Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Copyright

“Connie, to me you are still a little girl in braids—and you always will be.”

Her cheeks flamed with inner heat. The only sound was the warbling of a meadowlark. 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 cornbread 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…!

Dear Reader,

Linda’s Castle’s new book, Temple’s Prize, features a hotshot young paleontologist who discovers that his challenge to his former professor and current rival will be taken up by his daughter instead. A battle of hearts and wills ensues as the two fight their mutual attraction and struggle to keep their eyes on the prize rather than each other. Don’t miss this wonderful tale.

His Secret Duchess is a heart-wrenching new Regency tale from Gayle Wilson about a nobleman presumed dead who returns home after seven years of war to discover his “secret wife” on trial for murder, and a son whom he must rescue from a vengeful merchant. And popular author Suzanne Barclay returns to her bestselling series, THE SOMMERVILLE BROTHERS, with her newest medieval novel, Knight’s Rebellion, the stirring tale of the leader of a band of outlaws who finds himself unable to resist the mysterious woman whom he has rescued.

And when a homeless schoolteacher is taken in by the wealthy uncle of one of her students, falling in love is the last thing on their minds, in Pat Tracy’s new Western, Cade’s Justice, the first book in her terrific series set in Denver, Colorado, called THE GUARDSMEN. Another great read from an author who always delivers a fast-paced and sexy story.

Whatever your tastes in reading, we hope you enjoy all four books this month.

Sincerely.

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Temple’s Prize
Linda Castle

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LINDA CASTLE

is the pseudonym of Linda L. Crockett, a third-generation native New Mexican. Linda started writing in March of 1992, and Temple’s Prize is her fourth book from Harlequin Historicals.

When not penning novels, Linda divides her time between being a wife, mother and grandmother. She loves speaking to aspiring writers and teaching them what she has learned. Her best advice—write from the heart.

Linda believes one of the greatest benefits she has received from writing historical novels is the mail from the readers. She encourages and welcomes comments to be sent to: Linda Castle, #18, Road 5795, Farmington, NM 87401. Please include a SASE for a reply/bookmark.

Dedication:

I thank God for the miracle of each day and the love of my family. Especially Bill, for all the times you have cheerfully taken us out to dinner because I forgot to cook. For all the mornings you let me sleep in while you go to the salt mines. For all the hours you act like you are truly interested in hearing about people who live only in my mind and on the printed page, you still have my heart. Your tender love and care are the essence and soul of my writing. I am proud to be your wife.

And Brandon, for all the times you have sat in my office, patiently waiting for me to write one more line—one more paragraph—for forgiving me when my eyes glaze over and I start plotting in the middle of a conversation, thank you. Each day you gracefully step closer to manhood. If you continue as you have begun, you will make a real hero.

To Logan, for all the times you have come to give me a hug and a kiss when I was mentally lost in some other time and place. You instinctively provide what I need, you forgive me when I have been too busy to go to the park or to the movies, and I am so very grateful. You are a unique treasure, my darling. It is a privilege to live with you and watch you grow.

I am thankful I am Mom to you both. What would life be like if I had boring, uninteresting children who never gave me plotlines or graying hair?

Without you three I could not do this—and I doubt I would even want to. I adore you all more than words can say.

A special nod to Partie Steele-Perkins. I hope you know what a large contribution you make to this whole crazy process. Thanks.

Chapter One

“Confound it, Constance Honoria, I will not allow that scoundrel to steal Montague’s endowment from this university!”

“Now, Papa.” Constance tried to placate her agitated father. “Remember what your doctor said.”

“Confound him, too. I refuse to stay home while that bounder goes in search of the prize. I have survived jungle rains, snakebite and insect infestation.” He flung the newspaper he had been brandishing like a weapon across the crowded office. It narrowly missed several native clay pots Constance had been meticulously illustrating while she cataloged them into the university archives.

Professor Charles Herbert Cadwallender rose unsteadily to his feet. Even with the aid of his cane, it was obvious the heavy plaster cast on his leg was cumbersome to manage. When he glanced away Constance picked up the newspaper and looked at the photograph on the front page. She could see why her father was in such a state. The caption below Temple Parish’s handsome visage declared him on the way to becoming the most noted scientist and explorer of 1889. That alone would be enough to send her father into an apoplectic fit—without mention of Filbert Montague’s rich endowment.

“Papa, I’m sure Temple will earn—”

“Earn? Earn? Temple Parish has never earned anything in his life!” The aging professor leaned heavily on his cane beside a table strewed with odd rocks and bits of broken bones. His spare weather-hardened body vibrated with indignant fury. “Temple has charmed or cajoled or committed outright thievery to worm his way into the scientific community ever since I hired him as my assistant.”

Constance pushed the wire-rimmed spectacles up on the bridge of her nose, and as she did the past came into sharp focus. She remembered the day her father and Temple had parted company as if it were only yesterday. That was the day Temple Parish had pulled on her braids, winked at her, kissed her forehead and walked out of her life.

“Something must be done! Dandridge University is going to lose out on a one-hundred-thousand-dollar endowment unless I can find a way to go on that dig.”

“Papa, would it help if I went to see Temple—if I talked to him? Maybe we could reach some sort of understanding.”

“Constance Honoria Cadwallender, haven’t you been listening? I am talking about Temple Parish—the blackest-hearted pirate to walk God’s earth since Captain Kidd!”

Constance tilted her head and frowned at the idea. She had. thought of Temple in many different ways over the past ten years, but as hard as she tried to conjure up the image, she simply could not consider Temple something as outmoded as an ancient, unscrupulous pirate.

It was just silly. And even though people whispered his name in the hallways of the university, and just because her father refused to discuss him at all, there was really no cause to think that he would be unreasonable about this little problem.

Constance pushed up her glasses. There had to be a civilized and sensible way around this dilemma and she intended to find it.

“Mr. Parish?” The fledgling reporter was clearly in awe.

“Please, Thaddeus, call me Temple.” Temple smiled, hoping to set the eager young man at ease. Noise surrounded them as the elegant dining room started to fill with refined, well-dressed women and their evening escorts. Temple glanced down at his dusty clothes and worn high-topped boots and realized he was sorely out of place in New York’s finer dining establishments. The clothing he wore would have been out of place no matter the time of day. He unconsciously rubbed his finger across the raised scar on his cheekbone.

“Mr. Parish—Temple, I mean?”

“What? Oh, I’m sorry, Thaddeus, go ahead with your interview.” Temple leaned back in the comfortably padded dining chair.

“Do you have any comment on the criticism that Professor Cadwallender has been giving you in the Sentinel? Would you like to rebut his recent comments?”

Temple’s scalp prickled but he kept a broad smile pasted on his face and forced himself to remain calm. “I respect C.H. very much. I have nothing but respect and admiration for him. I only hope his advancing years do not prevent him from accepting this challenge. It would be a great boon to Dandridge University if he could at least make a good showing—for the sake of his reputation.”

While Thaddeus Ball scribbled in a small dog-eared pad, Temple allowed his gaze to skim over the women seated around him. Feminine whispers accompanied flushed cheeks. Several smiled and let their eyes linger a. moment longer than polite society dictated was proper. He smiled back, even though none of them caught his interest. The Sentinel had been running a series of articles about him and had managed to paint him to be a combination of Louis Lartet, the discoverer of Cro-Magnon man, and Casanova, the world’s greatest lover. In truth Temple was no more than a weary wanderer in desperate need of a bath, a bed and a woman who could understand multisyllable words—not necessarily in that order, of course. As he glanced around the room he realized he would be lucky to find even one of those three in his present environment.

“Well, Mr. Parish—I mean, Temple, is there anything else you would like to tell our readers?”

“Yes—tell them that C. H. Cadwallender was the best teacher a man could have, but I fully intend to be the first explorer to find and catalog a new species of extinct reptile and name it for Filbert Montague. I am confident my quest will be a short one. You can tell Mr. Montague to get that one-hundred-thousand dollars dusted off, because it will be going to Ashmont University, the institution of my choice, very soon.”

Constance read the newspaper article again. She found it hard to believe that Temple Parish could be bristling with so much confidence, but there it was in black and white. He had issued a blatant challenge to her father, and the prize at stake was the endowment promised by Mr. Montague. She sighed and set the paper aside.

“Papa will be beside himself,” she told the mynah bird eyeing her from its black iron perch.

“Awrk,” the bird said. “Beside, beside, beside.”

“Be quiet, Livingstone. This is serious. I have to find some way of helping Papa and the university.” Any chance of trying to reason with Temple was out of the question now. Even if he were inclined to make some private and amicable arrangement with her, the newspapers would hear of it and everyone involved would risk being discredited by Dandridge University and her father’s stuffy, narrow-minded colleagues.

She pushed her spectacles up on her nose and tried to think. Sunlight was streaking through the beveled glass transom in the hallway. The parquet wood floor was striped in shadow and light. Livingstone hopped down from his perch to the round oak table and started shuffling through the day’s mail. He picked up several envelopes and then dropped them to the floor. Then he found a letter more to his liking. While Constance was preoccupied he began to pierce the paper with his sharp pumpkin-colored beak.

“Give .me that—you nuisance.” Constance jerked the envelope from Livingstone’s bill. “You pesky little thief.”

She held up the perforated letter and looked at the damage with a critical eye. “Now look what you have done.”

Luckily it was addressed to her, C. H. Cadwallender. Papa was beginning to grow impatient with her pet. He was far too talkative and his habit of ruining anything he got his beak into had begun to wear on her father’s nerves.

She ripped open the tattered envelope, tossed it into a wicker wastebasket and began to read the letter. A frown creased her brow. Constance retrieved the discarded envelope and read the address again.

“C. H. Cadwallender,” she mused. She refolded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. A smile curved her lips. It was a natural mistake, since she and her father had identical initials.

“Perhaps Papa can go on that dig after all.” She urged Livingstone to step onto her hand and returned him to his cage before he destroyed anything else. While she picked up the scattered mail from the hall floor a plan had begun to form in her mind. By the time the uneven tap and click of her father’s cane announced his arrival home, Constance was ready.

She opened the door and greeted her father with a kiss to the cheek. “Good afternoon, Papa.”

C.H. hung his hat on the tall oak hall tree. “Honoria. You seem in particularly ebullient spirits—what has made you so buoyant?”

Constance straightened her collar, nudged her spectacles up on her nose and looked her father straight in the eye. The time had come to tell him her plan. “Come sit down, Papa, I have something to discuss with you.”

C.H. hobbled to his chair and flopped down awkwardly. Whenever Honoria got that glint in her eye he knew he was in for stormy weather. Constance placed the ottoman in front of him and gently put his foot in the middle with a pillow beneath it. When he was as comfortable as she could possibly make him, she drew in a deep breath and told him of her plan.

Professor Cadwallender stared at his daughter in disbelief. She had come up with some bizarre schemes in her life, but this one was the most far-fetched yet.

“I can do it, Papa. I am a better digger than many men and I know how to map and grid by using the system you taught me. I can do it—I am sure I can be successful.” Constance heard a challenge ringing in her own voice.

“It’s ridiculous. It’s no place for a female on her own. To even consider it is preposterous.”

Constance felt her own pride surging forward. She wanted this chance to prove herself. “I have gone on many digs with you in the past.”

“That was entirely different, Honoria. Those were my digs. If you went to Montana you would be completely on your own.”

“Would you rather see Temple Parish win by default?”

She knew her words had hit their intended mark when her father’s lined face turned three shades of crimson.

“That bounder!” Professor Cadwallender struck his cane against the fat pillow elevating his cast. A spiral of dust wafted into the still air of the overcrowded study.

“I am capable of succeeding, Papa. And I would be able to make detailed sketches for Dandridge’s archives.” Constance reassured her fatheragain.

He’ looked up at her and tilted his head much as Livingstone did when studying a new toy. “Are you sure, Honoria?”

“You can depend on me, Papa—I promise you won’t be disappointed. You have my solemn oath, I will not allow Temple Parish to win.”

C.H. sighed in resignation. “All right, Honoria— go. Go and show that ungrateful Temple-Parish what we Cadwallenders are made of.”

Temple propped up his feet and stared out the window of the train car as mile after dusty mile of terrain rattled by the window. The fine film of grit that coated the glass added a soft sepia tone to his view of the world.

Other than an occasional antelope springing away with a flash of its white rump, and the sporadic long-eared jackrabbit bounding alongside the tracks, Temple seemed to be the only person in the train car who was not napping. Not a sound came from the other passengers. It was the kind of quiet that grated on Temple’s nerves—the kind of quiet before a godawful thunder-boomer raced across open country, or some terrible disaster swept into his life—or he was cursed to have a month’s worth of nightmares about his mother’s death. He rubbed the scar on his cheek and directed his thoughts to his recent departure, forcing the old pain below the surface of his consciousness.

He would reach the tiny town of Morgan Forks tomorrow morning. There, he was to meet with the local man Filbert Montague had hired to guide him to the ravine where a cache of bones was rumored to be. From that point on it would be a soft job.

All he had to do was dig out some unknown critter—and most everything being found was unknown—ship it back to New York and watch Filbert Montague hand over the money to Ashmont University.

“After reasonable expenses,” Temple muttered to himself. The cash he had managed to save from his last dig was rapidly dwindling. He had hoped Ashmont would be grateful enough to offer to finance a new expedition, but they had not. Luckily Filbert Montague’s inflated ego and fat bank account had solved his problem. “For the moment,” Temple muttered aloud.

The job would be easy and quick, hardly so much as a challenge. He knew he should be happy about that, but he was still sorely disappointed that C. H. Cadwallender had been unable to make the trip. It had been a ten-year-old thorn in Temple’s side that old C.H. never gave him his due, just as he had never given him the benefit of the doubt.

Temple was good at what he did—perhaps he was even the best—and he was itching to prove it to C.H. and the rest of those stodgy old fools at Dandridge who had been so quick to pass judgment on him ten years ago.

He wondered why it should mean so much to him, after all these years and all these miles, but deep down inside he knew. All he had wanted since C.H. found him living in the streets and started teaching him the science of the past was to measure up in the old man’s eyes. He longed to show C.H. and his fellow academics that book learning was not the only way. And he needed to hear them admit that he was just as honorable, just as fair, as somebody who had not grown up in the gutters of New York. Temple had been forced to learn his methods through backbreaking work, but they would not acknowledge his skill or forget the rumored scandal that still clung to his name like dust to his boots.

Temple leaned back in the seat and pulled his shapeless felt hat down over his eyes. It was a constant source of irritation to him that he could not simply let the past go. To the professors at Dandridge he was the street rat, a guttersnipe, and that was that. Temple knew he might as well take a nap and forget his tenyear-old frustration. Besides, when he returned to New York and accepted Filbert Montague’s endowment, those same snobby professors would finally be forced to admit he had done what one of their faculty had not been able to.

That would have to be enough, because that was likely all he could ever expect from C.H. and his kind, he told himself as he shifted in the seat and tried to find a comfortable spot.

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.

Chapter Two

Temple 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.

“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.

“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.

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.

Chapter Five

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.

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