Читать книгу Temple's Prize - Linda Castle - Страница 11

Temple watched the herd of antelope bound by. Hughes grumbled about the animals taking so long to cross, slowing the wagon’s progress toward their destination, but Connie was standing up in the wagon watching. At least Temple thought she was. The thick folds of her dress made it difficult to tell much of anything about the position or shape of her body.

The huge herd gamboled across the wagon trail to disappear over a gently sloping rise into a hollow. When the last white rump vanished from sight, Connie clapped her hands together in childish glee.

“Oh, Mr. Hughes, they are extraordinary,” she declared as she settled herself amid the mound of sandcolored cloth. “I really must do some sketches of the local wildlife. It would be lovely to have a set framed for Papa’s office.”

The mention of that dusty room made Temple’s jaw muscles tighten. His insatiable curiosity forced him to sit up. “Is he still in the science wing of the Palmer Building?” He continued to whittle, never looking away from the hunk of pine even though he was paying close attention to Connie and her answer.

A rustle of stiff fabric telegraphed Connie’s intent to swivel around on the hard wagon seat. It took a few minutes for her to manage to move all the material surrounding her body.

“Yes—he is,” she said.

He could not see her face behind the netting, but her voice held a tone of undisguised amazement.

“It was so long ago when you left, I am surprised that you would remember such an insignificant thing as the exact location of his office.”

He shouldn’t remember. But every small incident and minute detail was as clear as if it had been yesterday instead of ten years ago when he lived with C.H. and Connie.

“I have a good memory.” Temple bent his head lower to′concentrate on the hunk of wood, wishing he had kept his mouth shut. His brows pinched together in annoyance and he promised himself that he would not allow his curiosity to get the better of him again.

“Yes, you certainly do.” Constance turned back to face the front of the wagon. The team was trudging slowly and Peter slapped the reins against the rumps of the horses as if he were anxious to reach the canyon. The wagon lurched forward and Temple neatly sliced the tip of his thumb with the razor-sharp blade.

“Damnation, Hughes. You’ve made me nick myself.” Temple stuck his thumb against his tongue to stanch the flow of blood. The faint taste of iron filled his mouth as blood oozed from the stinging gash. The wagon jerked again as it came to a halt.

“What is it?” Constance demanded. She had somehow managed to climb over the iron railing at the back of the seat—quite a feat considering the amount of cloth that surrounded her. She was kneeling, or he believed she was kneeling, beside him. One thing he was sure was that her huge skirt was ballooned near his thigh and she was pressing him tighter against one trunk. Her fingertips grazed over the flesh on his exposed forearm. “What has happened? Let me see.”

As if she could see anything through the netting, he thought sourly. He took his thumb from his mouth in order to speak. “It’s nothing.”

She grabbed his hand with both of her smaller ones. “You have cut yourself.” A thick glob of blood welled from the wound. The cut was not deep enough to be serious but wide enough to bleed freely.

“It’s nothing to worry over,” he grumbled. She ignored him and turned his hand this way and that, examining his thumb while he dodged the brim of her outrageous hat.

“I’m not going to bleed to death, Connie, now let me go.” Temple felt awkward, sprawled on his back among the canvas with Connie hovering over him like some sort of apparition from a child’s dream.

“It could become septic, Temple. Allow me to tend it now.” Authority rang in her voice and it only served to make Temple more annoyed.

“While you see to Mr. Parish, I am going to take a little walk.” Peter climbed down from the wagon seat and ambled off toward a scanty grove of squat pine trees, leaving Temple to fend for himself.

“It is a tiny scratch.” He managed to wrench his hand from Connie’s determined grasp. The fact that she was now calling him Temple and not Mr. Parish did not escape his notice during their tug-of-war.

“I don’t want to win Montague’s endowment because you were too injured to give it your best,” her smooth voice pronounced from behind the barrier of her netting.

Renewed fury sluiced over Temple. He wanted tò deliver a suitable retort, but her thorny declaration had left him momentarily speechless. A hot tide crept up his face to his hairline.

“Very well, Miss Cadwallender, do your worst,” Temple grated out. He shoved his hand toward her, offering the injured thumb for her to inspect.

“I am pleased to see you are at last being sensible,” she muttered while she searched through a small carpetbag. He had the uncomfortable suspicion she was smiling behind the barrier of cloth. In fact, he could practically hear laughter in her voice. When she had found what she was looking for, the massive hat once again turned in his direction. “Now kindly hold still so I can put some antiseptic on this cut.”

A gust of icy wind blew over them and he actually heard a muffled giggle. But surely it was a trick of the wind; little Connie would not laugh at an injured man.

Would she?

Temple used his free hand to close his knife and slip it inside his trousers. Constance put something related to liquid fire on his thumb.

“Holy blue blazes, Connie!” The stinging liquid made his eyes water. He glanced around for the piece of wood he had been carving when she had descended upon him, but between her ministrations and the antiseptic he had no luck in finding it.

“There now—that should keep your thumb clean and dry.” Constance gathered her skirts and stood up. Temple was stunned to see his hand swathed in white gauze. His thumb was bound to three times its normal size. Now he looked almost as ridiculous in his bandage as Constance looked in her hat.

“If this bandage is meant to stanch moisture you must be expecting a flood.” Temple climbed to his feet and leaped from the back of the wagon before she had a chance to object and bind him further.

Constance couldn’t imagine why Temple was so annoyed. After all, she had done him a good turn by cleaning the cut. She watched him enter the copse of low shrubs near the pine trees. The sun was high overhead and she was a little warm in her traveling ensemble.

Her eyes swept over the countryside while she gathered the gauze and mechanically popped the cork back in the bottle of antiseptic. Short mossy-green tufts of grass sprouted here and there, but in the deepest ravines and beneath the squat pines, there were actually small patches of snow on the ground. Constance replaced the items in the small box and returned it to her carpetbag. She had climbed halfway over the wagon seat when something caught her eye.

It was a piece of pale pine wood wedged in a flap of canvas on one of her crates. She picked it up and turned it around in her fingers while she looked at it. A most peculiar tightness manifested itself in her middle while she studied the tiny figure in her hand.

It was a young girl with thick plaits trailing down her back. She was dressed in full skirts and a pinafore.

“It’s me,” Constance whispered to herself. It was the very image of the way she had looked when Temple stomped out of her father’s house ten years ago.

The sound of masculine voices drew her head up. Temple and Mr. Hughes appeared at the edge of the bushes. Impulsively, and not really sure why, she thrust the little carving into her pocket and scrambled back over the seat before they reached the wagon. She was grateful she was wearing her insect bonnet, because she was quite certain that a most unbecoming flush had stained her cheeks.

When the sun had climbed to the center of the sky, and Constance’s stomach had growled noisily several times, Mr. Hughes stopped the wagon in the middle of a small meadow. A sprinkling of hardy wildflowers were blooming near the tough sprigs of grass.

For a moment Constance was struck by a sharp pang of homesickness. She excused herself and went off for a few moments of privacy. She stuck her hand inside her pocket and felt the carving again. She had never taken another person’s belongings before and she wasn’t sure why she had done so now, but when she wrapped her fingers around the small object she felt less homesick.

After relieving herself, Constance made her way toward the wagon. Temple was unloading the large wicker basket Mr. Hughes had brought along. Sunshine caught the pale strands of Temple’s hair and turned it to liquid silver. A hard knot formed in Constance’s stomach while she watched him. The pale collarless shirt strained across the width of his neck and the shoulder seams stretched with each movement.

“Miss Cadwallender, you best come have some of this fried chicken,” Mr. Hughes called out to her.

“Yes, thank you, I will,” Constance replied, trying to swallow her embarrassment, wondering if Mr. Hughes had seen her staring at Temple. She quickened her pace toward the wagon but when she reached it, she hesitated. For some reason, the idea of sitting down on the bleached fallen tree trunk beside Temple filled her with an odd sort of dread. She saw him glance up at her from under thick lashes while she lingered, unsure and hesitant.

“Miss Cadwallender—” there was a mocking edge to Temple’s voice “—I would not want to win this challenge because you were too weak from hunger to put up a proper effort.” One sun-gilded brow rose above taunting brown eyes while a corner of his mouth curled upward. “Or perhaps you have come to your senses and have decided to concede that I am the better digger. If you leave today, you could be back in New York by week’s end.”

Constance’s anger bloomed anew. Whatever had been wrong with her a moment before, whatever silly notion had caused her to hesitate had faded when Temple’s dare left his mouth.

She stepped over the end of the log that Mr. Hughes was sitting on and plopped down beside him, peeling up the netting to expose her face. She accepted the piece of chicken Mr. Hughes offered and tore off a huge bite with her front teeth while she glared defiantly at Temple. Each time he told her to leave, the more determined she was to stay. She chewed with enthusiasm but the truth was, she couldn’t even taste the food.

“Hungry?” Temple asked with an arrogant tilt of his head. Sunlight made the scar on his cheek gleam stark white against his lean, tanned flesh.

“Starving, Mr. Parish—absolutely starving,” Constance answered around a mouthful of fried chicken.

“Good. To be a proper digger, a man—oh, excuse me—a person must eat well and keep up their strength.” He grinned and tossed a chicken bone out into the grassy meadow.

“Be assured, Mr. Parish, I am more than up to the task.” Constance swallowed the last bite then tossed her chicken bone alongside the one Temple had thrown.

He chuckled and reached for a chunk of corn bread. “Maybe, but I think you won’t stay. Without C.H. around, I think you will find this task daunting. I expect you will be returning with Mr. Hughes when he brings the first load of supplies.”

She stared at him with narrowed eyes while she pushed her spectacles up on her nose. He was so sure of himself—so arrogant. A thousand tart replies ran through her head but none seemed harsh enough.

“Mr. Parish, I wish you would refrain from calling me that childish pet name,” she heard herself snap.

He stopped nibbling the corn bread and stared at her for a full minute. Then one side of his mouth tilted upward in a boyish expression of repentance. “Childish? You think my name for you is childish? Connie girl, to me you are still a little girl in braids—and you always will be.”

Her cheeks flamed with inner heat. Silence hung between them. The only sound was the warbling of a meadowlark off in the distance. Constance found her fingers curling around the carving secreted deep within her pocket. The unfamiliar knot began to grow in her abdomen again.

“Well, I am not a little girl any longer, Temple,” she said softly.

Temple chuckled and looked away. He took a bite of the corn bread and chewed in silence but Constance could see he was well pleased with himself.

The knot in her middle twisted and churned. She reached up and pulled the netting down over her face, grateful for the opportunity to avoid being seen, and made herself a promise.

Before this expedition came to an end she was going to make Temple Parish acknowledge the fact that she was not a child. And she was going to claim Montague’s prize.

She stood and marched toward the wagon. “Can we be on our way, Mr. Hughes? I am most anxious to reach the site so I can begin digging.”

Her words brought Temple lurching to his feet. He cast one quelling gaze in her direction. Constance stood by the wagon, with her elbows akimbo, watching him toss jars and crocks into the basket.

The look on Temple’s face and the stiff set of Miss Cadwallender’s shoulders brought a low rumble of laughter welling up inside Peter. He glanced back and forth between them and tried to gulp down his humor. They would both skin him alive if he started to laugh right now, he was sure of it.

He shook his head and muttered to himself. “It is going to be a long afternoon, and an interesting one, if I have my guess.”

After hours of riding in the wagon in tense silence, Peter glanced at the western sky. The sun was hanging low and yet Miss Cadwallender had not asked to stop. He had noticed that each bump and sway of the wagon brought a tiny gasp of discomfort from her, but the young miss was determined and strong willed.

After the words she and Parish had exchanged at lunch, he knew she would not ask to halt—no matter what. She would try her best to hide her weariness and continue for as long as the men wished to travel, just to prove herself to Temple Parish. And then tomorrow she would be all done in and the bounder would have an unfair advantage. The idea didn’t set well with Peter. He pulled up on the long leather reins.

“This looks like a real good place to make camp for the night.” Peter shoved the foot brake in place and swiveled in his seat, ready for Parish’s complaint

“We’re stopping already?” Temple levered himself up and lifted the brim of his hat. He glanced at the surrounding countryside from his snug trough between the crates and trunks. “Isn’t it a little early? We have at least one more hour of good light.”

Peter stared at Temple and tried to keep a straight face. It wasn’t easy, especially since the big man was wedged between two crates, with his back against one and his boots propped up against another. He was practically bent double.

“The horses need rest. So do I,” Peter lied. “We’re setting up camp here.” He jumped down from the wagon and moved toward the head of the team.

Temple shrugged and scooted the hat up to its proper position. “Suit yourself, Hughes.” He dislodged his body from the crevice and stood up. “I could use a little stretch myself.”

Constance tried not to notice when Temple jumped down from the back of the wagon. He extended one leg like a cat who had been curled up too long. She remained in the wagon and watched him from beneath the shelter of her netting while he raised his arms and bent his body into a backward arc. Mesmerized by the glint of the crimson sun on the hard planes of his form, the vision of the boy she remembered merged with the reality of the man he was today.

There was a width to his shoulders and sinewy muscle in his upper thighs that had been only a promise of things to come when he left her father’s brownstone in New York. Now, as the rays of waning sunlight illuminated his chiseled face in a bronze glow, a painful catch manifested itself in her throat.

How could Temple Parish be so heartbreakingly handsome and so absolutely infuriating at the same time?

“Miss Cadwallender?” Peter Hughes’s voice jolted her; she blinked in confusion. She found him staring up at her with his hand extended, waiting patiently to help her from the wagon. Embarrassment sluiced through her.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Once again the insect netting on her hat kept her unbecoming blush from being seen.

“Nothing to apologize for, miss. Give me your hand and I’ll help you down. You might want to take a look around while I set up camp. Just be sure to watch for snakes and bears.”

“You know, Hughes, if you keep coddling Miss Cadwallender, she will be at a loss when you leave us alone out here.”Temple sauntered over and leaned against the side of the wagon. “She will scarcely be able to manage without you.”

Constance tilted her head to look at him, expecting to see his customary scornful smile but instead his brows were furrowed together as if he might actually be worried about her. The very notion nearly made her laugh aloud. It was absurd to even consider that Temple might have a single minute of concern on her behalf.

“I assure you, Mr. Parish, I am quite capable of fending for myself now and I will be able to do so when Mr. Hughes has returned to Morgan Forks.” Constance swiped some of the trail dust from her coat while she spoke. “While traveling with Papa, I set up camp on more than one occasion.” She expected him to stomp away in a fit of temper, but he continued to lounge against the side of the wagon while he toyed with the large gauze bandage on his thumb.

He was no more than a yard from Constance and a capricious breeze brought a whiff of his distinctive odor to her nostrils. Without conscious thought she tried to analyze—to catalog—the scent. It was part wood and dust mingled with crisp Montana air. It was a man’s smell, different from the way any man at the university ever smelled. It was impossible to name in one word except to say it was all Temple’s scent, a bit wild, a bit reckless and wholly stimulating.

“So, old C.H. drug you to hell and back after I left,” he mumbled under his breath. Constance watched him continue to stare at the earth in front of his boots. She realized it was not a question that he asked of her, but she heard the question hidden in Temple’s soft words.

“After you left, Papa found himself in need of a new assistant. I was the only logical choice.”

Temple’s head snapped up. He speared Constance with the flinty look in his eyes. “Why were you the logical choice?”

Constance started at the sharpness of his question. “I received the same education Papa had given to you. It was natural that I should begin to accompany him when he went looking for scientific relics. After all, there wasn’t anybody else he had been training. He had invested a lot of time in you….” Her words trailed off.

Temple’s brows shot up. “Is that your way of telling me that I took too much of C.H.’s attention? How you must’ve rejoiced when I left.”

The memory of lying in her bed while silent tears streamed down her face came rushing back. Temple’s departure had ripped her tender fourteen-year-old heart in two, but she refused to let him know that she cared so much—then. “I meant it was perfectly natural for Papa to begin taking me with him on all his scientific expeditions, Temple, nothing more.”

“Connie—you may have been given a gentleman’s education by C.H. and all of his colleagues, but taking you to primitive locations around the world was hardly natural. The field is certainly no place for a growing girl—and it is no place for you to be now.” He stared at her with eyes full of ice and contempt. “Go home, Connie. Save us all a lot of trouble and just…go… home.”

If her netting had not been in place Temple would have seen her own brows rising in astonishment at his measured words. “I will not go home. So you may as well quit asking—or rather ordering me to do so.”

He kicked a loose stone with the toe of his boot. It was difficult to put what he was feeling into words. Images of Connie as a child assaulted him each time he looked away from the veiled and swathed form of the determined person before him. “C.H. should’ve taken better care of you—he should have made sure you had an opportunity to be a…” His sentence trailed off.

Constance felt the heat climbing into her face. “A lady? Is that the word you are searching for?” She placed her hands on her hips and waited for his answer. He finally glanced up at her and she saw a new expression in his face. Eyes that were normally hard and cynical as agate now held something more elusive than the fragrance that wafted around him.

“No, Connie.” He stared straight at her netting and for a moment she wondered if he could see her face. “I was going to say that you should have spent your youth at home. C.H. never should have dragged you across the world looking for bits of bone and broken rocks. It wasn’t right. And it wasn’t right for him to send you to do his battles now.”

He gave her one last look, then he turned and walked away. She watched him and wondered why she felt the ridiculous urge to call him back.

Mr. Hughes had ingeniously used the wagon and three pieces of canvas to erect Constance a shelter for the night. He stood back while she examined it.

“Thank you, Mr. Hughes, it is wonderful, but I really could have managed with a bedroll. I have slept in the open many times.”

“It was nothing, miss. I want you to be comfortable.” He continued to test the strength of the canvas while he talked. Constance saw him smile each time she gave her approval to some small detail.

“The wind comes up of an evening, miss, and it turns cold, even this time of year. I wouldn’t want you to take a chill.”

“You are very considerate.” She smiled and pushed her spectacles up with one finger.

Peter found himself staring at Miss Cadwallender in amazement. She had removed her netting and the fulllength duster that she had worn over her traveling dress. The glow of the campfire cast a rosy blush across her smooth cheeks and the thick lustrous hair piled carelessly on top of her head. The small rectangular spectacles reflected crimson flames each time she moved her head to look at the simple lean-to.

“I have had to erect all manner of contrivances for shelter while traveling with my father, but this is really most remarkable.”

Constance smiled and touched the canvas in an appreciative manner and he felt a burst of pride. At that moment Temple walked around the canvas lean-to.

“Top-notch, Hughes. I couldn’t have done better myself. It reminds me of the camp I set up last year in the mountains of South America.”

Miss Cadwallender stiffened and Peter saw the expression in her eyes change. He moved back into the shadows and busied himself while the two glared at each other.

Constance felt her good mood evaporate while she glared at Temple. The South American trip he mentioned had been only last summer and she had read more about it than she ever would have wished while the newspapers followed his progress. “Would that have been the camp where the American heiress tried to snare you in her butterfly net?” She knew her voice was a touch too sweet and a bit too sharp to be sincere—and she saw by the way Temple’s brow shot up that he knew it also.

A wicked grin began to spread across his face and she regretted mentioning it.

“Constance Honoria” I do believe you have been reading on dits in the New York society columns. What would your father say about your choice of reading material?” Temple wrapped his long fingers around the suspenders hooked to the buttons on the waistband of his trousers. His cocky grin grew wider while he watched her. She wished she could simply disappear, but Temple’s gaze held her as firmly as any leprechaun in a child’s fable.

Temple couldn’t help but grin at Connie. While he watched, her eyes widened behind her glasses, but suddenly she inhaled deeply and pulled herself up straighter than an aspen’s trunk.

“Well, Mr. Parish—” her voice was composed even if her hands were trembling “—I imagine he would say it was the one place neither of us ever expected to find your name printed.”

The smile faded from Temple’s face and his mouth became a thin line. His craggy jaw hardened while a knot formed in her belly.

“Touché.” Temple inclined his head and released his grip on his suspenders. “That barb certainly found its mark.”

Too late Constance realized time had not dulled the raw pain he felt about his background. She regretted her comment almost as much as her reference to his South American trip, but she could not apologize.

He took a step toward her. She forced herself to meet his gaze without backing up so much as an inch, but in order to do that she had to bend her head back in a most uncomfortable position.

“You should become some deserving professor’s wife. Then only one man would have to suffer the rough side of your tongue.”

She stared unblinking into his flinty eyes. She pushed her spectacles up on the bridge of her nose and tried to tell herself that he could not be that tall and intimidating.

“Actually, Mr. Parish, only one man’s suffering the rough side of my tongue, as you put it.” Constance narrowed her gaze and watched him clamp his lips into a hard taut line.

Peter stood at the corner of the shelter and watched the couple staring at each other like a pair of bighorn rams during the rut. Neither one was willing to give an inch. But while they glared at each other, Peter sensed a power between them. The air felt charged, as if a great booming storm were about to come sweeping down from Canada.

Then he knew.

Temple Parish and Constance Cadwallender cared for each other. But if either one of them knew it, or admitted it to themselves, they were not about to admit it to the other. Peter caught himself smiling while he shook his head in amazement.

It was going to be a long and interesting summer in Montana’s badlands. And whether they knew it or not, the young competitors had a lot more at stake than a bunch of bones.