Читать книгу Temple's Prize - Linda Castle - Страница 12

An unfamiliar sound brought Constance awake with a start. She saw nothing but darkness inside the leanto. She turned her head and discovered that the flap to her enclosure was open a few inches on one side. Through the small slit she caught a glimpse of the camp. The campfire that had been a golden blaze when she dozed off was now nothing more than a circle of red embers. A crescent spring moon bathed everything in a dusky lavender wash and provided just enough light for her to make out nearby shapes.

She sat up and drew her knees up to her chin, while she pulled down her thin cotton gown tight around her ankles. The sounds of nocturnal creatures kept the night from being completely silent.

In New York, she frequently crept downstairs and into the secluded garden behind the brownstone just to stare at the night sky. But this Montana night was different. It was silent and compelling and seductive. Constance loved the silence, and living in the city she rarely enjoyed it. Only on expeditions to faraway and primitive places did she ever truly find the kind of peace she craved.

She crawled to the front of her tent, wanting to stare at the night, wishing to allow the almost silent night to seep into her soul.

As she emerged from the tent she saw two motionless forms positioned on either side of the smoldering fire. The steady rattle of Mr. Hughes’s snores brought a smile to her lips. For this brief span of time she could enjoy a moment of solitude, a short respite from the tug-of-war that was going on between her and Temple.

Constance reached for her day coat but hesitated just short of touching it. She had grown tired of the bulky garments and insect netting that covered her face. She relished the freedom of movement she experienced while not wearing her boned corset under her sturdy dress. A capricious breeze fluttered over her cheeks and she realized how much she missed the feel of the sun and wind on her face. She drew in a breath and tasted the wilderness on her tongue.

Temple Parish might not believe it of her, but Constance loved this wild outdoor life as much as any man ever could. When she was in the field, in North America or some foreign exotic country, her senses sprang to life. She found herself rising before dawn from sheer excitement, and the possibility of discovery made it difficult for her to sleep at night. Right now she was eager for the dawn—anxious for the dig—and more than ready to show Temple Parish she was no longer the little girl he captured in his wooden carving.

Constance heard peeps, croaks and other feral sounds she preferred not to identify as she crept from her shelter. She was sensible enough not to stray too far from camp, but she did walk to the back side of the lean-to and look out across the unbroken expanse of black velvet prairie.

She raised her chin toward the heavens. Her unbound hair tickled the lower part of her spine through the thin fabric of her gown. The ebony sky invited her. to reach toward it, and she found herself doing that, as if she could actually touch the soft texture and allow a handful of stars to trickle through her fingers like droplets of water.

Constance squinted her eyes and for a moment she thought she could pick out the constellation of Orion. Without her spectacles she could not be sure, but she preferred to believe it all the same.

The sound of wood scraping against wood brought her spinning around in surprise. She drew in a breath and held herself rigid while her eyes swept the crimson and ebony embers that marked camp. Now only one dark shape remained near the dying bed of coals.

Creeping forward, Constance searched for the source of the sound. She squinted her eyes and made out a looming shape in the half-light. When she heard a whispered string of descriptive expletives, she knew it was Temple fumbling around in the back of the wagon.

The sound of another crate being shoved across the wooden bottom of the wagon grated through the night and temporarily silenced some of the creatures around her but Mr. Hughes continued snoring.

“What is he up to?” she whispered to herself.

Constance hid beside her tent and watched while the dusky gray outline of Temple’s body shifted and moved against the night. He stood up straight and she saw him drag his hand through his hair in obvious frustration. The sound of his deep-voiced cursing wafted to her from among the mounds of canvas and crates. Then his tall form bent over and she heard the sound of him rummaging through folds of canvas.

“He is looking for the carving.” While Constance watched him searching through the back of the wagon, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. It gave her a silly surge of satisfaction to know Temple was looking for the very thing she had already found. After his surly attitude and continued disdain for her skills, she was happy to have a moment of pleasure—no matter how small or trivial.

Perhaps it was an omen, she thought. She had found the carving that he was searching for in vain. She was positive she would find the bones Mr. Montague was interested in.

Temple stood up once again and she fancied that he looked in her direction. She held her breath almost feeling the heat of his eyes upon her. But after a minute of peering into the darkness, he went back to his search and she released a tense breath. She crept around her lean-to and tiptoed back inside with a smile curving her lips.

A mournful howl silenced all the other night sounds for a moment and in that short measure of time, Constance heard the sound of flesh meeting wood. And then she heard Temple mutter a string of salty oaths.

She was chuckling softly to herself when she turned over and snuggled down inside her blankets.

The first thing Temple did when he woke was check his bruised shin. He had stumbled against one of Connie’s damned trunks while he was looking for that silly carving last night. It annoyed him that he couldn’t find it—it annoyed him that he had made it in the first place. He squatted by the morning campfire and pulled down his pant leg, but the ridiculous mound of gauze caught on his bootlaces. He lifted his hand, stringing shredded gauze like a spider’s web.

“Damn foolish thing.” He ripped the remaining bandage from his thumb. “I swear,” he muttered under his breath, “I am going to ignore Miss Constance Honoria Cadwallender. If she has no more sense than to stay, then so be it. Filbert Montague’s dinosaur bones are the only thing I’m interested in.” Temple wadded the bandage up and tossed it into the fire.

It had occurred to Temple during his sleepless night, that C.H. had sent Connie in his stead because Temple had always looked out for her. The old fox knew Temple was the better digger—everybody knew Temple was the best digger. But C.H. was shrewd and ruthless. Perhaps he was counting on Temple having a soft place in his heart for little Connie. And perhaps C.H. and Dandridge had hoped that he would allow sentimentality to get in the way and enable them to claim the prize.

“Well, it isn’t going to work, C.H.” He swore.

Did his old mentor really believe that his brotherly feelings for Connie would prevent him from claiming Montague’s endowment? If so, then he was in for a big surprise. Temple could ignore little Connie Cadwallender. He was going to find the bones and get away from Connie and the Montana territory just as. quickly as the train could take him back to New York. And when he accepted the endowment for Ashmont, then every professor at Dandridge University would finally have to admit Temple Parish had made it to the top on his skills—and not in the way they claimed.

It was midday when Peter pointed to the great gouge in the earth.

“This is the starting point of the Devil’s Spur.” He inclined his head toward the cleft in the earth. Temple levered himself up from his spot between the trunks so he could get a good look.

The earth was treeless and barren here, the weathered soil a dusty gray. Erosion and wind had cut fantastic hollows and gullies in the ground, and there to his right lay a fissure. Temple allowed his gaze to wander up the cut. As far as he could see, there was a great laceration that grew progressively wider and deeper.

“Is this where the bones were found?” Temple asked.

“At the far end,” Peter said without turning around or allowing the team to slow. “The Morgans have a mine near here. One of their hands had been doing some blasting nearby and found a big chunk of earth with little fish bones and such in it.”

“I am so glad they contacted the university,” Connie said from behind her netting.

Until that moment, Temple had almost forgotten she was there. Now his anger and frustration washed over him again. He slid back into the small space between the trunks and crates. He didn’t want to talk to her— didn’t want to think about her. It made him itchy and mad all at the same time—and all he cared about was getting Montague’s prize.

Temple pulled his hat low over his forehead and stared out the back of the wagon. The day wore on while he watched the Devil’s Spur grow in size. By afternoon the sides of the canyon were at least thirty feet deep and the middle of the cut was flat and wide enough to set up camp in.

The slice in the earth must have been caused by some cataclysmic event aeons past. In the long deep trough grew bitterroot, and small shrubs. On either side of the flat expanse in the middle, the earth rose in great striated walls. The afternoon shadows made the impressive rent look somewhat ominous.

Constance was excited and eager to begin digging. The ribbons of color reminded her of a child’s lollipop. She rose from the wagon seat and allowed her eyes to sweep over the primal landscape.

She had discarded the netting earlier since there were few biting insects. The cold spring breeze fluttered over her bare cheeks while her mind raced ahead, plotting the most logical location of bones.

“It is truly remarkable, Mr. Hughes,” she said.

“Yep.” Peter stared at the deep gash. “This is on the Flying B Ranch but you are a long way from the house. Lake Nowhere is just over that rise.”

“Lake Nowhere?” Constance frowned. “What a strange name.”

Peter shrugged. “You are in the middle of nowhere, miss. Like I said, the owner of the Flying B has some mines near here and they do fish in the lake from time to time, but other than a few cowboys checking for strays or taking supplies to the mine, people tend to shy away from this section of the badlands.”

“What do they mine?” Constance was truly interested in this otherworldly landscape.

“Manganese—lead. There used to be some gold but I think the veins have played out.”

“This is a wonderful opportunity to document and catalog the area.” Constance sat down. “I will be spending the first few weeks I am here sketching the terrain.”

“Sketching?” Temple sat bolt upright so fast he raked his ribs on a trunk latch. It smarted almost as much as his pride. He had sworn he would not be drawn into a conversation with Connie, but her ridiculous words could not go by unquestioned. “You are planning to sketch?” The question tumbled out of his mouth while he managed to stand up.

“Yes. I have been responsible for the sketches of all Papa’s expeditions. I see no reason why I should not treat this dig like all the others.” She frowned up at Temple. “Is there some reason why you find it so unusual?” She felt herself growing more defensive as he stared at her with wide eyes.