by Shirl Henke
“Never said I hadn’t been upriver, only that I never traveled on a stern-wheeler.”
Well, that certainly cleared matters up! But, somehow, Delilah did not want to press him with more questions. “Perhaps you can explain to my uncle about your time on the upper Missouri tomorrow. As for tonight, sir, I’m going to retire.”
Abruptly, the old familiar grin spread across his face. The mercurial mood shift startled her. She merely nodded and started for the door. But when she stepped into the blessedly cool night air, he was right behind her.
“It wouldn’t be polite for a gentleman to allow a lady to go unescorted to her cabin. The roustabouts and rivermen aren’t the most mannerly sorts.” He took her hand and placed it over his coat sleeve.
Oh, so proper now. Was this the same man who had frightened her only a moment ago? “Neither are you, but I imagine your charms work quite well in the sporting district.”
He chuckled. As they strolled down the deck toward her cabin, Delilah cursed her uncle for once again throwing her to the wolves—or wolf, in this case. When they reached the door, she slipped her hand from Clint’s arm and started to turn the knob. “Good night, Mr. Daniels.”
Clint watched the moonlight gleam on her hair and reflect in her big green cat’s eyes. Why couldn’t he seem to leave well enough alone? This female was pure poison. But instead, he found himself wrapping one arm around her and pulling her close to him. The faint hint of her floral bath salts teased his nostrils. He stared into her eyes, willing her not to resist as his other hand reached up and loosened the pins from the heavy mass of hair at her nape, letting it tumble down her back in a cascade of curls.
“Your hair is so beautiful. Why have you taken to hiding it lately?”
His voice was a low hum. Delilah could feel the vibration from his chest travel to her breasts. She sucked in a shaky breath as long, clever fingers massaged her scalp. The feeling was mesmerizing. When he planted his lips against the side of her throat, she could hear the possessiveness in his male growl. The whispering magic of his mouth on her skin sent shivers through her overheated body. She let go of her last ounce of sense.
His heat enveloped her. She felt powerless to speak until he began unfastening the buttons at the neck of her gown. “Stop,” she whispered against his shoulder. Her voice held no conviction and she knew it.
“You were glowing from the heat, near choking in your high collar and black wool. I’m only helping you cool off. Feel the river breeze on your neck…”
The devil possessed incredible dexterity. He had jet buttons slipped from six loops before she regained the presence of mind to reach up and seize his hand. “I can see how your skill with a deck of cards has other applications, Mr. Daniels. But I am not your Miss Eva and you will stop undressing me this instant, else I’ll scream until my uncle shoots you dead.”
Her voice was a hiss of indignation. Clint released her and watched her back against the door of her cabin. Those big cat’s eyes shot sparks. He could see a narrow vee of creamy skin and just the hint of cleavage from those sumptuous breasts where he’d opened the foolish high-necked dress. Lordy, she was a magnificent piece of woman flesh! Daniels, stop thinkin’ with your gonads. He grinned and tipped his head. “What, didn’t you bring your Derringer to dinner so you could defend yourself?”
As he turned and sauntered toward the stairs to the main deck, he heard her retort. “A mistake I will never again make, I assure you!”
“I must insist on accompanying you, Uncle. If we’re to trust our whole future to this captain that Mr. Daniels has hired, I want to meet him…and to hear directly from an expert why we must wait another week, not to mention why we should risk carrying whiskey upriver.”
Horace noted the way she said Clint’s name as if she’d sucked on a lemon. He wondered what had transpired that night after he’d left them alone in the salon. It had been nearly two weeks and she had avoided Clint as if he had typhoid. “Very well, but I need not remind you that a lady visiting a man of color at his dwelling will cause gossip.”
“Being a female gambler has already taken me off the social registry,” she replied dryly. “Come, let’s go meet Captain Dubois.”
On the carriage ride into the countryside north of the city, Horace ruminated about what might have been while making small talk with Delilah.
He knew she’d hated the way she’d been forced to survive after her young husband died. The Raymonds did not approve of the Matherses, who were not among the landed gentry of Maryland. Instead Delilah’s great-grandfather had made the family fortune as a Pennsylvania shoe manufacturer, then branched out into other businesses.
Delilah had been cosseted by her family since birth. Being Arthur’s only child and losing her mother so early had contributed to her being indulged. But the war had changed everything. Survival had at first only entailed following her uncle from city to city as he plied the cards. Although she had no friends, at least she had not been forced to associate with the unsavory elements in gaming establishments—until his injury.
“Do you ever resent what I’ve taught you, child?” he asked.
Delilah knew what he meant. She took his gnarled left hand and placed both of hers around the crippled fingers. “Never. You’ve cared for me as if I were your own daughter. I shall always be in your debt—” She raised her hand when he started to protest.
“No, it’s true.” She paused thoughtfully for a moment as the narrow city streets with brick-lined buildings gave way to rolling hills. “You know, I’ve now and then imagined what might have happened if Lawrence had lived. After the communications I exchanged with his parents, I know they would’ve disinherited him. He was equipped to do nothing else but live the life of a gentleman farmer. His only option after the war would have been to eke out a meager existence as an army officer. I’ve read enough about life on military posts out West to know it would have placed a dreadful hardship on our marriage.”
Horace had often considered the same dire outcome. “At least your life as an officer’s wife would have been respectable,” he said with a wistful smile.
“Horsefeathers. Can you imagine me pouring tea for senior officers’ wives? Being stuck in the middle of the wilderness? The highlight of my year, a trip to some frontier cow town to purchase calico.” A pensive expression crossed her face. “I fear we married too young. I can’t even remember what he looked like. And as the years have passed, I’ve scarcely taken out his photograph to remind me….”
Horace patted her arm. “As you said, you were both too young. There’s no shame in that.”
“This sounds terrible, but I’m not certain now that I was ever in love with Lawrence…at least, well…I don’t know …”
Her voice faded away and she turned her head and watched the countryside. She’s thinking of Clint and how he differs from her husband. Horace had hoped she would come in time to realize that mourning for poor Lawrence was a waste of her vibrant young life. She craved independence and a boy from his background would never have accepted that, nor would his family. A man such as Clinton Daniels would appreciate a strong woman.
Now it was his turn to pat her hand. “I believe everything will work out for the best. Only give it time.”
With that cryptic remark hanging in the air, the carriage pulled up in front of a small, neat frame cottage shaded by two tall white oaks. It was situated high on the river bluffs overlooking a wide stretch of the Missouri.
Captain Jacques Dubois was a small man, wiry and nattily dressed in a cream linen suit. His complexion was the color of café au lait. Black, curly hair sprinkled with gray receded from a high forehead, the only thing that gave away his age. A younger woman with handsome features and piercing black eyes stood behind him in the doorway, a small boy clinging to her skirt. Her straight black hair was parted in the middle and braided into long, gleaming plaits. Although she wore a linen day dress, her strongly chiseled face and mien suggested she was Indian. She waited impassively while her
husband stepped from the veranda and walked down the flagstones to greet his visitors.
“Good day, Captain Dubois. I hope you do not mind my bringing my niece with me,” Horace said as he alighted from the carriage. “She is the majority owner of The River Nymph.”
If the captain was disconcerted, he did not show it. Smiling, he approached Horace, saying, “I am honored by the lady’s presence.” The soft cadences of New Orleans mixed with just the hint of a French accent. “You are most welcome to my home. Please, will you partake of some cool lemonade while we discuss business?”
Horace offered his hand, which the captain shook formally. Then Mathers introduced Delilah to him. When she held out her gloved hand, he gave it a courtly salute worthy of any Creole gentleman.
Turning to the woman, who had sent the boy inside before approaching them, he said, “May I present Dawn Woman? She is a member of the Ehanktonwon or Yankton Sioux, and my wife. That little rascal who just returned to his toy boats is our son Etienne. Our daughter Bernadette is away at school.”
“A pleasure, madam,” Horace said, saluting her hand and introducing his niece.
Delilah had never seen a real, live Indian before and was amazed that she looked quite civilized. She smiled, and Mrs. Dubois returned the smile, saying, “Please come inside and I’ll fetch the lemonade that Jacques promised.” Her voice was low, well modulated and she was obviously educated.
They entered the front parlor, furnished with beautiful cherry wood chairs upholstered in deep green brocade. The wallpaper was a soft floral in complementing shades of green and russet. A large oval rug covered the center of the polished oak floors and several paintings of river scenes hung on the walls. Delilah imagined they were all depictions of the upper Missouri. Being one of the most highly respected captains to pilot stern-wheelers up the Missouri had earned Dubois a handsome living indeed.
“Your home is lovely,” she said to Captain and Mrs. Dubois.
“A bit far from the riverfront, but we find it pleasant to have privacy. It’s better for the children, as well,” Dubois replied. “When I’m working, my brother Etienne stays with my family. Not everyone in the area finds it acceptable for a man of color and an Indian to own property.”
“I can imagine it must be difficult, even dangerous,” Horace ventured. He had noted several armed men, all of mixed race, working at various tasks around the house, and suspected that their secondary duty was to act as bodyguards.
Delilah was overcome with curiosity. “How long have you and Mr. Daniels known each other?”
Dubois’s face split into a wide smile, revealing small, even teeth. “Clint and I go back quite a way. In fact, he is a kinsman of Dawn’s, in a manner of speaking….” The captain paused and cleared his throat as his wife brought in a tray with tall, sweat-beaded glasses of lemonade, then said only, “I think it best if he explains that to you.”
“There are a few other matters he has not explained to me.”
Dubois cocked his head politely, encouraging Delilah to continue. “Such as?”
“So many boats have already departed the St. Louis levee, and yet we’re still waiting, paying warehouse fees while our competitors steam toward Fort Benton. Mr. Daniels insists it is too dangerous. Are you of the same opinion, Captain?”
If Jacques Dubois knew of the friction between Clint and his beautiful female partner, he revealed nothing. Instead, he asked, “You have seen the clusters of driftwood swirling past the levee over the past weeks, yes?” At her reluctant nod, he continued, “They can smash a boat or force it into shallows where it will remain hopelessly grounded for the summer. And the current this year is running particularly hard because of the harsh winter on the high plains.”
“How does the weather affect the river?” Horace asked. He had already heard Clint explain but wanted to play devil’s advocate for Delilah.
“When the extraordinary snowfall melts, every tributary of the Missouri runs high. As the river flows downstream, itpicks up an excess of this water, along with trees and other debris swept into the current. I can gauge the shallows and keep a sharp watch for the sawyers—bobbing, partially hidden trees that have snagged in the river bottom—as well as the drifting wood. But running against a hard current is the greatest danger—the one that can cost every person aboard their lives.”
“Boiler explosions,” Delilah said, having heard the horror stories about them. When the captain nodded, she countered, “I understood that such explosions occurred because irresponsible captains raced against each other and put impossible strains on the engines.”
“That happens all too often, alors. But never aboard a boat of which I was captain. I’ve seen the carnage when steam boilers explode. I do not race against any other boat on the river.” The haunted expression in his dark eyes indicated that he had witnessed such senseless destruction …and perhaps had been taunted by white captains for not taking their dares. “But pushing against high, swift currents can place a strain on boilers equal to racing. I have never lost a boat. I will never lose one by starting upriver before it is safe to do so.” He smiled now. “If we arrive a few weeks later than those more foolhardy, the demand for our wares will be no less. You have my word on it. The mining camps have an insatiable demand for supplies.”
“What about the risks involved in carrying whiskey? The army does comandeer boats caught smuggling, does it not?”
Dubois shrugged. “Very rarely, and those occasions are when the whiskey is sold to Indians, which is the real reason for the prohibition.”
“I understand the profits are quite high,” Horace interjected.
The captain cited the same figures Clint had given them, and Delilah deflated as he continued, “Evading detection during inspections at Levenworth is quite simple. I confess I’ve done it many times over the years, although more often a small bribe will suffice.”
She sat back, keenly disappointed. Daniels had not exag-gerated the profits or minimized the risks. They would have to wait longer before departing. There was no help for it. She knew now that she could trust Captain Dubois implicitly. She smiled at him. “I accept your word without question, sir.”
Horace smiled to himself. But you wouldn’t accept Clint’s.
“However,” she added, noting the gleam in her uncle’s eye, “I do not feel comfortable breaking the law by carrying contraband. No matter the profit.”
The captain nodded. “I shall be most content to abide by whatever decision you make.”
They shared the cool, tart drink and discussed the length of the journey and what other hazards, such as hostile Indians, they might face. “Not all Sioux have been educated in white schools as has my wife. Their entire way of life is being systematically destroyed along with the buffalo,” Jacques explained.
“All we’ve heard in Eastern newspapers are gory tales of savage depredations—journalism at its worst, I suspect,” Horace said.
The captain and his wife gave grisly accounts of the atrocities visited upon native populations by whites. “Earlier we spoke of the vile treatment of people of African blood by whites. What is being done to the Red peoples is every bit as monstrous,” Jacques said. “Treaties are made only to be broken. Corrupt agents of the federal government steal food and supplies intended for the tribes. Instead, they sell them to the highest white bidders.”
“Or make the Indians pay again for what is already supposed to be theirs,” his wife added quietly.
“But that’s illegal as well as morally reprehensible,” Delilah said, setting her glass carefully on a frilly white doily to keep it from staining the cherry-wood table.
“I appreciate your indignation, Mrs. Raymond, but just as the government upheld slavery until the very end of the late war, it is the stated plan of those in power in Washington today to clear the land of all its native inhabitants so that farmers and miners can put it to —more productive use.— ”
Dawn Woman’s emphasis on the last words reminded Delilah of something Dan
iels had said the day they struck their business arrangement…something about the army making western lands “safe for civilized people.” Had he actually lived as a Sioux in the wilderness? Jacques Dubois knew him from upriver. The captain’s further elaboration interrupted her disturbing thoughts.
“General Sheridan, commander of the Missouri Division of the army, has been given the task of herding all the great Sioux Nations onto reservations…or annihilating them. So far, disease and starvation have worked even more effectively than military campaigns,” Dubois added sadly.
As they talked about the injustice of Indian policy and racial tensions that forced a man as skilled as Captain Dubois to hire guards for his family, Delilah’s mind kept returning to thoughts of Clint. A kinsman of this Sioux woman? How could that be? And how could a Southerner like he become friends with Dubois?
All Delilah could be certain of was that she had been a fool to feel drawn to a man she knew nothing about. His past was shrouded in mystery. If even his friend, the captain, felt it prudent not to discuss Daniels’s time upriver, that certainly did not bode well. She and her uncle were entrusting their lives and everything they owned to Clinton Daniels. Would they come to regret their devil’s bargain?
By mid-April, the massive clumps of debris passing the levee were almost gone. The current slowed. The muddy taint of the Missouri no longer colored the Mississippi quite so brown. At last, Clint and Captain Dubois agreed it was time to load the cargo and head upriver. They would have plenty of time to make the run, sell their wares along the way, book passengers from the gold fields ofMontana for the return trip and reach St. Louis before the winter freeze-up began.
Delilah could hardly contain her excitement when she came out onto the hurricane deck. She leaned over the railingto watch the burly, sweating teamsters dump crates of mining machinery, picks, shovels and axes on the levee. Unwieldy stacks of wheelbarrows were lined up alongside barrels and boxes of flour, sugar, salt and tinned foods. A tower of crates containing men’s heavy work boots, denim pants and flannel shirts sat beside lesser stacks of seeds, plows and a few other farming implements. Seeing the bolts of calico, she remembered her foolish gaffe at the fabric store. Everything Clint Daniels did seemed calculated to infuriate or embarrass her.