The River Nymph (8 page)

Delilah had to stand up and move across the salon to get a clear view to the east. The vast sweep of the Mississippi at the
narrows around the bend of the St. Louis levee ran swift and deep as darkness descended. She was grateful for the chilly breeze
coming off the water. After looking out at the gathering darkness for as long as she could stall, she returned to the table,
where Clint solicitously held out her chair.

“Well?”

“The water is high. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

“Some ways yes, others, no. Winter out west was one of the worst in decades. Lots of snow melt to fill the Missouri’s tributaries.
But a hard current means a harder pull upriver…and, did you notice anythin’ floating with the current?”

She made a dismissive gesture. “Some pieces of driftwood, the usual mess that comes downriver.”

“Spoken like a true Easterner.”

“And a true Yankee?” she asked sweetly, seething at what she considered his condescension.

“That —usual mess— you mentioned isn’t just a few sticks of kindling. Those were barns, cabins and trees. Whole trees, clusters
of wood locked together, sweeping downriver. Just one big log can smash a shallow draft stern-wheeler to bits.”

“I thought your captain was an expert at avoiding such exigencies,” she said, glad for the argument and time for her food
to cool. Clint, like Horace, kept shoveling in the hot meal.

After taking one last bite, he replied, “He’s one of the very best, but for every captain like Dubois or Marsh, there aredozens
who’ve beached or smashed their boats to kindling—or worse yet, blown their boilers sky high, killing every person aboard,
in an attempt to beat the competition.”

“There appears to be a high enough demand for the goods we carry that another week or two won’t make any difference. We’ll
make a handsome profit,” Horace assured her.

Delilah gave her uncle a sharp look, but before she could say anything, Luellen approached the table, tsking about the Missus’s
half-eaten food as she cleared plates and replaced them with apple pie still warm from the oven. The crust was flaky and the
dried apples gave off a hint of cinnamon. But the Missus looked at the piece set before her as if it were a burning lump of
coal.

Both men complimented Mrs. Colter effusively. She withdrew, her already ruddy face beet red from the praise. She turned an
inquisitive eye to Delilah, who nodded woodenly and took a forkful of pie. In moments the cook returned with a big graniteware
pot of scalding hot coffee and thick cream. Without asking, because her mistress normally loved after-dinner coffee, she poured
a full cup, allowing scant room for cream. The Missus always drank hers black.

Enviously, Delilah watched her uncle lace his cup with the cool, pale liquid, then stir. She felt the steam rising from her
own cup and said, “Pass the cream, please, Uncle.”

He looked at her, raising both eyebrows. “You detest cream,” he replied, puzzled.

“Well, I’ve decided to try it this evening,” she said, reaching for the small pitcher and filling her cup until it overflowed
into her saucer. “Oh, now I’ve gone and ruined it.”

“I’ll ask Mrs. Colter to bring more,” Clint said helpfully and started to rise.

“No! Er, that is, I mean, I really don’t want any coffee tonight. I haven’t been sleeping well. I imagine I’m just excited
about the prospect of the voyage,” she added, feeling a trickle of perspiration travel down her temple.

Before she could bat his hand away, Clint took his napkin and reached over to dab at it. “You do look a mite flushed, Mrs.
Raymond. I’d hate it if you fainted before we finished our business meeting.”

As if on cue, Horace stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I shall retire for the night. My niece is not the only one
missing sleep over this venture, but she is considerably younger and more resilient than am I. You two have a great many other
things to discuss, I believe?”

With a bow to his niece and a handshake with Daniels, he left the two of them alone in the empty salon.

“Well, Deelie, what do we talk about now, hmmm?”

Chapter Seven

Delilah
scooted her chair back, out of his reach, and started to rise. But instead of getting up, he leaned back and said in that
lazy, infuriating drawl, “Runnin’ like a scared jackrabbit, Deelie? Thought you had more sand than that.”

She stopped and glared down at him. “Mr. Daniels, you have the manners of a man raised by savages.”

“All depends on your definition of savages,” he replied, standing up now, stepping closer to her, daring her to back away.

His eyes glowed gray in the soft lantern light, and glinted with something she could not read, something savage in itself.

For the first time since she’d met him, he actually frightened her. She set her chin and said, “I’ve read newspaper accounts
of scalpings and torture, other things so grisly—”

“Eastern newspapers. Mostly the blathering of damn fools who wouldn’t know a Sioux from a Scotsman. The West is filled with
all kinds of tribes, men and women as good or as bad as any whites.”

“I thought you said you’d never been to the far West, Mr. Daniels,” she said, wondering what had made him so angry. There
was so much neither she nor her trusting uncle knew about their associate.

“Never said I hadn’t been upriver, only that I never traveled on a stern-wheeler.”

Well, that certainly cleared matters up! But, somehow, Delilah did not want to press him with more questions. “Perhaps you
can explain to my uncle about your time on the upper Missouri tomorrow. As for tonight, sir, I’m going to retire.”

Abruptly, the old familiar grin spread across his face. The mercurial mood shift startled her. She merely nodded and started
for the door. But when she stepped into the blessedly cool night air, he was right behind her.

“It wouldn’t be polite for a gentleman to allow a lady to go unescorted to her cabin. The roustabouts and rivermen aren’t
the most mannerly sorts.” He took her hand and placed it over his coat sleeve.

Oh, so proper now. Was this the same man who had frightened her only a moment ago? “Neither are you, but I imagine your charms
work quite well in the sporting district.”

He chuckled. As they strolled down the deck toward her cabin, Delilah cursed her uncle for once again throwing her to the
wolves—or wolf, in this case. When they reached the door, she slipped her hand from Clint’s arm and started to turn the knob.
“Good night, Mr. Daniels.”

Clint watched the moonlight gleam on her hair and reflect in her big green cat’s eyes. Why couldn’t he seem to leave well
enough alone? This female was pure poison. But instead, he found himself wrapping one arm around her and pulling her close
to him. The faint hint of her floral bath salts teased his nostrils. He stared into her eyes, willing her not to resist as
his other hand reached up and loosened the pins from the heavy mass of hair at her nape, letting it tumble down her back in
a cascade of curls.

“Your hair is so beautiful. Why have you taken to hiding it lately?”

His voice was a low hum. Delilah could feel the vibration from his chest travel to her breasts. She sucked in a shaky breath
as long, clever fingers massaged her scalp. The feeling was mesmerizing. When he planted his lips against the side of her
throat, she could hear the possessiveness in his male growl. The whispering magic of his mouth on her skin sent shivers through
her overheated body. She let go of her last ounce of sense.

His heat enveloped her. She felt powerless to speak until he began unfastening the buttons at the neck of her gown. “Stop,”
she whispered against his shoulder. Her voice held no conviction and she knew it.

“You were glowing from the heat, near choking in your high collar and black wool. I’m only helping you cool off. Feel the
river breeze on your neck…”

The devil possessed incredible dexterity. He had jet buttons slipped from six loops before she regained the presence of mind
to reach up and seize his hand. “I can see how your skill with a deck of cards has other applications, Mr. Daniels. But I
am not your Miss Eva and you will stop undressing me this instant, else I’ll scream until my uncle shoots you dead.”

Her voice was a hiss of indignation. Clint released her and watched her back against the door of her cabin. Those big cat’s
eyes shot sparks. He could see a narrow vee of creamy skin and just the hint of cleavage from those sumptuous breasts where
he’d opened the foolish high-necked dress. Lordy, she was a magnificent piece of woman flesh!
Daniels, stop thinkin’ with
your gonads.
He grinned and tipped his head. “What, didn’t you bring your Derringer to dinner so you could defend yourself?”

As he turned and sauntered toward the stairs to the main deck, he heard her retort. “A mistake I will never again make, I
assure you!”

“I must insist on accompanying you, Uncle. If we’re to trust our whole future to this captain that Mr. Daniels has hired,
I want to meet him…and to hear directly from an expert why we must wait another week, not to mention why we should risk
carrying whiskey upriver.”

Horace noted the way she said Clint’s name as if she’d sucked on a lemon. He wondered what had transpired that night after
he’d left them alone in the salon. It had been nearly two weeks and she had avoided Clint as if he had typhoid. “Very well,
but I need not remind you that a lady visiting a man of color at his dwelling will cause gossip.”

“Being a female gambler has already taken me off the social registry,” she replied dryly. “Come, let’s go meet Captain Dubois.”

On the carriage ride into the countryside north of the city, Horace ruminated about what might have been while making small
talk with Delilah.

He knew she’d hated the way she’d been forced to survive after her young husband died. The Raymonds did not approve of the
Matherses, who were not among the landed gentry of Maryland. Instead Delilah’s great-grandfather had made the family fortune
as a Pennsylvania shoe manufacturer, then branched out into other businesses.

Delilah had been cosseted by her family since birth. Being Arthur’s only child and losing her mother so early had contributed
to her being indulged. But the war had changed everything. Survival had at first only entailed following her uncle from city
to city as he plied the cards. Although she had no friends, at least she had not been forced to associate with the unsavory
elements in gaming establishments—until his injury.

“Do you ever resent what I’ve taught you, child?” he asked.

Delilah knew what he meant. She took his gnarled left hand and placed both of hers around the crippled fingers. “Never. You’ve
cared for me as if I were your own daughter. I shall always be in your debt—” She raised her hand when he started to protest.

“No, it’s true.” She paused thoughtfully for a moment as the narrow city streets with brick-lined buildings gave way to rolling
hills. “You know, I’ve now and then imagined what might have happened if Lawrence had lived. After the communications I exchanged
with his parents, I know they would’ve disinherited him. He was equipped to do nothing else but live the life of a gentleman
farmer. His only option after the war would have been to eke out a meager existence as an army officer. I’ve read enough about
life on military posts out West to know it would have placed a dreadful hardship on our marriage.”

Horace had often considered the same dire outcome. “At least your life as an officer’s wife would have been respectable,”
he said with a wistful smile.

“Horsefeathers. Can you imagine me pouring tea for senior officers’ wives? Being stuck in the middle of the wilderness? The
highlight of my year, a trip to some frontier cow town to purchase calico.” A pensive expression crossed her face. “I fear
we married too young. I can’t even remember what he looked like. And as the years have passed, I’ve scarcely taken out his
photograph to remind me….”

Horace patted her arm. “As you said, you were both too young. There’s no shame in that.”

“This sounds terrible, but I’m not certain now that I was ever in love with Lawrence…at least, well…I don’t know
…”

Her voice faded away and she turned her head and watched the countryside.
She’s thinking of Clint and how he
differs from her husband.
Horace had hoped she would come in time to realize that mourning for poor Lawrence was a waste of her vibrant young life.
She craved independence and a boy from his background would never have accepted that, nor would his family. A man such as
Clinton Daniels would appreciate a strong woman.

Now it was his turn to pat her hand. “I believe everything will work out for the best. Only give it time.”

With that cryptic remark hanging in the air, the carriage pulled up in front of a small, neat frame cottage shaded by two
tall white oaks. It was situated high on the river bluffs overlooking a wide stretch of the Missouri.

Captain Jacques Dubois was a small man, wiry and nattily dressed in a cream linen suit. His complexion was the color of café
au lait. Black, curly hair sprinkled with gray receded from a high forehead, the only thing that gave away his age. A younger
woman with handsome features and piercing black eyes stood behind him in the doorway, a small boy clinging to her skirt. Her
straight black hair was parted in the middle and braided into long, gleaming plaits. Although she wore a linen day dress,
her strongly chiseled face and mien suggested she was Indian. She waited impassively while her husband stepped from the veranda
and walked down the flagstones to greet his visitors.

“Good day, Captain Dubois. I hope you do not mind my bringing my niece with me,” Horace said as he alighted from the carriage.
“She is the majority owner of
The River
Nymph.”

If the captain was disconcerted, he did not show it. Smiling, he approached Horace, saying, “I am honored by the lady’s presence.”
The soft cadences of New Orleans mixed with just the hint of a French accent. “You are most welcome to my home. Please, will
you partake of some cool lemonade while we discuss business?”

Horace offered his hand, which the captain shook formally. Then Mathers introduced Delilah to him. When she held out her gloved
hand, he gave it a courtly salute worthy of any Creole gentleman.

Turning to the woman, who had sent the boy inside before approaching them, he said, “May I present Dawn Woman? She is a member
of the Ehanktonwon or Yankton Sioux, and my wife. That little rascal who just returned to his toy boats is our son Etienne.
Our daughter Bernadette is away at school.”

“A pleasure, madam,” Horace said, saluting her hand and introducing his niece.

Delilah had never seen a real, live Indian before and was amazed that she looked quite civilized. She smiled, and Mrs. Dubois
returned the smile, saying, “Please come inside and I’ll fetch the lemonade that Jacques promised.” Her voice was low, well
modulated and she was obviously educated.

They entered the front parlor, furnished with beautiful cherry wood chairs upholstered in deep green brocade. The wallpaper
was a soft floral in complementing shades of green and russet. A large oval rug covered the center of the polished oak floors
and several paintings of river scenes hung on the walls. Delilah imagined they were all depictions of the upper Missouri.
Being one of the most highly respected captains to pilot stern-wheelers up the Missouri had earned Dubois a handsome living
indeed.

“Your home is lovely,” she said to Captain and Mrs. Dubois.

“A bit far from the riverfront, but we find it pleasant to have privacy. It’s better for the children, as well,” Dubois replied.
“When I’m working, my brother Etienne stays with my family. Not everyone in the area finds it acceptable for a man of color
and an Indian to own property.”

“I can imagine it must be difficult, even dangerous,” Horace ventured. He had noted several armed men, all of mixed race,
working at various tasks around the house, and suspected that their secondary duty was to act as bodyguards.

Delilah was overcome with curiosity. “How long have you and Mr. Daniels known each other?”

Dubois’s face split into a wide smile, revealing small, even teeth. “Clint and I go back quite a way. In fact, he is a kinsman
of Dawn’s, in a manner of speaking….” The captain paused and cleared his throat as his wife brought in a tray with tall,
sweat-beaded glasses of lemonade, then said only, “I think it best if he explains that to you.”

“There are a few other matters he has not explained to me.”

Dubois cocked his head politely, encouraging Delilah to continue. “Such as?”

“So many boats have already departed the St. Louis levee, and yet we’re still waiting, paying warehouse fees while our competitors
steam toward Fort Benton. Mr. Daniels insists it is too dangerous. Are you of the same opinion, Captain?”

If Jacques Dubois knew of the friction between Clint and his beautiful female partner, he revealed nothing. Instead, he asked,
“You have seen the clusters of driftwood swirling past the levee over the past weeks, yes?” At her reluctant nod, he continued,
“They can smash a boat or force it into shallows where it will remain hopelessly grounded for the summer. And the current
this year is running particularly hard because of the harsh winter on the high plains.”

“How does the weather affect the river?” Horace asked. He had already heard Clint explain but wanted to play devil’s advocate
for Delilah.

“When the extraordinary snowfall melts, every tributary of the Missouri runs high. As the river flows downstream, itpicks
up an excess of this water, along with trees and other debris swept into the current. I can gauge the shallows and keep a
sharp watch for the sawyers—bobbing, partially hidden trees that have snagged in the river bottom—as well as the drifting
wood. But running against a hard current is the greatest danger—the one that can cost every person aboard their lives.”

“Boiler explosions,” Delilah said, having heard the horror stories about them. When the captain nodded, she countered, “I
understood that such explosions occurred because irresponsible captains raced against each other and put impossible strains
on the engines.”