by Shirl Henke
“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.
Clint suddenly withdrew from the kiss, holding her at arm’s length, his breathing ragged—and his lip bleeding once more. Her hand came up to her mouth as horror and embarrassment flooded over her. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” he replied with a smile that turned into a grimace when his lip split further. “You can sure kiss a man into submission, Deelie. That’s a more deadly weapon than your pea shooter, believe me.”
The drawling words ignited her temper, not the least of which was directed at her own wanton behavior as well as at his grin. After all, he’d been the one to stop things before they spun even more wildly out of control—and she was supposed to be the one with willpower. She started to slap him, then saw the blood already staining her fingers. It could not be from his lip. “You’ve been shot,” she accused.
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he said, trying to shrug. But it turned into a wince when he raised his right shoulder.
Then she saw the ragged tear in his jacket and the blood seeping through the white linen shirt beneath. “Pardee hit you before he went down.”
“ ’Pears so,” he said nonchalantly. “Ruined another good suit. Deelie, you are purely hard on a man’s wardrobe.”
“And you are purely hard on a woman’s temper. I’ve told you not to call me by that odious nickname,” she added. When he pulled a white handkerchief from his vest pocket and reached up to her face with it, she ducked backward. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He grinned. “Tendin’ to you before you tend to me,” he replied, wiping his blood from her mouth, then using the same handkerchief to blot his own mouth.
Delilah wanted to drop through the hard plank floor. Instead she scrubbed her hand over her lips and tasted the salt of his blood. Her white glove was stained with it. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll need to see a doctor. That gash will probably require stitches,” she said.
“You sound as if you’d enjoy watchin’,” he drawled.
“I’d enjoy hearing you yell while I’m in the outer office,” she countered. The tiniest hint of a smile tugged at her lips but she fought it down.
“Watch out, you just might break down and grin like a Cheshire cat…Deelie.”
“My name is Delilah. And I suppose, since you’ve saved my life, I’ll allow you the liberty of addressing me by my proper Christian name.”
“Anything you say…Deelie.”
Before she could do more than huff in exasperation, Wally Behrman yelled from the front of the warehouse, “Clint, you ’n the lady all right? Thought I heerd shootin’ a couply blocks back but my laigs ain’t so good. Like to nigh busted a lung runnin’ to fetch Banjo. He tole me to come back here. He run to get you.”
“We’re fine, Wally,” Clint called out. “Can’t rightly say the same for Riley’s men, though.”
Delilah heard the rough breathing and clumping gait of someone drawing near. Then a little wizened man with a shiny bald head and humped back made his way up the side aisle to where they stood. She quickly scrubbed at her mouth again, relieved to see it come away without any telltale traces of Daniels’s blood on it. The elderly man tipped his small head toward her politely, then looked up at Clint.
“You don’t look too good, Boss.”
“Better than those two,” Clint replied, motioning to the bodies lying in an ever-widening puddle of whiskey. The floorboards were stained pink from blood mingling with the amber liquid.
“Clem Pardee ’n that leetle weasel Earl Barker. Yep, them ’er Red’s rat droppin’s, all right. You want me ta fetch the police, Boss?” The old man looked about ready to join them on the floor, he was so breathless and pale.
“I’ll—”
His reply was interrupted by Banjo Banks, who burst through the front door. “I’m here, Boss. Got me one of yer shotguns,” he added in the meanest voice he could manage.
Within minutes, Clint gave everyone his orders. Banjo was to wait with the bodies. Wally was to ride Pardee’s horse, hidden behind the warehouse, and summon the authorities. Clint would escort Mrs. Raymond back to the Nymph. “She’ll bandage me up,” he added with a dare in his eyes for her.
Happy to get out of the warehouse and back into fresh air and sunlight, Delilah didn’t bother to argue the point in front of two strangers.
When they reached the street, Clint walked over to a magnificent black horse standing nearby and picked up his trailing reins. Patting the big gelding’s head, he said,“Knew you’d show up.”
“Is that your horse?” she asked. Surely he hadn’t ridden bareback…had he?
“Samson, meet Delilah,” he said with a grin.
“Samson,” Clint said, stepping back and releasing the hackamore. The horse raised his head and nickered, then stepped toward his master. Clint looked at her as if to say, told you so. “If you ever want to ride…”
His tone was altogether too rife with suggestion for her liking. “We’ll be heading upriver in a couple of weeks. I won’t have time for recreation.” Bad word choice, you ninny!
The grin widened. “Don’t know what you’re missing.”
After the kiss they’d just shared, she had some idea but would die before she dealt him that ace—or admitted to herself how much she had enjoyed it. When she started to climb into Earl’s rig, he gallantly assisted her. Then he walked over and tied Samson’s hackamore to the rear of the carriage before he climbed into the driver’s seat, taking the reins. She stood up and reached over, placing her blood-stained glove on his hands. “Are you certain you’re capable of driving? Perhaps it would be best if I—”
“I’ve been hurt lots worse and had to ride bareback for hours. This is only a scratch.”
Delilah suddenly imagined his big, lean body, naked and muscular, tanned skin scarred from knife and bullet wounds. To erase the disturbing images, she glanced back at the horse and asked, “You rode him bareback?”
“When Banjo told me you’d been kidnapped, I knew it was Red Riley’s men. No time to waste with a saddle.” He slapped the reins, and the nag harnessed to the rig trotted from the alley.
She squirmed in her seat for a moment, and then a lifetime of manners bred into generations of Mathers women asserted itself, forcing her to say, “I have not thanked you for risking your life to save me.”
“Oh, I think you already did.” He chuckled.
Delilah glared daggers at his back. Then he interrupted her angry, jumbled thoughts with a question whose answer would further add to her humiliation.