Linda Castle - Temple's Prize

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.

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.