The River Nymph (5 page)

“I have the widest selection in the city,” Anderson replied with a flourish of one long arm toward the tables.

Delilah wandered over to the more expensive fabrics and fingered a length of bronze brocade. “This would be perfect, don’t
you agree?”

Clint shoved back his hat. The perverse man carried it when outdoors and wore it inside. When he shook his head, she put on
her best poker face, revealing none of the vexation she felt. “Whyever not?”

“Oh, it’d be perfect…for a ball gown for you,” he allowed. “Go right nice with the reddish highlights in your hair.”
His eyes swept from her chestnut curls down the curves of her bodice and slim skirt.

“You don’t think other ladies would favor the color?” she asked sweetly, ignoring his perusal of her body.

Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
Clint shrugged. “Doesn’t matter whether or not any females along our route would like it—they can’t afford it.”

“But the men in Montana are making fortunes in the gold fields,” she said impatiently.

Clint looked from her to Anderson, then replied, “And when they come home with their strike money, they’ll buy frippery—here,
where their wives and lady friends can wear it. Isn’t that true, Kurt?”

Anderson reluctantly nodded agreement. He had been trying to unload the overbought inventory since last winter. It was mostly
too pricy even for men flush from the gold fields. He’d sold what he could to the city’s wealthy matrons and the excess was
taking up valuable space.

“What the pioneering womenfolk along the way upriver will want is sturdy, practical goods, calico and denim. If you’re going
upriver with us,” Clint drawled, “that’s what you should wear, too. No fine worsteds or brocades.”

Delilah smiled, but the smile did not reach her flashing green eyes. “Surely there are —ladies— such as Miss Eva in the gold
camps, are there not? I did note she has a fondness for silk.”

Horace suddenly found a bolt of blue wool fascinating, while Anderson stared at the high, open rafters above him, shifting
from foot to foot.

“Oh, Eva likes silk, looks good in it, too. I guess you noticed,” Clint replied, cocking his head and grinning. “But you’d
never get her within a thousand miles of a gold camp. She’s a city girl, born and bred. Women in the camps aren’t too picky
about what they wear…or don’t wear. Besides, there aren’t enough of them to make us a profit. This is a volume business.
Perishable stuff like this isn’t worth the risk.”

“I thought you were a gambler, Mr. Daniels, a natural-born risk taker,” she replied, using a low, husky tone to disguise her
irritation that he had not taken the bait and gone to the defense of his harlot. Delilah moved closer to him, daring him.
Her uncle did not intercede as she had expected. Now he sided with Daniels, which added to her carefully leashed anger. “Surely
losing the
Nymph
and…a few other things didn’t cause you to lose your nerve as well?”

“My nerves are just fine, although I do regret losing 51 percent of my boat. As to the rest…” He looked down at his body,
then grinned rakishly. “I thought you were the one who lost her nerve…or maybe it was your temper.”

“That’s because I expected a modicum of civilized behavior from you.” The retort was lame and she knew it, but still she was
unable to stop herself from moving closer.

Clint shrugged. “You were the one who offered the wager. Isn’t a gentleman supposed to do anything to oblige a lady?” He was
unable to stop himself from pushing her, if only to see what would happen. Just as long as it didn’t include the side of his
face connecting with that loaded reticule a second time, he reminded himself when she began to swing the small velvet bag
by its drawstrings.

“A gentleman doesn’t strip to the altogether in the presence of a lady,” she snapped.

“A lady doesn’t spend her time playing cards with the likes of Teddy Porter either,” he drawled easily. His arms casually
crossed, he leaned against a support post and studied her face in the soft light filtering in from the front windows of the
mercantile.

Horace started to clear his throat in warning to Clint but reconsidered. Delilah had a set down coming. Instead, he walked
quietly over to Kurt Anderson and asked if he would be interested in having a cigar out in the back alley.

Happy to escape the contretemps between Mrs. Raymond and Clint, Anderson eagerly agreed. A cigar sounded like a great idea.
He did not even smoke.

“Teddy Porter is a scholar as well as a gentleman compared to the likes of you, sir.” she said, mimicking Clint’s drawl.

“Ah, Delilah, how are we goin’ to make it twenty-six hundred miles up the Missouri and back feuding this way?”

“Who says both of us will return?” she asked in a dulcet tone. “Accidents are bound to happen. I hear the river is very dangerous.”

“Can you swim?” he countered, straightening away from the post. His greater height forced her to lift that stubborn little
chin several notches to look him in the eye.

“Quite well.” Her sweet tone vanished. Both syllables were crisp and sharp.

“Too bad. I would’ve loved to teach you.” He reached out with his left hand and barely touched her cheek. When she didn’t
pull away or raise her reticule, he let his fingers glide down the side of her throat, where her pulse beat furiously, giving
the lie to her veneer of calm. His own heartbeat had begun to accelerate dangerously, but that didn’t prevent him from saying,
“All that creamy white skin, glistening wet in the moonlight. You ever take a midnight skinny-dip, ma’am?”

Delilah stepped away from his disturbing nearness. “If I ever do, it certainly won’t be with you!”

“Nothin’s certain on the Missouri, Deelie.”

“My Christian name is Delilah, but I’ve not given you leave to call me by it.”

“Deelie suits you, so that’s what I’ll call you…. You already said I’m no gentleman, so I reckon I’ll do what I want.”

“We’ll see, Mr. Daniels.” She spun on her heel and walked with carefully measured steps toward the open rear door where Horace
and Kurt Anderson were standing.

Clint’s soft chuckle echoed over the click of her heels on the hardwood planks.

“Clint has secured Captain Jacques Dubois, one of the best upriver pilots between St. Louis and Fort Benton. Captain Dubois
will bring with him a full complement of crew—a second pilot, two engineers, a mate and roustabouts. Now, what did Clint call
them? Ah, yes,
roosters
was the quaint phrase, I believe,” Horace said with relish as he strode into the sitting room that he and Delilah shared aboard
the
Nymph.

She looked up, annoyed in spite of the good news about the pilot and crew. Clint now, was it? Her uncle and that odious gambler
had become practically inseparable in the past week. “Jacques Dubois. Sounds French,” she murmured absently as she skimmed
an inventory of last-minute trade items from Mr. Krammer’s mercantile.

Horace chuckled. “The gentleman was born in New Orleans. A French Creole, descended from a long line of Free Men of Color.
One can imagine if he’s accepted up and down the Missouri in spite of his mixed race how good he must be.”

Delilah’s head snapped up, the columns of figures in frontof her forgotten. “A Colored man who’d agree to work for a Johnny
Reb like Clinton Daniels?” she asked suspiciously.

Horace shook his head, well aware of the continued animosity his niece bore their partner. “As a matter of fact, Captain Dubois
is a long-time friend of Clint’s. Just because the man may have fought for the South doesn’t mean he believes other races
are inferior. Considering that his business partner, Mr. Brummell, also has African antecedents, I fail to understand why
you would accuse him of such base prejudice.”

But Horace understood that Delilah was not rational when it came to Clinton Daniels, a man he had come to consider a friend
…a man he might even consider worthy of marrying his niece. Only a fool would not understand the sparks that flew every
time the two of them came within fifty yards of each other.

A pity the sparks always seemed to lead to a conflagration sufficient
to burn down the entire St. Louis levee!
Horace sighed and poured himself a healthy tot of whiskey.

“If we have a crew lined up, how soon can we head upriver?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Why don’t you ask Clint when we join him for dinner tonight at his establishment? He is presently discussing terms with the
teamsters who will haul the freight from Mr. Kram-mer’s mercantile to the warehouse and, ultimately, to the steamer.”

“You made a dinner engagement with Mr. Daniels without consulting me?” she asked more sharply than she’d intended, then immediately
backtracked. “Well, I suppose it will be bearable—as long as that dreadful Eva isn’t cooking. She’d poison both of us, given
the opportunity.”

Horace wisely declined to comment on the beauteous Miss Eva.

While her uncle was taking his afternoon nap, Delilah continued to pore over invoices and ledgers, then compare the amounts
of goods with the cargo space aboard the boat. Finally, she rubbed her eyes, weary from the past weeks’ arduous preparations
…and Clinton Daniels’s hovering presence. Every time she turned around, the man seemed to be looming over her shoulder.
Calling her Deelie. She hated the schoolgirl name. Besides, it sounded Southern!

A sharp rap sounded on the cabin door. Todd Spearman stood outside holding a note awkwardly, shuffling from foot to foot.

“Please, come in, Todd,” she said, arising.

He handed her the folded piece of paper, which had Clint’s name scrawled on the outside in a broad, looping script. “Er, a
messenger just delivered this. Said to give it to Mr. Daniels. I tried to tell him he didn’t live here no more, but the feller
said it was ’bout your upriver business. If’n you want, I’ll take it up to the Bud.” Knowing the circumstances under which
Clint had lost the
Nymph
to his new employer, Todd was not comfortable giving her the missive but had no idea what to do without first asking permission.

Delilah shook her head. “It’s all right, Todd. I’ll see that he receives it tonight.”

When Todd departed, Delilah held the note, which seemed to burn her fingers. She could smell cheap perfume emanating from
it. Placing it on her desk, she rubbed her hands on her skirt, loath to have the odious smell on her skin. She paced for a
moment, fighting the curiosity that ate at her. Who was Clint seeing now? Some new whore must have displaced Eva. Surely he
didn’t intend to take such a female upriver with them…did he?

Finally she could stand it no longer. After all, it was not sealed, only folded. She walked over to the desk and snatched
the piece of stationery. When she opened it and scanned the message inside, a very unladylike oath passed her lips before
she clamped them closed.

“Clinton Daniels, I’ll kill you for this!”

Chapter Five

Delilah alighted from the rig she had rented at the levee and surveyed the brick warehouse where all their trade goods were going
to be stored tomorrow if Daniels’s arrangements with the teamsters were settled. “Of course, he may not be alive tomorrow,”
she muttered to herself as she paid the driver and told him to wait for her. “I’ll only be a few moments.”

The greasy-looking little man in the battered bowler hat grunted, then spit an ugly glob of chaw on the cobbled street as
he pulled his shabby rig around the corner into the shade. Once assured that her transportation from the warehouse district
was secured, she drew the key to the front door from her reticule. They had rented space on the first floor, but she had not
been with Horace and Clint when they inspected it.

Fortunately, her uncle had given her his key and a floor diagram after they signed the lease, and she had put both in the
safe aboard the boat. All she wanted was to see if Eva’s fancy house furnishings and personal belongings had been moved into
part of the space allocated for the
Nymph
’s cargo. That was what the note said, but she had to be certain before she created another scene and further alienated her
uncle. Perhaps Eva only hoped Daniels would allow her to turn their respectable steamer into a floating bawdy house!

Not that Delilah would put it past the rotter.

The heavy door opened with a creak, groaning on rusty hinges as she pushed it wider. Delilah peered inside. The warehouse
smelled musty and the only light was what little filtered inside from a few dirty windows high on the walls. Bales, crates
and boxes were stacked everywhere, leaving only narrow aisles between them. An involuntary shiver ran down her spine in spite
of the warm afternoon. The only sound she could hear was the scurrying of rats.

Ugh. Best to discover the truth and get out of this dreadful area as quickly as possible. She dropped the key inside her reticule
and extracted the diagram, holding it outside the door to see better so she would know where to look. “I could probably follow
the stink of her cheap perfume instead,” she muttered, squinting at the sloppy pencil markings scrawled on the page.

Suddenly a large callused hand smothered her mouth and she was lifted off her feet as her attacker wrapped his arm around
her and yanked her inside the warehouse. Delilah kicked and tried to scream, but his grip never faltered. A second, smaller
man emerged from the shadows and quickly closed the door.

“We got ’er now, jest like Red said!” The little weasel rubbed his hands.

Delilah recognized the driver who had conveniently pulled up near the
Nymph
’s berth when she came down the gangplank in search of a hack.

“Quit yer jabberin’ ’n git to work.”

“Seems kindy a shame to waste sech a purty ’un. Couldn’t we—”

“Boss said to be quick about this. No time,” the big man barked at his companion as he effortlessly carried Delilah deep inside
the warehouse.

Delilah forced her racing heart to slow and tried to think. These were Red Riley’s men. That note had been a trap, whether
it was from Eva or not. And she’d fallen for it like a fool. Her reticule’s drawstring was still wrapped around her wrist
with the Derringer inside, but a mere blow to this brute’s head wouldn’t deter him as it had Clint.

Think!

She went utterly limp, feigning unconsciousness. Dead weight. The big man almost dropped her. He snarled a curseand continued
down the narrow aisle. When he reached a large open space, he tossed her like a rag doll onto the hard, filthy floor. The
landing was rough but nothing appeared to be broken. Delilah watched through slitted eyes as he turned around and yelled at
his accomplice.

“Fetch the coal oil. We got us a fire to set. Pronto.”

The moment his gaze left her, she plunged her hand inside the reticule and withdrew the small gun. He caught the movement
from the corner of his eye and laughed.

“Wall, now, ain’tcha th’ brave ’un. His grin revealed crooked yellow teeth surrounded by a filthy, untrimmed black beard.

She fired directly at him. If he hadn’t seen her raise the pistol, she would’ve hit him dead in the heart, but he dodged surprisingly
fast for such a big brute. The .45-caliber slug only grazed his left side, eliciting a string of curses as he grabbed his
ribs and brought back bloody fingers.

“Ya shot me, ya bitch!” he cried, amazement tingeing his hoarse cursing.

She didn’t wait for him to reach her, but rolled to her feet and dashed to the nearest aisle, then darted around the corner
behind a stack of flour sacks. If someone heard the shot, they might investigate, but she knew that was unlikely. She couldn’t
afford to waste a second bullet since the weapon only fired twice before she would have to reload, and her extra shells were
in her reticule back where she’d dropped it. The place was huge. If she could outsmart her captors and reach the front door,
she might stand a chance—at least be able to pick off the first man who emerged from it.

Clint sat in his office at the Blasted Bud, looking down at the contract he’d just negotiated with the Hessler brothers. Tomorrow,
their wagons would transport to the warehouse all the cargo they’d purchased on credit from Krammer’s Mercantile and a few
other merchants. He reached for the bell to summon Cora and ask her to clean up the mess of coffee cups and whiskey glasses
the teamsters had dirtied while the dealwas struck, but before he could ring it, the door flew open and Banjo Banks burst
inside. No attempt at his perfunctory knock this time: a bad omen.

“Banjo, what the hell—” Banks was sweat-drenched and panting so hard he doubled over. Alarmed, Clint rounded the desk and
helped the man into a chair, then yelled for Cora to bring water. He had dispatched Banks and several other of his most trusted
riverfront intelligence men to check on the route from Krammer’s to the warehouse, just in case Riley’s thugs were hanging
around, waiting to make trouble when the cargo was moved. “What’s happened to our cargo?”

“Not th’ g-goods,” he wheezed. “Th’ gal. G-grabbed ’er when she walked…inside…”

“Delilah! Inside where?” His heart started to pound. Surely Riley wouldn’t try to harm Delilah at a place as busy as Krammer’s.

“Warehouse.” Banjo struggled to get his breathing under control as he continued. “Ole Wally Behrman wuz watchin’ the warehouse.
He near run hisself to death tryin’ ta reach me. Lucky I left Krammer’s ’n headed down to check on him. Said them fellers—Riley’s
men—dragged her inside ’n didn’t come out. I sent him back ta keep watchin’ whilst I run fer you.”

“Good work, Banjo.” Clint grabbed a holster from his desk drawer and strapped an Army Colt .45 to his side, then took his
Spencer carbine from its cabinet on the opposite wall. He was inside the stable behind the Bud in a moment’s time, swinging
bareback up on his fastest horse and kicking it into a hard gallop toward the warehouse district ten blocks away.

Delilah could hear the big man yelling orders to the little one. “Git ta th’ front door, Earl. Shoot ’er if’n she tries to
git past ya!”

Delilah’s heart lurched when Earl trotted by her hiding place to the front door, gun drawn. In high-heeled slippers, she could
never outrun the big lummox even if she shot the little weasel. There had to be another way.

Then she spotted a huge pyramid of what appeared to be whiskey barrels. The load didn’t look too carefully positioned. She
crept to it, keeping alert for the creaking floorboards that gave away her pursuer’s position. Now she needed something to
use as a pry bar. She looked frantically around, then saw the smashed crate in the next aisle. Barely daring to breathe, she
tiptoed toward it. Her lighter weight enabled her to move without making noise, unlike the wounded man.

She picked up a loose board, feeling the bite of splinters through her gloved hands. Ignoring the sting, she moved into position
and slowly forced the wood between two of the bottom barrels like a fulcrum. Once enough pressure was exerted, the front barrel
would slip free and the whole load would tumble down in an avalanche, burying her tormentor. At least that was the plan.

When she was satisfied the board was in place, she slid off her jacket and covered the board with it. She hoped in the dim
light the big man wouldn’t see what the jacket was hiding until it was too late. She could push the board forward to destabilize
the load, then leap back. The maneuver had to be timed just right and he had to approach her from the front. She listened
to the sound of creaking floorboards. Maybe the blood loss would eventually make him pass out, but she doubted it. A graze
on the ribs would more likely only infuriate him.

As if to prove her right, he finally yelled,“Come on out, ya bitch! Damn unnatural gamblin’ female! It’ll go a lot easier
on yew if’n we do this quick like.”

He was getting closer but approaching from the wrong direction. She had to lure him around the square of crates to her left
so he’d approach the way she needed. Delilah left her jacked hanging over the board and cut down the next aisle, allowing
him to see her and give chase around the corner, then the next corner. Now he approached from the right direction. He was
less than a dozen yards from her and coming fast when she dashed around the fulcrum and pushed with all her might.

It didn’t give. She shoved again and was rewarded by the groan of wood grating against wood until the barrel popped free and
the others cascaded down, bouncing in every direction. One hit the big man squarely in the chest, but somehow he managed to
stay on his feet long enough to leap through the smashing chaos of wood and whiskey. He emerged, bruised, bloodied and soaked
with alcohol, but still on his feet.

“Pardee, yew git ’er?” Earl called out. Then, upon hearing the big man’s scream of rage, he asked, “Yew hurt?”

Delilah could hear him trotting up the aisle as she backed away from the staggering Pardee. Two bloody paws reached out for
her, but she was swift to spin out of his grasp, clutching the Remington in her hand as she dashed for the door, weaving in
and out between bales and boxes. At least she’d slowed him down with the barrels. She was making noise now, and Earl heard
her.

“Pardee, she’s over this—a ways,” the little man yelled.

He suddenly jumped directly in front of her, trapping her between himself and the enraged brute chasing her. Delilah didn’t
hesitate. She fired from two feet away, and Earl catapulted backward with an amazed expression on his face. He had barely
raised his own weapon before it clattered to the floor. Just as she started to jump across his body, Pardee caught up with
them and grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulling the pins from it as he yanked her back to him.

The overpowering reek of unwashed flesh and cheap whiskey made her gag. With one big hand he squeezed her throat. This time
she might not have to feign passing out. Every bone in her body ached, her scalp stung and her breathing was effectively cut
off, but still she struggled, flailing wildly.

Suddenly she felt his grip miraculously loosen and air rushed into her lungs as he dropped her. Then she heard Clint’s voice.

“Let’s see how you do against someone more your size, Pardee.” Daniels punched the thug in the temple, spinning him around,
then landed a vicious blow to his gut.

With an oath, Pardee stumbled backward, tripping over Earl’s body and falling to the floor. He rolled over several yards in
front of Delilah, then rose on his hands and knees.

“Clint, he’s got a gun!” she cried as Pardee turned and squeezed the trigger at Daniels.

The shot grazed Clint’s right shoulder as he crouched, splintering a crate behind him. He drew his Colt with amazing speed
and fired before Pardee could get off another shot. He did not miss. The big thug teetered on his knees for a moment, then
fell face forward, landing in a tangled, bloody heap with Earl’s body. Clint walked quickly to the pair and knelt to examine
them. Looking up at Delilah, he asked, “Are there any more?”

She shook her head.

“These two are dead. You kill the little one with that toy?”

“Yes, and considering that I also wounded the big one, I would scarcely call it a toy.”

She looked pale, but her poker-player’s face remained calm, expressionless. Too expressionless. Clint had seen people in shock
before, and she was skirting damn close to it. He stood up and walked over to her, gently tipping her chin up with one finger.
“Point taken. Horace said you were almost as good as he with a gun.”

She stared into his glowing eyes, so pale in the dim light that their color was indeterminate. The intensity wasn’t.

He nodded solemnly, letting his other hand touch the soft chestnut curls that fell around her shoulders in wild tangles. “You
could’ve been killed.” Her green eyes were dark and he felt himself drowning in them. Without conscious thought, he dropped
one arm around her slender body, drawing her warmth to him while the other hand dug into her thick, silky hair and caressed
her scalp. His mouth lowered to hers.

Delilah knew he was going to kiss her again, but this time no thoughts of ambush entered her mind. Nothing did. Just the heat
and hardness of his long body, surrounding her with a sense of protection she’d never felt before in her life.
Cherished.
The word passed fleetingly through her thoughts as their lips met.

The soft kiss very quickly grew in intensity as her arms wrapped around him and she pressed herself closer, closer to the
warmth, the safety that he embodied. When his tongue teased the soft seam of her lips, she opened them in invitation. Her
heart was pounding more swiftly than it had when Pardee had been threatening her life. And it was Clinton Daniels, drawling
Southerner, reckless gambler, bordello whoremaster, who drew this rough passion from her—who incited the madness she couldn’t
stop…didn’t want to stop. When his fingers found a breast through the sheer silk of her blouse, the nipple hardened
abruptly. She gasped with pleasure and dug her nails into the sinewy muscles of his shoulders, then slanted her mouth against
his with wilder abandon.