm rang in every word. “Ive dreamed—” Constance saw him flinch and she tried to harness her excitement. “That is, since I was a child I have been looking forward to working with you.”

One thick brow twitched above his hard unyielding brown eyes.

Constance swallowed down her elation. She had expected Temple to treat her with the same friendly irreverence
they enjoyed as children. Now she realized, with a certain uncomfortable jolt, they were no longer children and his expression was decidedly less than friendly. She pushed her spectacles up on her nose and tried to deal with her disappointment while she waited for some civil response, but Temple continued to glare at her in disapproving silence. She felt more awkward and painfully aware of each passing minute. Then he cleared his throat.

“Madam, I don’t know what your scheme is, but I am sure I have never met you before. I undoubtedly would have remembered the incident.” His eyes disdainfully swept her from the top of her hat to the toes of her shoes.

Constance stiffened at the undisguised condescension in his voice, but then she told herself she was being silly. Perhaps he didn’t realize who she was. Then a happy thought popped into her head. While Temple had been busy making a name for himself all over the globe, she had had the benefit of seeing his face in the New York newspapers at fairly regular intervals over the past ten years. He, on the other hand, had not seen her since he left her father’s brownstone, when she was an awkward girl in braids.

“Of course, how silly of me. I just now realized, you don’t recognize me.”

“That, madam, as they say, is a rather large understatement,” he said stiffly.

She shook her head as if to physically throw off his words while she continued to explain. “It has been years. Papa sent me—to dig with you,” Abruptly she stopped and corrected herself. “Well not exactly to dig
with
you. What I mean to say is that Papa sent me to dig
for
Dandridge University.”

Temple inhaled sharply and then he leaned an inch closer and peered into her face. He tilted his head to the side and squinted as if he were seeking a new perspective. While he studied her his breath fogged her spectacles.

“But surely it can’t be.” He sounded doubtful. “Connie?”

“Yes! Yes, I’m Connie.” She repeated the name that only he called her. Now things would progress more smoothly.

“Little Connie?” He swept his eyes from the large hat on her head, down the heavy protective coat, and stopped at her sensibly booted feet. “The same little Connie who used to follow me around? Who always had her nose in a book—and an answer for any question?”

Constance found it oddly annoying that Temple was compelled to remind her of childish habits. After all, she was now no more a child than he was. She had not seen fit to remind him of the capricious escapades of his youth. “I only wanted to help,” she muttered softly.

“C.H. sent you?” he repeated.

Perhaps if she explained the entire situation to Temple, he would understand. “Papa had a little accident, you see, his foot…”

“He sent you to challenge
me
—for the endowment?” Temple cut her off as if he had not heard her.

Constance pushed the spectacles back up on her nose and stared up his lean weathered face. “Well— I was hoping that we could compromise—work together for the good of the scientific community. The endowment is large enough for both—”

“C.H. sent his—daughter? Little Connie?” Temple
kept cutting off her sentences, as if he were completely unaware of her attempts to explain.

Constance blinked and glanced around. The bartender immediately looked away and started rubbing a cloth over the top of the plank counter. She felt awkward, and this was not going at all as she had imagined—not at all.

“C.H. must have grown dotty,” Temple said harshly.

“Why would you say such a thing, Temple?” She took a step backward so she could see him without straining her neck to look up.

“Connie,
little
Connie, you must see how laughable the whole idea is.” He wiped at his eyes and grinned sympathetically at her. He pushed his hat back on his head and a strand of sun-kissed hair poked out at an odd angle.

“I don’t find it laughable at all, Temple.” How ironic that she had traveled so far from New York only to find herself on such familiar ground. This was territory she trod frequently, each time she offered an opinion or suggestion to one of her father’s colleagues. “You may not be aware that I am a qualified anatomist. I am more than competent enough to handle this kind of exploratory expedition.”

“Competent? Exploratory expedition?” Temple swept the soft-brimmed hat off his head and slapped it against his knee. The smile on his face grew wider. “Connie—” deep throaty chuckles interrupted his sentence “—y ou…have the most delightful sense of humor. I never realized it when you were a little girl. I remembered you as being rather serious, but you do have a devilish funny side.”

Constance opened her mouth again but her words
were frozen in her throat by Temple’s laughter. It started low in his belly, as only true amusement can. Then it came rushing forward, rolling like thunder as it gathered strength and rumbled out of him.

Temple grabbed hold of his ribs and chuckled with amusement. Constance realized, with a surge of uncharacteristic anger, he was laughing
at
her. Only her upbringing made it possible for her to stand there, stiff as a poker and watch, and while she did, any inclination to compromise and work
with
Temple Parish withered away. In fact, while Constance twined her gloved hands together in disappointment she found her thoughts racing ahead. And while more and more heat rose in her cheeks, her mind was focused on only one thing.

She was determined to silence Temple Parish’s arrogant laughter, and the best way she could think of to do so was to claim Filbert Montague’s prize.

The setting sun cast a reddish glow to the floor of the small room Mr. Hughes had procured for Constance above the saloon. She paced across the vermilion radiance while he apologized for his earlier behavior. He managed to do so without ever once breaking into guffaws, though once or twice she saw the skin around his eyes crinkle.

“I wish to start for the canyon immediately. Mr. Hughes.”

“I’m sorry, miss,” he said sheepishly. “But I—uh, I have wasted the better part of the afternoon. The trip is a long one and best started at sunrise.”

“I see,” Constance said. It was a reasonable enough request to wait until tomorrow morning to begin the
journey but she was feeling neither calm nor reasonable.

“I’ll come and get you loaded up at sunrise, miss.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hughes. That will be fine.” Constance opened the door and let him out into the narrow empty hallway. The sound of Temple’s voice down below in the bar made the hair on the nape of her neck prickle. She so seldom lost her temper, it was not an experience she was accustomed to.

Constance shut the door behind Mr. Hughes, but even with the door closed, she could still hear the baritone rumble of several men in conversation. A sharp bark of amusement shattered the silence of her room, and heat rose in her face.

As the sun dropped from sight and darkness claimed her room a new sound was added. Plinking piano music vibrated through the floor against the soles of her shoes.

A sudden explosion of laughter echoed up the stairs. A hot tide of indignation climbed into her cheeks again.