Linda Castle - Temple's Prize

“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.”