The River Nymph

by Shirl Henke

  “What in tarnation made you come to the warehouse before our cargo was even delivered? Alone in this rough neighborhood, to boot? Why didn’t you bring your uncle for protection?”

  Horace! She would have to explain this debacle to him! Delilah started to raise her hands to her cheeks, then quickly stopped. She’d clenched her hands together and now both gloves were bloody. Her hair was a tangled fright, her skirt filthy and torn and she wore only her sheer white silk blouse. Her jacket remained at the warehouse, soaked with whiskey, pierced with splinters, ruined. Horace would have a heart attack when he saw her!

  “It’s goin’ to come out sooner or later, Deelie, so maybe I can help you explain to your uncle,” he coaxed.

  Was the man one of those circus mind readers? “I’ll manage to explain to my uncle without your help,” she replied. He turned and gave her an expectant look. She knew before they reached the levee he would force some story out of her. Sighing, she said, “I received a note from Mr. Riley, deceiving me into coming to check on our warehouse space. After all, I am assuming the duties of clerk since our payroll is already too high.”

  Clint shook his head without turning to look at the prevaricating female sitting behind him. “Our cargo is still mostly at Krammer’s Mercantile and a few other places until tomorrow—and you know it. Besides, you’re too smart to listen to anything Riley would say.”

  Her mouth felt like a box filled with fruit flies that sucked every drop of moisture from her tongue. It cleaved to her palate. She swallowed desperately. Calm. Control. You outsmarted two men with guns. You can handle this one, too. “A messenger delivered a note to me indicating that you’d already placed some additional cargo in the warehouse. I went to see what it was.”

  “Now, whose signature would make you believe a note like that, hmmm?” He reined in the nag and let a teamster carrying a wagon of beer kegs pass, then turned to face her again. “Time to tell the truth, Mrs. Raymond.”

  His no-nonsense tone made her realize the jig was up. “It was from Eva,” she admitted. “Saying she was having her private belongings and furniture placed in our storage space at the warehouse. I couldn’t believe you intended to turn the Nymph into a whorehouse, so I went to check for myself…to make certain before I accused you falsely.”

  “I’m touched by your faith in me, Deelie, I truly am,” he said solemnly.

  When he turned around and slapped the reins again, she sat back in the seat and breathed a sigh of relief.

  As they reached the boat, Horace Mathers strode from his cabin and walked the length of the boiler deck, heading toward the stairs. The moment he caught sight of her and Clint, he climbed down to the main deck with surprising agility for his cadaverous frame. He was at the gangplank when they stepped aboard, scanning their bloody and disheveled appearance.

  “Thank God you’re all right! When I awakened and found you gone, my dear, I feared Red Riley had kidnapped you. Then Todd told me about the messenger. As soon as I read the note to Clint, I knew where you had gone.”

  “The note was addressed to me?” Daniels asked innocently.

  Delilah looked down at the swirling, muddy Mississippi, for once in her life mute.

  Clint threw back his head and laughed out loud. She’s probably considering throwing herself overboard to drown.

  That was when she pushed him.

  Chapter Six

  Clint tumbled from the plank into the river with a loud splash. For a moment he vanished beneath the debris-filled water. Horace cried, “Man overboard!”

  Todd and two deckhands who had seen what happened came running, about to leap to Clint’s rescue, when his head broke the surface and he swam toward the shallows with strong, sure strokes.

  Horace stared aghast at his niece. “Delilah, what on earth have you done, child? You could have killed the man. And I would judge from the bloodied appearance of both of you that he has just risked his life to save you from your own jealous folly.”

  “It was folly, but I was not jealous,” she replied stubbornly. “I could hardly let him turn our boat into a floating bordello—but I did give him the benefit of the doubt and went to verify what that…that harlot said.”

  “But the note was not addressed to you. I read Mr.

  Daniels’s name, written quite legibly on the outside,” he said patiently, watching from the corner of his eye as Clint stood at the foot of the gangplank. He removed his dripping jacket and tossed it to one of the deckhands, then shook his head and began squishing up the narrow wooden planks.

  “I could smell her perfume. I just knew she meant trouble. He means trouble. We never should have gone into partnership with him, the insufferable…loutish…brute.” She struggled to find words adequate to describe what she should feel toward the man now striding up the plank toward them. But Delilah knew her feelings for Clint Daniels were farmore complicated than she wanted to admit, even to her beloved uncle.

  Horace coughed discreetly to suppress a smile as Clint drew near. Then he saw the bloody gash on Daniels’s shoulder and noted traces of dried blood on his lip. His eyes swept from the man to his niece, looking for traces of his blood on her mouth. Yes, there was a faint smudge. Now he was the one who wanted to throw back his head and laugh. A line from The Tempest flitted through his mind: “It goes on, I see, as my soul prompts it.” However, his willful niece and Clint were hardly youthful innocents, and he most certainly was no Prospero.

  Still, this time she had well and truly kissed him. It was a very long voyage to Fort Benton. There would be plenty of time for the two stubborn imbeciles to realize they were made for each other. He clasped Clint’s hand and ushered him safely away from the gangplank. “Are you further injured by that untimely fall, Clint?”

  “I’ve had better days,” Daniels replied, looking at the fuming, red-cheeked Delilah. “But then again…maybe this one will end up better than it started.”

  Delilah felt his eyes on her face and knew she was blushing with humiliation. When Horace ushered the dripping Daniels toward their quarters, she had no choice but to follow. Her uncle’s expression grew very stern. He had always been endlessly patient with her. She knew he was deeply disturbed by her behavior.

  If only that rotten scoundrel hadn’t laughed at me.

  If only you weren’t jealous of Eva, none of this would have happened, a small voice taunted in return.

  She ignored the inner turmoil and walked past Horace, trying not to look at Clint Daniels as he stood dripping cold, muddy water on the rug. She waited for her uncle to speak. And speak he did. “First, Delilah, you shall apologize to Mr. Daniels,” he intoned gravely. “Then, after he has bathed, you shall tend his injuries.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up his handand gave her a withering look. She subsided as he continued, “I can see that he received a bullet gash from Riley’s ruffians when he rescued you. As if that were not sufficient, you have now subjected Mr. Daniels to heaven knows what diseases the flotsam and jetsam of the Mississippi may yield.”

  Delilah could see the grin spreading across Daniels’s face and wanted to sink through the floor to the main deck below. Even landing on her derrière with feet flying in the air in front of the whole crew would be preferable to this. But, surprising her, Clint did not say a word. Neither did she when her uncle added, “I shall have Todd prepare a hot bath for you in my quarters, Clint. You can scarcely return home in this condition.” He turned to Delilah. “In the meanwhile, my dear, why don’t you work on that apology, hmmm?”

  With that pronouncement, he left the room. Neither of them heard him begin to whistle softly as he walked down the stairs in search of Todd. Clint stood casually in the center of the small room, dripping water as if nothing were amiss. Smiling wickedly at Delilah, he crossed his arms and waited.

  Her mouth was dry. It was not only from nervous resentment at being forced to apologize. His shirt—what there was left of it—was plastered to his body, revealing the muscles of his chest, shoul
ders and arms through the wet, translucent fabric. She could see the pattern of gold hair veeing downward toward his breeches, although she did not dare to drop her eyes lower. The biceps on his arms were hard and sinuous and his shoulders were impossibly broad. The bloody gash only added to the raw, masculine magnetism emanating from him. He seemed to fill the whole room, but Delilah Mathers Raymond had never been a woman to back down from anyman.

  Clenching her hands into fists, she stepped forward, standing directly in front of him, and forced herself not to grit her teeth when she said, “My uncle is quite correct, Mr. Daniels. I owe you an apology for my rash actions of a few moments ago. It was ill repayment for risking your life on my behalf.”

  His left eyebrow lifted, the one with the scar, giving his amused face an almost satanic look. “Handsomely done, Mrs. Raymond. I accept.” He sketched a bow, then added, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I could use that bath.”

  Just as he reached the door, he paused without turning around and said, “I’ll expect you in your uncle’s quarters with medical supplies in, say, an hour…Deelie.” He strolled out the door with the same arrogant nonchalance he’d exhibited the night he left the Nymph buck naked.

  The moment he was out the door, Delilah uttered a string of oaths she’d picked up in gambling establishments over the past decade, then kicked the heavy ottoman in front of her uncle’s reading chair in furious frustration. Instantly a pain shot up from her soft, kid-slippered foot all the way to her hip. She was too angry to feel it.

  “Deelie, my dying arse!” She seized a pillow from the chair and started to throw it, then forced herself to stop. She had to calm down. He was besting her in their war of wills. That would never do. Then a slow smile curved her lips…

  Clint climbed into the big, round tub that Todd had just filled with clean, warm water. He gazed absently around Horace’s bedroom. Like most cabins on a stern-wheeler, it was small and Spartan with one window, the curtain discreetly drawn. A neatly made-up narrow bed lay against one wall. A kerosene lantern glowed softly on a small table beside it. On the opposite side of the room, a steamer trunk stood, containing all of Horace Mathers’s worldly goods. Again, Clint wondered what had made the erudite man the black sheep of his family. A complex enigma, but not nearly as fascinating as his niece.

  Passionate one moment, killingly angry the next. Was he the only man who brought out such conflicting emotions in Mrs. Raymond? The thought held appeal until he quashed it. She was his business partner and the kind of woman whose favors meant permanent commitment. That was something he would never give again. It cost too dearly.

  He leaned back and sank into the water. Heavenly. But not nearly as heavenly as the chestnut-haired witch in the sitting room next door. He had heard a loud thunk followed bysome muffled words, probably cussing after she stubbed a pretty little toe on some object kicked in place of him. Clint reached for the sponge lying on the floor next to the tub and felt the pull of torn skin from the bullet gash. He began carefully cleansing the dried blood away. As he winced at the sting of soapy water, he wondered why Horace had insisted his niece tend the wound.

  Naturally, the old man had been upset because she’d almost been killed, grateful that he had saved her, even appalled by her dumping him into the river. But why further penance after the apology? Ah, well, might as well enjoy seeing her squirm, he thought, scrubbing the muddy Mississippi from his body. She did owe him—and Clint, like Mrs. Raymond, always collected on his markers, even if he was more patient than she when it came to terms of payment. Once he’d finished washing, he settled back in the tub and waited for his nurse.

  While Clint bathed, Delilah went through the basket of medicinal supplies she always carried. Over the years, she had tended her uncle’s injuries, an occupational hazard for a man playing bodyguard to a female gambler. She checked a roll of snowy bandaging, then considered whether or not she’d need to stitch the gash. Recalling that it had bled freely and appeared shallow, she regretfully concluded that would not be necessary. The idea of repeatedly stabbing Clinton Daniels with a dull needle held considerable appeal.

  She examined an array of liquids used to kill germs. Carbolic and bourbon solution, which stung painfully, would do nicely. After all, a woman had to have some enjoyment in life. Her foot ached like the dickens from its impact with the ottoman. But then her better nature reminded her that he had received his injury saving her from Pardee. She dug out a jar of soothing aloe salve.

  Best to get the irksome task over and done. Delilah refused to acknowledge the butterflies that fluttered deep inside her stomach whenever she touched him. He made her behave in ways she did not like. Say things she did not like. As if shewere a woman such as Eva. Ridiculous! She set the basket down and walked over to the small mirror on the wall to inspect her appearance. She had changed clothes and refashioned her hair into a prim bun at her nape. The dress she’d chosen was one of her least flattering, deep violet from the latter stages of mourning for her dead husband. It was painfully plain, with a high neckline and long sleeves without a trace of trim.

  If she ruined it with bloodstains, that would be no loss. The wool was scratchy and hot on the rather brisk sunny day. Soon the river would be clear of ice flow and they would begin their journey. With that comforting thought, she strode from her cabin, chin held high, shoulders straight. Nurse was a role she had played often before, she reminded herself…only never for one of the enemy.

  She knocked on the cabin door, calling out, “Mr. Daniels, are you properly attired?”

  “I’m decent,” he replied.

  “I doubt it.” The man had never seen a decent day in his depraved life! Delilah opened the door and stepped into the dim interior, blinking to adjust her eyes after the bright sunlight outside. When the room came into focus, she almost dropped the basket. Clint Daniels sat on the edge of the bed with a large white towel wrapped loosely around his narrow hips. From the top of his straw-colored hair to the soles of his feet, it was his only piece of attire.

  “You are not dressed,” she said, realizing how idiotic that sounded. As if the rascal didn’t know it! “I’ll come back when you have donned the fresh clothing my uncle furnished,” she said.

  But Delilah did not move. She stood rooted, unable to tear her eyes from his darkly tanned, naked chest. She had thought seeing his upper body wet through his shirt revealed everything. How mistaken she’d been!

  Now each vein wending sinuously over his muscles was clear. Pale gold chest hair led her trespassing eyes down the hard, flat surface of his belly, where its narrowing pattern vanished beneath the towel. She’d been right about his having more scars than those on his face. There was one long slash across his side, another small puckering mark just above his heart and yet a third scar that started near his navel and stretched below the towel’s concealment.

  She clutched the basket and stared at the rug, gathering her composure.

  “You goin’ to tend my wound—” Clint stretched out his long, bare legs and crossed his feet at the ankles—“or inspect me like I was a prime piece of beef?”

  His mocking words hit her like a splash of icy river water. “I’ll tend to your injury, Mr. Daniels. There’s no need for crudity. But I must insist that you first don some clothing.”

  He shrugged, then winced from the pain in his shoulder. “ ’Fraid I can’t fit into your uncle’s britches.”

  “Too big for your britches?” she asked with an oversweet smile.

  “But they aren’t my britches. They’re your uncle’s, and he’s a mite thinner than me…which you may have noticed.” He gave her a sharkish grin and watched her glower. “I sent Todd to the Bud to fetch me fresh clothes. Even if Horace’s shirt fit, what sense in putting it on before you dress my shoulder?” He paused and scratched his jaw, considering her with glowing eyes. “I guess you never had to patch up a man before. Leave the basket and I’ll tend to myself.”

  Delilah stiffened her spine. “I spent years volunteering i
n military hospitals during the war, nursing wounded soldiers in the most dire of conditions…Union soldiers.”

  “Ah, and that makes them different from me. What if I told you I once wore a blue uniform?”

  “I wouldn’t believe you.”

  “I figured as much. Now, how about fixing me up…if you have the nerve.”

  She stalked across the small cabin and plunked her basket on the table beside the bed, then adjusted the wick on the kerosene lamp, which had been turned down low. Now she could see him far more clearly. Even his legs were tanned. Did the man run naked like a savage? Not that she would ever ask. Delilah could just imagine the pitfalls in that conversation. The lout would probably give her a demonstration!

  All business, she laid out the roll of bandages and removed the cork from the bottle of carbolic and bourbon. “This may sting a bit,” she said, soaking a small square of gauze with the disinfectant, then steeling herself to touch him. Already she could feel his body heat, remember how his skin had felt when they’d kissed back in the warehouse.

  She pressed the wet cloth into the top of the long, ugly gash and started cleaning it assiduously.

  “Ouch! You have all the gentle touch of a wood hawk dumpin’ logs on a boiler deck. What’s that stuff you’re scrub-bin’ on my shoulder? Greek Fire?” Clint’s wound felt as if it had been cauterized by glowing coals.

  “Simply a mixture of carbolic acid and whiskey,” she informed him with mock solicitude.

  “Oh, my God! Woman, they use carbolic acid to clean cutting-room floors in hospitals. You ever hear of iodine? My arm’s on fire!”

  “Now, now, don’t be such a crybaby,” she said, crooning. “There, that should do it. I don’t think stitches are required after all.”

  “Thank the Almighty for that,” he said adamantly.

  “I’m doing my best. As my uncle reminded me, I was the one responsible for dunking you in that filthy river. I wouldn’t want to be guilty of letting you die of infection.”