Linda Castle - Temple's Prize

“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.

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.