Temple's Prize

“It would be ridiculous for me to compete with a—a—woman. I would be a laughingstock.”

“I fail to see why, but if you would rather admit that I—a Cadwallender and a female—am more competent and capable…” She shrugged then placed her palm on the table as if she were rising from her chair.

A wide rough hand closed over her own and stilled her movement. Constance tilted her head and looked up.

Temple sucked in a breath that seemed to be too much air for one man to hold in his lungs, then suddenly it left him in a great angry rush. “I will never admit to that!” he bellowed.

“Then I assume you are accepting my challenge?” Constance glanced at the mirror, but now every man was turned, watching. She experienced a measure of satisfaction when she saw every pair of expectant eyes was trained on Temple’s face.

“Miss Cadwallender!” Temple nearly vibrated with indignation. “I would much prefer you exercised some sense, remembered where you belong and returned home.”

“I am not leaving until” I find those bones,” she said calmly.

His face turned three shades of red. “Then it appears I have no choice but to accept your challenge. I would be most happy to prove who is the better— digger.” His voice was a tightly controlled rumble.

“Good.” Constance nodded stiffly at him. Then she scooted her chair backward. It took some effort for her to pull her hand from beneath his, but finally she was able to stand up. “Now if you will excuse me, I shall see you tomorrow morning at sunrise.”

When she turned on her heel she heard a soft hiss as Temple drew another furious breath between his tightly clamped teeth. All the way to the staircase she was smiling.

She was going to enjoy this—very, very much.

Chapter Three

“So, you see, Mr. Hughes, I want to make sure that my messages are sent back to my father on a regular basis.” Constance stopped pacing.

“Yes, Miss.” Peter stifled a grin. He was seeing more excitement than he’d had since he fled New York City with Tweed’s stolen money and the Tammany thugs on his heels. Miss Cadwallender had a conniving streak beneath all those proper manners. He couldn’t help but like her. He had been mighty surprised when the bartender had sent a message for him to come back to the saloon—that Miss Cadwallender had to speak to him. For a bit he had half expected her to tell him she was packing up and heading back to New York, but she set him straight about that notion quicker than he could skin a cat.

“Mr. Parish has been known to be—well—unorthodox,” She twisted her fingers together and tried to explain why she was making these preparations. After she had goaded Temple into accepting the challenge, it had occurred to her that she needed a tiny edge— just in case.

“Yes, miss, I can see he might have that inclination,” Peter agreed solemnly.

“Not that I’m asking you to do anything unethical—I would never ask you to do that, Mr. Hughes.”

“No, miss.”

“I just want to make very sure that I don’t fail my father or Dandridge University,”

“Yes, miss, I understand. I can see a lady like yourself would never suggest anything that wasn’t on the level.”

“I’m so glad you understand, Mr. Hughes.”

“Yes, miss, I do—I do understand.” Mr. Hughes nodded his head rhythmically while he spoke.

“In the past there have been rumors that Temple, I mean Mr. Parish, has been known to employ methods that were considered—uh—corrupt.” Constance wrung her hands and paced up and down the bare floor of the room. The solitary kerosene lamp managed to illuminate the small room quite well. Her pulse was still beating unevenly and she admitted to herself that she had never before been quite so excited. All her preparations and precautions were necessary and completely legitimate since she was dealing with Temple Parish. Any sensible individual could see he was a man without principles. She really had no choice, Constance told herself.

“Securing this endowment is very important to my father’s reputation and it is vital to the university. It is extremely consequential to me as well,” she admitted while she stared at the moon hanging in the Montana sky.

“Yes, miss, I see that you are real serious.” Peter kept his eyes on her while she paced up and down. The heavy black material rustled with each tense step.

“I am so pleased that we have come to this understanding, Mr. Hughes. It does take a burden from my shoulders. When we leave tomorrow I shall rest easy in my mind now.” She walked to her carpetbag and dug down deep inside it. “And I insist that you take something extra, for your trouble.”

“Miss, that really isn’t necessary,” Peter began.

“No—I insist This is not part of the original agreement you made with Mr. Montague and his agents. I wouldn’t feel right about you doing these things for me, unless you allow me to compensate you for your inconvenience.”

Peter stared at Miss Cadwallender. Behind the thick spectacles she had soft brown eyes fringed with thick curved lashes. They reminded him of a fawn’s eyes, innocent and trusting. A light dusting of freckles was sprinkled across the bridge of her nose. He felt a strange and unexpected protectiveness toward her, as if she were a favorite niece.

“Please, Mr. Hughes.” Constance extended the handful of money. “Please take it, I would feel much better if you did.”

“If you insist, Miss Cadwallender, but I’d do it for nothing—for you.” Peter felt heat in his cheeks when the words tumbled out, but it was true. He liked this young woman. And, he realized, he was going to have a jolly good time watching her turn Temple Parish’s arrogant hide inside out. He shoved the bills deep into his pocket while a grin crept across his lips.

She blinked behind the thick eyeglasses. “You are so kind, Mr. Hughes. I cannot tell you how your assistance will speed my work. Thank you once again.”

“Is there anything else, Miss Cadwallender?” Peter stood. It was getting late and he needed to get some sleep.

“No—nothing I can think of, Mr. Hughes. You have been most tolerant of my situation.”

“Don’t mention it, miss.” Peter stepped out onto the landing before the chuckle bubbled from his throat. Young Miss Cadwallender was crafty. She had the kind of mind old boss Tweed would have admired. Peter took two steps toward the narrow stairs before he heard a strange hissing noise. He stopped and tilted his head to listen. The noise was a little like the sound a bobcat makes. Peter squinted his eyes and peered down the narrow hall.

“Psst.” The sound came again.

Peter whirled around and found Temple Parish hiding behind a half-open door at the opposite end of the narrow hallway.

“Psst.” Temple Parish waved his hand at Peter. “Come here.”

Peter raised his bushy eyebrows and pointed at his own chest in doubt.

“Yes—you. Come here,” Temple whispered harshly while he gestured with his hand once again.

Peter walked down the hallway toward the partially open door, puzzled by Parish’s strange behavior. When he reached the door, Temple opened it wide enough to grab Peter’s shirt with one hand. He jerked him inside the room and shut the door behind him.

“What the devil is this all about, Parish?” Peter jerked his shirt from Temple’s fingers. No wonder Miss Cadwallender was nervous; having to deal with this hothead would make a body plumb jittery. “What’s the matter with you?” Peter demanded.

“I need to talk to you.” Temple Parish snapped.

“Couldn’t it wait until tomorrow morning when we leave?” Peter straightened his shirt and glared at Temple.

“No. I wanted to discuss our arrangement—before you guide us to the site tomorrow morning.”

“Oh.” Peter nodded knowingly. “Are you backing out—admitting the lady is a better—uh—digger?”

“Not on your life.” Temple stood with his boots spaced wide apart. He crossed his arms at his chest and gave Peter a scathing glare. “The very notion is ridiculous.”

Peter shrugged. “I was just asking.” He glanced at the narrow bed, smooth and untouched, and the single wooden chair in the room. “Can I sit?”

Temple blinked rapidly, as if he had only just become aware of the furniture in the tidy little room. Peter had a notion Temple had been wasting as much shoe leather pacing up and down the floor as Miss Cadwallender had been doing a bit ago.

“Sure—sit. Would you like a drink? I have a bottle in my valise.”

If Parish was starting out with the pretext of a drink, Peter assumed the subject was going to be a ticklish one.

“I could drink—” Peter grinned and eased himself into the chair “—as long as you are buying.”

Temple tossed a battered leather valise onto the bed. He unfastened the buckles on the worn straps and pulled the ancient satchel open. He dug into the contents like an angry badger through loamy turf. Finally he brought out a bottle of whiskey. Peter had not seen that particular brand since he left New York.

“Sorry, I don’t have any glasses,” Temple apologized.

“Don’t need any.” Peter took the bottle by the neck, uncorked it, wiped off the lip and took a long swallow. The full-bodied liquid burned pleasantly down his gullet. It left a wave of memories from the old days in its wake. Peter pushed the dim recollections aside and focused on Temple’s face. “What did you want to talk about?”

“About tomorrow.” Temple clasped his hands behind his back and started to pace the room. His expression was darker than a rain cloud. Peter took another pull on the bottle and waited.

“When I find what I’m after, the bones, and I leave—” Temple stared at Peter with his brows pinched together I’sI—know little Connie, I mean Miss Cadwallender, will be very disappointed. I just want to make sure you will stay with her, see that she gets back on the train safely, after I am gone. Will you do that?”

Peter grinned in amazement. He had expected quite a different request from Temple. The way Parish was talking now, if Peter didn’t know better, he would have sworn that Miss Cadwallender was a child, instead of the calculating and very capable lady she appeared to be. But Peter decided to go along with Parish’s scheme, at least as long as he was serving aged whiskey.

“Sure, I’d be happy to keep an eye on the little lady. Course, you know this is an extra service. This is above what I had agreed to do for Mr. Montague. I would have to have—compensation.” Miss Cadwallender’s term rolled cleanly off his tongue.

“Of course, I wouldn’t expect to have it any other way,” Temple said dryly. He strode to the bed and dug deeper into the valise. He pulled out a soft leather pouch. He brought out five silver dollars and put them in Peter’s waiting hand. “There is one other thing, Hughes.”

Somehow Peter had known there would be. “And what is that, Parish?”

“I want to be sure that my messages reach the telegraph office here in Morgan Forks without interruption. I need to be sure Mr. Montague is informed of my progress daily and he is notified the very moment I find his dinosaur for him.”

“Can’t do that.” Peter shook his head.

Temple glared at him with his sun-lightened eyebrows pinched together. “What do you mean, you can’t do that? Can’t—or won’t?”

Peter grinned and took another drink of the smooth whiskey. “I can’t send telegrams to New York daily, ‘cause the trip to the canyon takes a full day and a half in good weather.”

Some of the tension left Temple’s shoulders. “Oh—I see. Well, then I would like you to get word of my progress to Mr. Montague as quickly, and as regularly, as possible.”

“Are you asking me to bring your messages into town for you?” Peter was having a good time. Temple Parish was as prickly as a porcupine when it came to this competition with Miss Cadwallender.

“Yes. I won’t be leaving camp, or stopping until I find what I’m after. Just see my telegraphs are sent to Mr. Montague’s agent.” Temple lifted one brow. “I don’t think Miss Cadwallender needs to know anything about our arrangements.”

“You’re right about that” It will be our secret,” Peter promised solemnly while he gave Temple an exaggerated wink.

Temple frowned at him. “It’s nice to know I can—uh—depend on you, Hughes. Little Connie— that is. Miss Cadwallender should be no trouble to you at all.”

“I’m sure you’re right about that, too, Parish,” Peter agreed while he fought to keep a straight face. “I don’t think she’ll be one whit of trouble to me, but you might ought to worry ‘bout yourself.”

The sun was poking holes in the dusky eastern sky when Temple climbed aboard the wagon and settled himself between two large wooden crates. He hitched up his boot and rested it on a mound of canvascovered supplies.

“What is all this?” he demanded.

“My supplies,” Constance answered from behind the netting extended over the big-brimmed hat. She stood beside the wagon staring up at Temple. His eyes narrowed as they slid over her traveling costume. Then his expression altered until it was identical to the one he wore yesterday when she reintroduced herself.

Constance stiffened beneath his arrogant gaze. She was still bristling with anger over Temple’s attitude toward her. She had come to expect this kind of patronizing folderol from her father’s colleagues, but never from Temple Parish. She had already checked her list of supplies and tools before Mr. Hughes loaded them in the back of the wagon. Now she paused and looked at her trunk, where Temple’s boot heel was propped. He was squeezed between her crates like a sardine in a tin. He fidgeted and wedged his broad shoulders between two boxes. Constance found herself smiling behind her insect netting. Seeing how her crates and trunks bothered Temple, she was almost sorry she hadn’t brought more.

“All set, Miss Cadwallender?” Peter Hughes lifted her up.

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Hughes.” Constance settled herself on the hard wagon seat and forced herself to ignore Temple’s scowl.

Temple moved but his hip connected with the sharp edge of a crate. He could not believe that anybody could need so many supplies. He turned his head, thinking to tell Connie as much, but all he could see was a swath of insect netting and sand-colored canvas. She was camouflaged from head to foot and perched stiffly on the high wooden wagon seat behind him. It was unnerving.

“If you need anything, miss, you just say so.” Peter’s voice dripped with a sincerity that set Temple’s teeth on edge.

Temple frowned and mugged a face at Peter’s words. How could she possibly need anything? Hell, she must have half of the state of New York packed into all the damned boxes, trunks and crates that surrounded him.

Peter climbed up beside Connie and picked up the reins. Temple pulled his hat low on his forehead, determined to ignore her on the trip to the canyon, but no matter how he turned his body to find a comfortable position in the wagon bed, his gaze kept returning to the huge hat and insect barrier that obscured her face.

He tried to turn and raked his shoulder on a metal latch. A hot tide of anger coursed through him. He was angry with little Connie. That surprised him. Not that she hadn’t done plenty to make him angry years ago before he left C.H.’s house, but he had always spoiled and indulged her. Now it was different—he was different. Silly little Connie had gone too far by challenging him. He wished she would go home— wished she had not used his ego as a weapon to goad him into this ridiculous competition. She could not win. There was nothing ahead for her but humiliation and defeat.

Acknowledging that made him angry as well. Being orphaned on the streets of New York had given Temple a thick hide, but C.H. and his doe-eyed daughter had gotten under his skin way back then. Evidently they were still able to make him itch—after all these years.

Temple pushed his hat back on his forehead and shoved the old memories to the back of his mind. He took out his knife and cut a thick slice of wood, about the size of his index finger, from the closest pine crate. While Peter and Connie chatted, and the wagon rocked back and forth he whittled. The repetitive task allowed his mind to wander aimlessly.

Connie laughed at some comment Hughes made. Her girlish giggle reminded Temple of the old days. Even though it was stupid, he found himself straining to hear what was being said. The sun rose higher in the sky while Temple’s shoulder knocked against the crates. He tried to adjust to the lumbering sway of the wagon while he diligently whittled.

The spring sunshine of Montana felt good. This country and setting were so different from the cold spring day when C.H. had found him alone and bloody in the park.

He snapped his head up, shocked at his mind’s persistence in dredging up old memories. It had been eighteen years since he had been taken in by C. H. Cad wallender. Too damned long ago to matter. Temple had put a million miles and a hundred countries between him and Dandridge University since that day, and yet here he was on a wagon with C.H.’s only child. And as much as Temple hated to admit it, it did matter. Winning the prize and showing C.H. that he was more than a street rat mattered very much.

“When I find those damned bones for Montague, C.H. will no longer have to be ashamed of taking me in” Temple muttered under his breath, and the sound of his own voice startled him.

He glanced up to see if Connie or Hughes had heard him, but neither one of them had changed positions or lessened their steady conversation. He went back to his whittling while thoughts of Montague’s endowment flooded his mind.

He was not going to allow little Connie to stand in his way. With a rich endowment for Ashmont he might finally have a measure of respectability, and that was worth any price—any price at all.

Chapter Four

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.