by Shirl Henke
Eva swished back down the stairs and resumed her position beside Daniels. “Bill’ll be down in a couple, Clint.” One smooth, pale hand rested on his shoulder, her long, lacquered nails kneading into the expensive wool of his jacket like a contented cat. Looking at Delilah, she said, “Well, honey, since we’re both doin’ business with Clint, I guess we’re sorta partners-in-law.” She paused for a moment and then sank the harpoon. “Sorta sisters under the skin.”
Delilah blanched. “Only like Cain and Abel were brothers, madam.” Her voice thickened with anger to a low, throaty rasp. “In addition to the more obvious dissimilarities in our positions …” She watched Eva draw back at the barb, then continued, “I’m the majority owner in my venture with our mutual partner, while—as I understand it—you own only 20 percent.”
Eva studied the seething brunette. Uppity woman thought she was better just because she talked fancy and dressed oh so ladylike, but she made her living gambling. Not any more respectable than Eva’s chosen career. “The way I figure it, my 20 percent is worth a lot more than your 51 percent.”
Delilah arched her brow condescendingly. “Indeed?”
“Deed? That’s right, honey!” Her eyes remained locked with Delilah’s. Before Clint could stop her, she bent over his shoulder and slid her splayed hand down his chest until it disappeared below the tabletop. “See, Mrs. Raymond, with my 20 percent comes the deed to some fertile Southern territory…the same one you’re interested in.”
Delilah snapped back in her seat, too appalled to utter a word. Denial would only give credence to the harlot’s absurd accusation.
Removing Eva’s hand from the waistband of his pants, he kissed the palm lightly and murmured, “Behave yourself, darlin’. Can’t you see you’re embarrassing my new partner?” There was just enough steel beneath the softness of his voice to make Eva subside.
To Delilah, however, his remarks were a red flag. She rose so quickly that her chair tipped over. “You coarse, vulgar little trollop!” Illogically, she attacked Eva rather than the man between them.
Eva emitted a hiss of indignation and jerked her hand free of Clint’s grasp, moving around the table. Both Clint and Horace jumped to their feet. Clint seized Eva’s arm as Horace murmured in Delilah’s ear, “Dear one, unless you wish to dispute ownership of the aforementioned territory with Miss Eva, I suggest that you let me right your chair and that you be seated.”
With a most unladylike oath, Eva jerked away from Daniels and stomped to the bar, loudly ordering a double whiskey.
Once satisfied that the foe had been vanquished, Delilah sat back down.
A stone-still Clinton Daniels stood pondering the distinct possibility that God had created female rage as a male purgative. Then Attorney Holland clamored down the stairs, interrupting Clint’s ruminations.
“I understand you need some legal work done. Hell of a time, Clint.”
“There are paper and pens in my office. You know where to find whatever you need,” Daniels replied, ignoring the lawyer’s ire. He gave the man too much business for it to last.
In a quarter hour Bill Holland returned with two copies of a contract between Clinton Daniels and Delilah Mathers Raymond. After the copies had been signed and notarized, the attorney returned to unfinished business upstairs.
Horace raised his glass in a perfunctory toast. Warily, his niece and Clint joined in. The two men arranged a business luncheon for the following afternoon. The older man wanted to get Delilah out of the immediate vicinity of the beauteous Miss Eva, who had spent a quarter hour at the bar slugging back shots before retiring upstairs, the remains of the bottlein hand. She was well on her way to inebriation, and he had always observed that women and alcohol were a most combustible commodity.
As he and his niece were departing the Blasted Bud, Delilah murmured, “Don’t worry, Uncle Horace. I’ll strip him of his share of the Nymph just as easily as I stripped him of his clothes.”
Horace whispered vehemently, “My dear, you must stop underestimating this man. You didn’t win that cut by chance. He cheated. As he was examining the cards, I saw him palm one. Well done, too. I almost didn’t catch it. I thought he had palmed an ace. I said nothing because I thought he would take his thousand and save you from acquiring the unfortunate reputation to which, alas, you now have fallen victim.”
Delilah halted abruptly on the walk outside of the Bud. “You mean he deliberately palmed the deuce so he’d lose?”
“Do you believe a man that skilled would filch a deuce instead of an ace by accident?” The moment he asked the rhetorical question, Horace realized he’d just made a major tactical blunder.
Before he could stop her, Delilah spun on her heel and slammed through the door. Clint was still standing at the table, brandy glass in one hand, contract in the other. He looked up in surprise as his new partner made straight for him with purposeful strides. “Back so soon, Mrs. Raymond? What can I do—”
She swung her reticule by its drawstring. It connected with the side of his face, making a satisfying thunk. “You sneaky, conniving…deceitful wretch!”
The attack was so sudden that Clint could not even get out a curse. He simply stumbled backward, got his feet tangled with the chair legs, and landed flat on his back. Delilah stood motionless in front of her prostrate tormentor as he struggled to a sitting position, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears. “What the hell’s—”
“I’ll give you hell, right enough!” She drew back one foot and tried to kick him in that hateful face. Unfortunately, thetoe of her slipper caught in her petticoat and snapped the rear hem of her narrow skirt against the heel of her other foot, sending both feet flying upward. She landed in a sitting position in front of Clint. Her spine felt like a compressed accordion.
“Merciful God, woman, what’s in that bag? A hunk of brick?”
In spite of her pain, Delilah noted with satisfaction that the upper left side of his face was beginning to swell. “A .41-caliber double-barreled Remington Derringer!”
“A must for any lady of fashion.” Daniels touched his throbbing face, muttering, “I’m gratified you used it as a bludgeon rather than shooting me with it.”
“Don’t tempt me, you…you…”
“My brain’s too rattled for me to provide you with cuss words at the moment,” he muttered.
“You deliberately lost that cut! You did it so I wouldn’t be able to get a crew.”
He shrugged, then winced. “I had no idea you were going to haul freight. I thought you intended to keep the Nymph as a floating gambling palace, same as Riley. I don’t need competition from a lady gambler. I let you win to protect my business here at the Bud. No man would sit down at the table with a woman who humiliates other players. If I’d known you were going into the upriver trade…” He shrugged, then grinned. “Hell, I’d ’a probably done it anyway.”
Delilah stared at the grinning oaf. In just two meetings, he had succeeded in stripping her of a lifetime of refinement, not to mention the hard-earned self-discipline she had acquired over the last decade. Now here she sat spraddle-legged on the floor of a bawdy house. What was happening to her? His congenial expression was intolerable. He’d succeeded in making her lose her temper, her self-control, everything she prided herself on. She needed to make him pay, but how? Then, noting the way he looked at her, an idea occurred…
Clint watched the confused expression on her beautiful face. A minute ago she had been all self-righteous anger, enraged sufficiently to try to kick out his teeth. Now she looked like a lost child. He came up on one knee and leaned forward with deliberate slowness. She seemed so very fragile and vulnerable that he held his breath, afraid to frighten her, but she didn’t move.
A part of his brain sounded warning bells. He dismissed them as the aftermath of her blow to his head. With exquisite care, he placed the lightest kiss on Delilah’s luscious mouth. Gentle, oh so gentle. She closed her eyes. He leaned away, watching as they opened and she smiled tentative
ly. God, she was precious. God, he was crazy!
She rose to her knees in a seductively fluid movement and reached out one hand to his cheek, then slipped it to the back of his head. Grasping a fistful of straw-colored hair, she drew him to her. His lips parted as he prepared to kiss her again with much more vigor.
She sunk her teeth into his lower lip. And held on.
“Auugh! Godda eh! Leggo! Awww! Daa!” He couldn’t get his mouth to form the curses while she held him in the agonizing liplock.
Abruptly, Delilah released his lip and he snapped his head back. Still a bit groggy from the blow to his skull, Clint lost his balance and toppled onto his rump again. Blood streamed down his chin, staining his jacket and shirtfront. He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and pressed it to his lacerated lip.
From the top of the stairs, Eva’s beautiful laughter filled the room. “Clint, honey, let that be a lesson. If you don’t wanna lose that valuable Southern bottom land, you better keep your fly buttoned when that bitch is around!”
Chapter Four
The only thing you need to button, Mr. Daniels, is your lip,” Delilah snapped as she seized the back of the nearest chair and used it for leverage to get back to her feet. She smirked down at Clint, who remained on the floor with his long legs spread wide, dabbing at his bleeding mouth. His fancy shirt was ruined. Good. Served him right for his clumsy attempts to win her over with his charm. Women such as the harlot standing at the top of the stairs might find him irresistible, but she certainly did not.
Horace looked like a man asked to choose between death by hanging from a long rope or garroting with piano wire. His horrified eyes took in their new business partner sitting bloodied on the floor and Delilah struggling to stand upright in her fashionable skirt. Having been raised a gentleman, he took her arm just as she righted herself. It was also a precaution. Considering the reaction Mr. Daniels elicited from his niece, she might just take the chair and brain him with it if not restrained.
But he could see the gloating satisfaction on her face and thought that she would be content to allow a truce…for now. Their new associate climbed to his feet while wincing at his swollen and bloody face. Not good. “Mr. Daniels, please accept my niece’s sincere regrets for this most unfortunate, er, altercation.”
“No, Mr. Daniels, please do not,” she snapped, shaking her uncle’s hand from her arm as she glared at Clint. Then she swiveled her head around and glared at Horace. “He accosted me. He’s the one who should apologize.”
Having seen the whole episode explode so quickly that he could not prevent it, Horace knew that Delilah had played her biblical role. She’d deliberately lured the man into that fleeting kiss. But he was not fool enough to say it in front of witnesses. The past week had been arduous enough without adding further humiliation to her lot. Instead he equivocated, “Nevertheless, I fear that your blow to his head incited the matter.”
“As if a blow to his head could hurt a skull as thick as his.” How dare her beloved uncle take the ruffian’s side!
“Judging by the look of his face, I believe you underestimate your strength…or overestimate the thickness of his aforementioned skull,” Horace said dryly, then turned to Clint. “Please accept my apologies, if you will, sir.”
“No need. There’s an old saying down where I come from: Once a yellowjacket stings a fellow, he’d be a fool to stick his face near the hive a second time.” His words were muffled by the white linen handkerchief he held over his mouth to staunch the bleeding.
Horace took hold of Delilah’s arm again, then looked over at Daniels. “The two of us may, I hope, still discuss our business affairs amicably tomorrow over luncheon?”
“I’ll pass on lunch. Your niece has loosened all the teeth on the left side of my mouth and I doubt I’ll be able to open my swollen lips wide enough to bite into anything. Let’s just meet for coffee here at the Bud, say around ten?”
As the old man nodded and turned Delilah around to depart, Clint could swear he heard her chuckle softly. What the hell was I thinking? Then he watched her lush little derriere disappear out the door and knew blasted well exactly what he had been thinking…and what part of his anatomy had done the thinking.
It was not his brain.
“Ooh, honey, that looks bad. Here, let me make it well,” Eva said, holding up a bag of ice she had fetched from the kitchen. She gave him a kiss on his uninjured cheek.
“Thanks, darlin’.” Clint accepted the ice bag and headedfor the stairs, but when she followed him and took his arm, tugging him toward her room, he stopped and gently disengaged. “Sorry, I’m not in the mood right now. Think I’ll just try to get some sleep.”
“But I could take your mind off that bloodthirsty little bitch,” she cajoled, feathering kisses along his neck.
“Who says I’m thinking about Mrs. Raymond?” he asked irritably. Could every female on the river suddenly read hismind?
“Clint, I watched her sucker you. You usta have more sense ’n that. She’s poison.”
“More like a cross between a cannibal and a gator. But I made a deal—a very profitable deal—with her and I aim to collect every last dollar of it when the Nymph steams back downriver this fall.”
“Yeah, ’n all you gotta do is keep her from drowning you somewheres along the way,” Eva said and flounced away in a snit. Clint didn’t usually turn down offers to share her bed. She knew the female gambler with her fancy airs was the cause of it …even if he didn’t. All men were idiots.
When Horace Mathers arrived at the Blasted Bud the following morning he was uncertain what his reception would be. Although a bit worse for wear, Clint attempted a smile through his swollen lip and shook hands cordially, ushering him to the office at the rear of the spacious building. It was furnished with expensive leather chairs and an oak desk covered with papers.
“Please have a seat while I ring for coffee. Have you had breakfast? Our cook whips up a mean omelet with hash browns and bacon on the side.”
Considering that all his host had probably been able to manage was oatmeal, Horace declined with thanks. “Coffee will be fine. I broke my fast before leaving the boat.”
“Heard you hired Luellen Colter. She’s a fine cook. Tried hiring her for the Bud, but she didn’t much cotton to Eva,” Clint said, using a small silver bell to summon one of Miss Eva’s girls from the kitchen.
“I would expect Miss Eva is an attraction sufficient to render the need for fine cuisine irrelevant,” Horace said dryly.
As soon as the coffee was poured and the server dismissed, Clint leaned forward across his desk and said, “Shall we get down to business?”
Horace replaced his cup in its saucer on the small table beside his chair. He noted that the set was fine bone china, reminding him of all he and his niece had lost. “Before we begin, there is something I believe it best to explain…er, regarding my niece and myself.”
Clint leaned back in his chair and took a sip of the hot coffee, careful not to let it touch the place where Delilah had bitten him. “That she’s hell on wheels when you aren’t around to rein her in?” he offered, curious in spite of himself. His new partners were really an enigma—well educated, obviously from the upper class, yet making their way in life by the turn of a card.
“The Matherses were wealthy businessmen in Gettysburg before General Lee swooped over the Mason-Dixon. My brother’s daughter, Delilah, had just married a young cavalry officer in the Union army. She was only seventeen. Her groom of one week, Lawrence Raymond, was a lad of nineteen from a prominent family in Maryland. Both he and my brother perished in the battle. All my brother’s property was laid waste by Confederate forces and the Raymond family refused succor to Delilah because they disapproved of the marriage.
“I was abroad at the time but rushed home immediately upon learning of the tragedy. Ever since she was a small child, we shared a special bond.” He paused to smile wistfully. “She was always bright and ever so curious. I must confess to teaching
her the finer points of card games whenever I chanced to visit. Another sin to lay at my door, in my brother’s opinion.
“I won’t bore you with the reasons why I had earlier been sent away by our father. Suffice it to say, he had just cause. But after Delilah’s widowhood, I employed my skills to keep aroof over our heads and food on the table. Not the best life for a gently reared young lady, but considering the circumstances, the only option either of us had…until…”
Horace held out his left hand. For the first time, Clint noticed that the fingers were slightly curled. “Besides being the black sheep of the Mathers family, I also had the grave misfortune of having my hand broken by a gentleman who took umbrage after losing a considerable sum in a game of whist some years back.”
“So you taught your niece to do what you couldn’t do any longer—handle cards,” Clint supplied, nodding. A lot of things about Delilah Mathers Raymond now made sense.
“If there had been any other way…” Horace placed his hands on the arms of the chair and seemed to shrink against its back. “All I could do was act as her chaperone and protector. Another of my skills is shooting. I rarely miss.”
“You kill a fellow in a duel? That’s what got you banished from the family?” Clint asked.
“Among other sins, that was the petard that hoisted me, to clumsily paraphrase the Bard.” He looked pensive for a moment, then sat up and reached for his cup. “Now that you understand Delilah’s antipathy for men with Southern drawls, I hope you will be tolerant of her behavior. I will endeavor to keep her from inflicting any further injury to your person.”
“I’d take it right kindly if you’d do that. It’s a long way up the Missouri to Fort Benton and back, long enough for her to gnaw me to death.” Then recalling Eva’s prediction about Delilah drowning him, his tone became almost pleading. “Please tell me you didn’t also teach her to shoot a gun?”
Horace sighed. “I fear I did. She is almost as proficient with shortarms as am I.”