Linda Castle - Temple's Prize

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.

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.