by Shirl Henke
Clint said in a resigned voice, “Lovely. I guess there’s nothing left to discuss now but business…except maybe my funeral arrangements.”
It was midafternoon by the time Horace returned from his morning coffee meeting with Clint Daniels. Delilah watchedhim walk up the gangplank, eager to learn what Daniels had done about getting them a crew. All around the Nymph she could see activity increasing as the days grew longer and warmer and the river rose with spring rains. Within weeks the steamboats would head up the deadly, swift-flowing Missouri, laden with cargoes for the gold-camp trade deep in Montana Territory.
“Well, what has he done? Do we have a pilot and crew?” she asked, breathless after her dash down the stairs from the hurricane deck.
Horace smiled at her. “You’re expecting miracles, my dear. Mr. Daniels has scarcely had time to make contact with his friends along the river. His face is really quite a fright and speech is difficult because his lip is so swollen.” There was a hint of admonishment in his tone. “But he will persevere, nonetheless. In fact, tonight several candidates for the captain’s position are coming to his business establishment to discuss terms. He is an engaging and adroit man of business.”
“Oh, I’ve seen firsthand what his business is. How can you trust him?”
She knew her uncle well. He had said little yesterday after the debacle at Daniels’s bordello, yet she could sense his disapproval of her behavior. Delilah rarely lost her temper. She had spent the past decade schooling herself to control it just as she learned, with Horace’s coaching, how to keep her face utterly neutral when she picked up a hand of cards.
At the green baize tables, she was always in command. Until the fateful night she met Clint Daniels. The man infuriated her in a way that was utterly irrational, and she knew it. That was what frightened her. And now he appeared to be winning over her only ally in life, her beloved mentor and uncle, all the family she had left in the world.
Horace could read her like the Latin texts he’d studied in his days at Princeton. “I can trust Mr. Daniels because it would be foolish for him to risk 49 percent of the considerable profit he will make at journey’s end. And so must you not only trust him but treat him with all due civility, my dear.”
“He does make it difficult. But I’ll try,” she replied grudgingly.
Delilah was put to the test three days later en route to Anderson’s Mercantile, where she wanted to purchase some goods that Mr. Krammer did not stock. Horace had reminded her that any further major purchases would require funding from their partner. Daniels had to be consulted. He had come to the levee to pick the two of them up in his fancy rig, complete with driver.
“Mr. Anderson’s inventory is well stocked with luxury goods that rich men in the camps will want for their wives,” she said as she sat across from Clint in the open carriage.
She was irritated when he made no comment, then apprehensive. What did the slick devil have up his sleeve now?
The day had dawned bright and sunny with a cool breeze coming off the rapidly rising river, where chunks of ice still floated here and there. To Delilah, Clint seemed to take up more than his share of the rig. The man was tall, lean and rangy, dressed in a black suit and starched white shirt that contrasted with his darkly tanned face. When he slid one long leg irritatingly near the hem of her pale gold skirt, she planted her closed parasol’s sharp tip close to one custom-made boot. He grinned at her, understanding the tacit threat.
Horace suddenly found the crowded brick warehouses lining Walnut Street fascinating, staring intently at them while the two young people postured.
Delilah watched Clint’s windblown hair gleam a dull gold in the sunlight. He held one of his fancy flat-crowned hats on his lap, letting the warm morning sun caress his face. As he combed his fingers through the thick, straight thatch and pushed it from his forehead, she noted that his bruises were turning greenish and his lip was still quite swollen. She sighed to herself philosophically. It would be best if he continued to heal, considering that any merchandise not from Krammer’s would have to be paid for with his capital.
In moments the driver reined in the carriage in front ofAnderson’s and they alighted. The mercantile looked quite different from Mr. Krammer’s establishment. This one was devoted only to cloth. Bolts of every hue and texture imaginable were stacked on long tables floor to ceiling. Delilah greeted Kurt Anderson, a tall, pale man with thinning white hair, then introduced him to her uncle and their partner.
His taciturn face instantly lit up as he shook hands with the gambler. “So good to see you again, Mr. Daniels. I understand you’re going into the upriver trade.”
Was there no one in St. Louis the lout didn’t know? Delilah forced a smile as Clint replied, “Looks that way. We’ll need some bolts of trade cloth. Mrs. Raymond tells me you have some items Krammer’s doesn’t carry.”
“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.”<
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“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.