by Shirl Henke
He took her chin in his hand and lifted it so their eyes met. “But you’d like to see me dead, hmmm?”
She dropped the cloth in the basket, breaking the contact, but she could feel those fathomless eyes watching her. “You are my business associate and we have an upriver run to make. After that, you can indeed go to the devil for all I care.”
Clint threw back his head and began to laugh, then stopped when his lip split again. “Lady, you will be the death of me, one way or another.”
Delilah sighed. “Let me clean that lip. Considering the language so often proceeding from your mouth, the real danger of infection is more probably there than in your shoulder.”
“Either way, you’re responsible, and you don’t want that on your conscience, do you?”
“Certainly not.” She set to work with a fresh napkin and this time only cool water. “If you attempt to keep your mouth closed for a few days, the injury will heal more quickly.”
He did not flinch, just studied her face as she worked on his lip. She was chewing on her own, a trait he found disconcertingly endearing.
“You’ll probably have another scar.”
He chuckled. “So, you noticed.”
“I meant on your face,” she snapped. “But it does appear you’ve led the life of a banditti.”
His expression darkened. “Somethin’ like that.”
For the next several weeks Delilah tried to avoid Clinton Daniels whenever he came aboard to discuss business or socialize with Horace. She tended to the bookkeeping and inspected all the cargo, making certain that Daniels was occupied elsewhere before she had Todd drive her to the warehouse. To further complicate matters, her uncle seemed determined to throw the two of them together at every opportunity.
Tonight the odious man would be their guest for dinner, ostensibly so he could describe the voyage upriver. He’d just finalized the arrangements for a complete crew with Captain Dubois and had quite a bit of information to share. Since all three of them, particularly she and Horace, were novices at running an upriver trade boat, they had a great deal to discuss.
Delilah looked out the window of her cabin and watched the waterfront hum with activity, even though it was nearly dusk. Teamsters goaded mules and oxen with whips as the beasts pulled heavily laden wagons across the levee. Frantic roustabouts, or roosters, balanced incredible loads on their backs, scurrying over the long gangplanks with an ease that still amazed her. Every day another stern-wheeler or two tookoff, most headed up the Missouri for the lucrative trade in gold country, with stops along the way to sell farm goods.
“We’re losing money and return passengers by waiting,” she murmured to herself, turning from the disconcerting sight to pace the confines of the small room.
But Clint insisted that they wait. Horace agreed, saying Captain Dubois also concurred. Well, she intended to put the gambler’s feet to the fire and find out exactly why, if they now had the crew, they could not load their cargo and embark immediately. She had been put off long enough. If he thought she would stay out of “men’s doings,” he would be sadly disappointed. Horace had encouraged her to discuss details with Clint several times, but after the debacle at the gangplank and its aftermath, she had wanted some time to sort out her feelings…and bring her irrational attraction to Daniels under control.
It would be just like the arrogant man to try to discourage her from going. Well, if he thought tall tales about the rigors of the mighty Missouri would deter her, he did not know the hardships Delilah Mathers Raymond had already survived.
She looked at herself in the mirror one final time. Her uncle had commented with displeasure about her wearing old mourning clothes every time they met with Daniels, but she would go to perdition before she gave him the satisfaction of dressing up so he could rake her with those fathomless blue-gray eyes. The high collar of her black dress snagged the heavy knot of hair at her nape. She lifted the bun free and smoothed the hair back in place. Her fingers played nervously with the long row of jet buttons down the front of the gown.
“I hate this,” she said, looking at her crowlike appearance. The weather had turned much warmer in the past few days, too hot for wool. But all the clothes so appropriate in the Eastern winter did not accommodate the humidity of the Mississippi Valley. Still, she looked suitably aloof and asexual to send the Southern lothario fl eeing back to his Eva as soon as he made his pitch to frighten her about upriver travel. Determinedly, she set off for the salon, where Luellen would serve dinner.
Clint watched Delilah enter the room and pause at the bar to speak with Mrs. Colter. “She’s probably trying to get Luellen to slip some poison in my bowl of soup,” he said in a stage whisper to Horace.
The old man chuckled. “Does Mrs. Colter have any reason to take such an outlandish suggestion to heart?”
“Other than my being a gamblin’ man…well—” he shrugged and conceded—“I do own controlling interest in a fancy house.”
With casual disinterest, Horace took a sip of his wine and asked, “How is Miss Eva these days?”
“Fine as ever.” That was far from the truth, but Clint would never admit that he and his bordello madam had had a beaut of a fight before he left the Blasted Bud. He wasn’t certain whom he sparred with more—Eva or Delilah. Eva had accused him of being smitten with the lady gambler. All because he had been too busy to share her bed for a spell. He refused to consider that the spell had begun just about the time he’d become Mrs. Raymond’s business associate.
Women, he thought in disgust, had been placed on this earth to torment men. He inspected Deelie. Her appearance was enough to make him want to…no, best not dwell on that idea, especially while sitting across from her protector.
Horace watched the way Clint’s eyes followed Delilah. She was doing everything but wear a chastity belt to keep him at bay. But once they were confined on the boat together, the problem would be resolved. Those hot wool dresses would have to go, else she’d pass out from heatstroke!
Both men stood as she neared the table. “Mrs. Colter says she will serve whenever we wish,” Delilah said as she gave her uncle a quick buss on the cheek and Daniels a frosty nod.
“Hope she hasn’t prepared anything too spicy,” Clint said.
“I’d scarcely think a chicken consommé, roasted pork with vegetables and a dried apple pie would challenge your digestion, Mr. Daniels.”
“Wasn’t me I was worried about, ma’am. You’re the onelikely to pass out if the meal generates any more heat than you must already be feeling in that black wool.”
Horace smothered a chuckle as he assisted her in taking her seat. Then, he made a sweeping gesture. “To quote the Bard, my dear, —Fie, doff this habit, shame to your estate, an eyesore to our solemn festival!— ”
She glared at both men but made no reply, except to thank her uncle for pulling out her chair.
“Would you care for a glass of sherry, my dear?”
“Yes, please,” she gritted out.
“Best put that on ice,” Clint offered cheerfully.
As soon as Horace walked out of earshot, she leaned forward. “Must you insist on encouraging him and provoking me?”
“Me? Provoke you?” he asked incredulously.
While Luellen placed steaming bowls of rich broth before them, they sipped wine and discussed various towns along the route to Fort Benton.
“Our first stop will be Hermann, and then Boonville. Not a big profit, but worth the doing until the railroads lower their freight rates. Then we have to make a brief stop at Weston, across from Fort Leavenworth. After Sioux City, there are a whole bunch of forts, but Grant Marsh and his investors have the army contracts pretty well sewn up,” Clint said, taking a swallow of the broth. “My compliments to Mrs. Colter. This is right tasty.”
Delilah raised her spoon and observed the steam swirling from it. Knowing that Daniels was watching her, she swallowed. By the time she’d slowly eaten half her portion, her whole body felt as if she had stepped i
nto a riverboat boiler. Ignoring her discomfort, she asked Daniels, “I’ve heard army provisioning and troop transport are very lucrative. Can we compete?”
He shrugged. “Maybe someday. But this is our first trip runnin’ mining supplies up and rich miners back down, and it’s guaranteed to turn a handsome profit. Jacques and I agreed to wait and see how it goes. We’ll have all next winter to woo the army,” he said with a grimace.
“I can imagine that a Confederate sympathizer would have difficulty dealing with the Grand Army of the Republic. Perhaps my uncle and I would have more luck?” And perhaps we’ll cut you out of all future voyages once we repay your loans.
“You just might be right. Head on down to Jefferson Barracks and try your luck.” He polished off the last of his con-sommé and shoved the bowl away just as Luellen arrived with a steaming platter of pork roast and fresh vegetables.
Delilah dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “Wooing the army will be a bit difficult if we don’t pass the inspection at Fort Leavenworth.”
Clint slowly put down his napkin. “And what do you know about the inspection at Fort Leavenworth, Mrs. Raymond?”
“Oh, I listen to the men talk. You know, —men—s business,’ that sort of thing. It seems the fort inspects all upriver boats for contraband. And if they find it, the army is authorized to seize the boat. As I understand it, their primary target is whiskey, such as we had in our warehouse.”
Horace looked at Clint questioningly, but Daniels kept his eyes on the lady. “You are well-informed, ma’am. Leaven-worth does search the boats for whiskey, but the inspections are cursory, or the inspectors can be easily bribed.”
“From what I understand, that isn’t always true.”
“No, not always, but there are ways to beat the inspection, and the risk is well worth it. Fifty hogsheads of rotgut purchased here in St. Louis for around two hundred dollars a barrel can be sold to the merchants at Benton for seven hundred apiece.”
“That is a twenty-five-thousand-dollar profit.” Horace whistled softly.
“I do not intend to risk my boat for any illegal profit, Mr.
Daniels,” Delilah said coldly.
Clint’s lips thinned. Before he lowered his gaze to the plate in front of him, his eyes changed from blue to gray. His hands tightened into fists on the table and then slowly eased. But the tense silence seemed to drag on forever, until he looked over at Horace. “You think twenty-five thousand is worth a gamble?”
Horace appeared to consider, knowing that this contest of wills was about considerably more than hauling whiskey. His niece was scarcely Temperance. “Perhaps it would be wise to consult with the captain before you make a final decision. Would you not consider that prudent, my dear?” he asked Delilah.
The ball had been lobbed neatly into her court. Delilah hesitated until Clint said to her, “Your 51 percent of the boat entitles you to give that order…”
Despite his apparent capitulation, Delilah did not feel as if she’d won the battle. Attempting to moisten her parched lips, she sipped sherry, then replied, “Perhaps I will consult with Captain Dubois.”
Delilah swallowed another sip of sherry. Drat, she was so uncomfortable she couldn’t think straight. She had left her bowl of consommé more than half full, hoping Daniels would think she was a dainty eater. When Luellen took the bowl away, she raised her glass again. The cool liquid tasted heavenly, but at this rate she’d be inebriated before Luellen served the main course! As the great orange ball set on the western horizon, Delilah watched through the salon window and prayed for nightfall and a brisk breeze off the water.
Luellen, knowing how the Missus usually ate, served up a hearty portion and set it before Delilah. Although the aroma was redolent of fresh dill and the tang of asparagus and sweet new potatoes, her taste buds could not appreciate it. They were sweating too much. The men tucked into their food, giving enthusiastic compliments to the cook. Clint paused with a big slice of pork halfway to his mouth and looked over at her with a smirk.
Defiantly, she sliced a tiny sliver of tender meat, dripping with brown gravy, and ate it. She doggedly forced down bite after bite of pork and vegetables, trying not to think about the rivulets of perspiration soaking through her dress. Thank heavens it was black and the dampness would not show.
To take her mind off her misery, she brought up another issue she’d wanted to discuss all evening. “You’ve reiteratedseveral times that Captain Dubois wants to wait another week at least before embarking upriver, yet I’ve seen one sternwheeler after another pull away from the levee in the weeks past. We’re losing money with every day we dally. Why not start loading our cargo immediately?”
Clint set down his fork and replied, “Good question. Same one Horace asked Jacques yesterday.” He watched in amusement when she turned to her uncle and gave him a scowl. “Look out the window on the river side. What do you see?” he asked.
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 g
one 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.