Temple's Prize

“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.

“He is still laughing at me.” She walked to the small neatly made bed and sat down. Constance tried to ignore the hilarity but the sound continued to hammer at the closed door. Temple’s reaction to her suggestion really was the most baffling and insulting thing she had ever experienced.

“Most confounding.” And infuriating, she finally admitted to herself. For the first time in her memory, Constance was seething with anger.

Another barrage of baritone chuckles wafted up the stairs. Constance found the image of her father’s elderly colleagues swimming in her mind.

They frequently looked at her with bemused expressions—or patted her hand and offered her some patronizing explanation about why she couldn’t participate in their scholarly activities. In fact she almost expected it from them. But to have Temple Parish, of all people on earth, sitting downstairs, in a barroom in Montana, laughing at her.

It was simply unthinkable.

“And humiliating.” Constance rose from the edge of the bed. Her long skirt rustled while she walked to the small door. She opened it a crack and heard a renewed torrent of mirth blend with the slightly offkey piano music.

“That is quite enough from you, Mr. Temple Parish.” Her ears burned with heat each time his deep, well-modulated voice caught her attention. She pushed her spectacles up on her nose and opened the door a few inches wider. “Quite enough, indeed. I believe it is time we came to an understanding, Mr. Parish” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders before she started down the hallway.

Temple had the glass halfway to his lips when he glanced up and saw her on the staircase. She was swathed in black bombazine from her jawline to the toes of her very sensible and unattractive shoes. The creamy oval of her face was almost lost beneath the coil of heavy chestnut hair. Her eyes were hidden behind the thick rectangles of glass perched on the bridge of her nose. Her shoulders and neck were rigid and set with unyielding indignation.

She was furious, and it showed in every stiff step she took down the steep poorly lit stairs.

Temple watched her progress and realized with some amusement that he had become quite adept at putting women into a high state of emotion—whether he intended to or not.

“Mr. Parish, I would have a word with you.” Constance felt the silence rush through the room like a blast of cold northern wind. The men who had been having a jolly time at her expense ducked their heads and turned away from her in embarrassment.

The music ceased with one last awkward sour note that rang through the silent room like a death knell. Temple glanced at the piano player in unmasked annoyance, but the man only shrugged and slid off the stool. He slunk to the bar, turned his back and ordered himself a drink. It tickled Constance to see all the men casting furtive glances at her in the dusty streaked mirror behind the bar.

Temple turned to face her, the only man in the room who could, it would seem. The look in his eyes was frosty and she heard her father’s words echoing in the back of her mind: the blackest-hearted pirate to walk God’s earth since Captain Kidd

She tilted her head and studied his face. After a moment’s thought Constance decided it was just possible that description was too kind. In fact, she thought with a large portion of silent sarcasm, it was more likely a terrible slight against poor Captain Kidd than it ever was to Temple Parish.

Temple cleared his throat and drew her attention. “Please, by all means, Miss Cadwallender, won’t you join me?” Temple swept his hand toward an empty table. He smiled, but his eyes did not warm. He was playing the gallant for the benefit of his audience, who were watching every move reflected in the mirror from beneath their lowered hat brims.

Well, let him posture and preen for this rowdy group, she mused silently. She intended to add to their entertainment in ways Temple had never even imagined. With a rustle of stiff fabric and petticoats, she nodded stiffly and seated herself in a straight-backed chair.

“May I offer you some refreshment?” Temple raised his own glass while he leaned back. He flopped his arm over the back of the chair and settled himself comfortably. The look on his lean weathered face left no doubt that he considered himself master of this— or any—domain.

“No. Thank you.” Constance replied in curt clipped tones.

He looked at her with only mild interest, his dark brown eyes sweeping over her face carelessly as if he had seen all he needed or wanted to see at their first meeting. He tipped the glass to his lips and drained it.

Constance studied him closely. If she squinted her eyes, and used her imagination, she could almost see him with a gold earring in one lobe, a wicked dagger between his clenched teeth.

Yes. He was a pirate, a philistine, an ingrate and every other terrible thing her father had called him over the past ten years. She had not possessed the intelligence to recognize it as a child, but she saw him clearly now. He was a handsome brute, without scruples or conscience. It was going to be a pleasure to see that self-assured grin disappear from his lips.

Constance met the arrogant gaze of Temple Parish and felt a warm flush in her cheeks. At that same moment ten years of childish dreams crumbled into dust at her feet. She raised her chin and forced herself to smile as if her heart were not beating too rapidly in her bosom. He needed to be taught a lesson in manners and in the abilities of a modern thinking woman.

“Mr. Parish, I have given our predicament some thought”

“Have you?” He flashed her a wider, but no less false, smile. His straight white teeth contrasted starkly against the tanned flesh of his angular face. She noticed the raised white scar on his cheek.

“Yes, I have,” Constance replied evenly.

“Well, I’m happy to hear it. It was a long way for you to have traveled in vain, but then again the trip wasn’t a total loss for you. I mean, after all, we have had a pleasant reunion—haven’t we?”

She shoved her spectacles up on her nose. “Is that what we’ve been doing, Mr. Parish? Having a reunion?”

His smile slipped and for a moment was replaced by a frown but within seconds the dazzling smile was back in place. “Of course, Connie, it has been nice to see you after all these years. I had hoped it would be C.H. who came but… Tell me, what have you been doing to keep busy?”

“Oh, this and that.” Constance smiled stiffly.

“Really? Do you still accompany C.H. on expeditions?”

Constance heard the brittle tone of Temple’s voice and realized he was more than just a little interested in what her father had been doing. Once again the old rumors about Temple raced through her mind.

“Papa has been lecturing rather steadily for the past few years.”

“Is that so?” he asked with mild interest.

“Yes, but he did unearth some wonderful things in South America a few years ago. I have been cataloging and illustrating them for Dandridge University.”

Temple stiffened perceptibly at the mention of Dandridge. “I’m sure you do fine work, Connie. Dandridge is no doubt lucky to have you.” There was a note of sarcasm in his compliment.

“How nice of you to say so. And I have managed to acquire one or two other skills since we last met.” Constance continued to study his face from behind the protective barrier of her spectacles.

“Really? You must tell me, what else do you do?” Temple’s words were dripping with open condescension.

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Parish, I am a digger,” she said flatly.

His brows shot up, but other than that he managed to suppress any further reaction. “You don’t say, Connie—a digger? A female digger? I have never heard of such a thing.”

He nodded to the bartender and held his empty glass aloft.

Constance glanced at the man who grabbed a tall bottle in his hand, then she turned back to Temple. “I am quite competent, as I told you. So competent, in fact, that I intend to complete the expedition my father sent me on, Mr. Parish.”

His smile slipped at the same moment the bartender appeared at Temple’s elbow and began pouring liquid into his glass.

“You what?” he asked loudly. His question echoed through the silent barroom. Several men leaning on their elbows actually turned around and gaped at him.

Constance nodded and continued. “You heard me correctly, Mr. Parish. I intend to leave Morgan Forks tomorrow morning at sunrise, but before I go, I wanted to issue you a new challenge to go along with the one we have both accepted from Mr. Montague.”

“Challenge? Me?” Temple brought his arm down from the back of the chair. He no longer appeared to be uninterested in what she had to say—in fact he was perched on the edge of his chair, leaning across the table toward her as if he were on tenterhooks, waiting for her to speak. His dark eyes were trained on her face with single-minded intent. His long fingers were splayed out on the scarred tabletop. “You are challenging me?”

“Yes, that is if you are up to the task,” Connie replied smoothly. It was difficult to continue staring at Temple now that he was mere inches from her, but she did so without blinking until he at last glanced away.

“What task did you have in mind, Miss Cadwallender?” His voice was brittle with suspicion and his pet name for her had conspicuously vanished.

“The challenge I am issuing you is this, Mr. Parish. In addition to the endowment Mr. Montague is offering, I am proffering you a personal challenge as well. There will be no money involved, so you may not be interested…”

One brow shot upward when her intentional barb hit its mark. “What kind of a challenge, Miss Cadwallender?”

She leaned forward. Constance had never been very good at public speaking, but she cleared her voice and took a deep breath. She wanted to make very sure that every man who was lined up at the bar heard her clearly. “This challenge would affect only your pride—your ego, Mr. Parish.”

“Speak your mind, Miss Cadwallender.” His brown eyes narrowed down to predatory slits and there was open hostility in his voice.

“I not only intend to find a previously unknown species of dinosaur for Mr. Montague, I intend to do it on my own and long before you can even locate one.” She spoke loudly.

The impact of her words settled on the interested occupants of the room and drew a deep murmur from the men who were bent in speculative conversation.

“You’re mad,” Temple said in a whisper only she was meant to hear.

“Perhaps, but the challenge stands. Are you declining—admitting you are not up to the task?”

“What?” Temple snorted.

“Are you admitting I am the better digger?”

Temple stood up so quickly the chair legs screeched on the floor. He glared down at her. “You’re female.”

“How very astute of you to notice, Mr. Parish.” Constance forced herself to remain sitting and watch Temple even though it made her neck cramp to do so. A collection of emotions raced across his face and through his eyes while they held each other’s gaze.