The River Nymph

by Shirl Henke

“Do you ever ask yourself why you feel bound to stick that pretty nose into everyone else’s business?” he asked, placing one finger on its tip with a teasing grin.

  “I’m just naturally curious, but you haven’t answered my question. Why do you antagonize Delilah?”

  “Maybe because she’s as touchy as a rattler with the piles. Ever think of that?”

  Sky laughed, a rich, youthful sound. “What a crude thing to say about a lady, big brother.”

  “I notice you don’t argue about whether or not the description fits her.”

  “She’s antagonistic toward you because she’s defending herself from the way you make her feel,” Sky replied with the sangfroid of a woman of the world.

  “Yeah, like wanting to kill me—that what you mean?”

  “No, like wanting to share your bed.”

  His head snapped around and he choked on a lungful of cigar smoke. Coughing gave him time to gather his thoughts. “You’re not supposed to think about things like that until you’re older.”

  She shook her head patiently. “Lightning Hand, you know among our people I would already be married with several children by now. I know about how men and women become attracted to each other.”

  “Somehow I doubt they teach that in school or law offices.”

  “You are evading the issue, which is—”

  He interrupted gruffly. “You sound like a lawyer.”

  Sky made a mock curtsey. “Why, thank you, sir. I do believe that was the intent when I came here to study.”

  “Well, you didn’t study matchmaking, so can we discuss something besides Mrs. Raymond?”

  Her expression changed from playful to serious. “Are you certain it’s wise for you to return?”

  He took another long drag on the cigar and considered. “You mean, will I stay and revert to what I was?”

  “What you were,” she replied gently, placing one hand on his arm and looking into his harshly set face, “was a man driven mad with grief. You’ve built a good life here. You could send me home with Mr. Mathers and the captain. They’ll see me safely there.”

  “No. I need to do this, Sky.” There was finality in his voice.

  Sky knew the subject was closed. Giving him a sisterly pat on the back, she smiled. “I didn’t expect you would change your mind. At least you’ll have Mrs. Raymond to divert your wits…and other things.”

  He snorted and threw his cigar into the water.

  Delilah could feel the hum. Below her their mate, Mr. Iversen, directed the last of the cargo loading. Roustabouts brought the crates up the gangplank and lashed them in place on the main deck under his stoic Norwegian gaze. Men swore and sweated in the hot spring sunlight. The stench of a hide and tallow factory wafted from up the hill, blendingwith the musky aroma of rotted driftwood and other offal disgorged on the levee.

  Delilah had never experienced a more beautiful scene.

  The river, swift and still deadly, had slowed enough for the Nymph to begin its long run. Tomorrow at dawn. She could feel the excitement dancing in the humid air and breathed deeply.

  “Happy, child?” Horace asked as he looked down from their vantage point. He casually held the Colt revolving rifle in his right hand. Ever since Riley’s men had attempted to sabotage their venture, he had assumed charge of the men hired to guard the cargo.

  “I’ve never been this happy. We’re off for Montana Territory to make our fortune, Uncle. We’ll be respectable people of business—and think of the adventures we’ll have!”

  “Be mindful of the dangers we’ll encounter. The captain’s stories about river pirates, angry Indians, tornadoes and storms were not tales spun for our amusement. They were cautionary.”

  “I know, but if I could escape Red Riley’s men, I can handle anything the Big Muddy throws at me,” she replied, undaunted.

  “As I seem to recall, for all your nimble actions, without Clint’s help you would not have survived Riley’s men,” he said, dryly. In truth, when he’d heard the full story, he had been sick to think of how it could have ended if not for Daniels and his spy system on the riverfront.

  Delilah bit her lip to keep from snapping at him. Between him and Sky she was driven to distraction. The two of them used every opportunity to play matchmaker. A match made in hell. “I will not allow thoughts of Red Riley or Clinton Daniels to ruin this wonderful day.”

  Horace put up his hand in surrender. “As you wish, my dear, but we do have dinner this evening with Captain Dubois…and our business partner Clint. We embark in the morning and I assume you will wish to have your say aboutour itinerary since you insisted on performing the clerking duties.”

  “I want to tally every piece of merchandise loaded and unloaded at every stop, not trust strangers…or Mr. Daniels,” she said.

  Horace sighed patiently. “Clint’s trustworthiness aside, we are operating on a very strict budget with little to spare for extra crew—the fact of which you have reminded both of us. Repeatedly.”

  “I’ve merely been frugal. After this voyage I want to make enough profit to pay off our partner and be sole proprietors of the Nymph.”

  Horace made no reply, hoping that an utterly different sort of partnership would be in place between his niece and Clint before the end of the voyage.

  The dining hall smelled of fresh lumber and paint. The cabins on the boiler deck had interior doors, allowing owners, officers and passengers indoor access to the dining hall for meals. A table at the far end accommodated the second pilot, Mr. Hagadorn, the mate, Mr. Iversen, and the first and second engineers, Belson and Kline.

  At the opposite end of the room, the captain’s table held Jacques Dubois, Clint, Sky, Horace and Delilah. While Beth and Sadie, Mrs. Colter’s assistants, served the officers, Luellen and Todd placed steaming bowls of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and creamed peas in front of the owners, captain and their lone passenger. Delilah sat directly across from Clint in spite of her uncle and Sky’s efforts to place them next to each other.

  They had business to discuss and she could not afford the distraction of having him beside her, in his fancy ruffled shirt and dark blue suit. The man had more clothes than Beau Brummell, she thought crossly. He was freshly shaved. The golden stubble had been scraped away and his long, straight hair was still damp from his bath.

  In spite of herself, she imagined the scent of soap and man that she’d smelled when he pulled her into his embrace that night. The night she’d almost permitted him to undress her in public, she reminded herself indignantly, returning her attention to the discussion of their stop in Hermann, where they would drop off farm implements and possibly take on passengers bound for the gold fields.

  Before he took a sip from his glass of wine, Clint raised it in a silent salute to Delilah. Since the excitement of embarking had seized hold of her, she had forsaken her widow’s weeds. Perhaps his answer to the challenge of her being buttoned up like a preacher’s wife had convinced her it was a bad idea. He damned himself for the interlude but knew if offered the opportunity again, he would probably do the same thing.

  And, oh, was she tempting tonight, in a pale gold silk gown that revealed just the smallest hint of the treasures he had felt the night he’d unlooped those buttons. Her hair, held up by jeweled combs, curled softly around her face. A simple cameo on a deep gold velvet band encircled her slender throat. The lanterns cast a warm glow on her silky skin and he smiled, noting that in spite of her parasols, a faint tracery of freckles dotted her nose. Soon the reflection of sun on the water would bring out more of them. She would look adorable—if a shrew could ever be considered adorable…

  “We will stop at Pining’s place for wood, about midday. Prices are good there and we can take on enough to reach our first night’s berth just above St. Charles,” the captain said.

  “It seems a pity that’s as far as we can go in a whole day,” Delilah responded.

  “We have to make wood stops twice a day and we’ll moor up every night,” Clint interjec
ted. “Remember, Captain Dubois has never lost a boat. Traveling at boiler-bustin’ speeds against fast currents and night runnin’ have littered the Missouri with wrecks. No profit in that.”

  The way he pronounced Missouri as Missourah irritated Delilah. But not half so much as the way he continued totaunt her with subtle memories of the night outside her cabin.

  How could she have been so stupid? As if reading her mind, he paused and took another sip of wine, then raised his glass.

  “Here’s to a profitable partnership, Mrs. Raymond.”

  “Here, here,” Horace seconded.

  Delilah could do nothing but join in the toast with the others, even though she was acutely aware of Clint’s mocking gaze directed at her.

  “The river is high because of spring rain up north, but on our return, the summer snow melt will ease us down in excellent time,” Dubois said. He sensed the undercurrent between his employers. He had been friends with Daniels for many years and had come to like the lady and her uncle. Although Horace Mathers and Clint appeared most cordial, Mrs. Raymond and Clint fenced verbally every time he overheard them.

  Several times during dinner Mr. Mathers or Miss Sky jumped in to smooth things over. It was a puzzling development. Considering all the difficulty with Red Riley and gathering a crew, the captain already had enough to worry about. The business partners would have to work out their own accord. He accepted a second helping from the heaping platter of fresh chicken Todd offered. It wasn’t New Orleans cuisine, but he was happy for the distraction of such excellent food.

  After her uncle had retired for the night, Delilah took the cargo manifest from the writing table in their sitting room and began rechecking the items to be offloaded at their first stop. She’d kept her own tally as everything was loaded but found what appeared to be a discrepancy between her lists and those of Mr. Iversen. “I explicitly told that odious saloon owner we were not to carry whiskey,” she said through gritted teeth.

  But she would certainly not put it past him to have ordered the mate to load it under cover of darkness, as was the usual practice for hiding illegal cargo on the levee. Furiously, sheyanked off her robe and night rail, then donned a simple cotton day dress. She was the majority owner of this boat and its cargo and by damn, she would carry no contraband. The army could confiscate their boat—even throw them in jail!

  “I don’t care how profitable selling whiskey to the miners is, we will not take that risk.” She flung on a cloak and opened her cabin door. In minutes she was tiptoeing down the stairs to the main deck, being careful not to awaken the roustabouts sleeping on the forward part of the open floor. Little worry; they reeked of their last night on the town, drunkenly snoring. Beyond them the dark hulk of cargo was piled everywhere, from floor to ceiling, with only narrow aisles between crates, barrels and boxes. Although the moon was bright, she realized in her haste she had forgotten to bring a lantern to see among the narrow alleys.

  Mumbling a curse, she turned to retrace her way along the railing to the stairs at the opposite end of the boat.

  “Well, lookee here. Evenin’, boss lady,” a raspy voice whispered. It sounded like cracking ice.

  Delilah saw a mountain of a man who stank of stale tobacco and sour sweat materialize out of the dark piles of cargo, blocking her return path. He was one of the new roustabouts the captain had been forced to hire when several of his regulars ended up with broken bones after a series of brawls. The men claimed they had been attacked deliberately. Dubois had tended to agree and placed the blame on Red Riley. Not only did Riley hate the captain because of his mixed blood, but he also had a score to settle with her.

  And she had just played right into his hands, coming onto the deck in the dead of night without her Derringer. This was what her temper over Clint Daniels’s trickery had wrought. She cursed them both. This ruffian could strangle her and drop her into the river and no one would ever find a trace of her body as it floated down to the Gulf.

  Straightening up, Delilah gave him her most imperious look. “Yes, I am indeed your —boss lady.— Go back to sleep andwe will forget that this impertinence ever happened. Now, be so kind as to let me pass.”

  The roustabout did not move. Even in the dim moonlight, she could see how his yellow eyes swept over her, undressing her. She fought the urge to pull her cloak protectively around herself.

  “I don’t b’lieve I will.”

  “There are men all around this deck. I’ll scream and they’ll come running,” she said in a level voice.

  He chuckled malevolently. “Most is drunk, come stag-gerin’ in from the bars and whores up on First Street so’s Iversen could check ’em off his list. They’s passed out cold. Upstairs, the muckity-mucks won’t hear you.”

  Delilah feared he was right. “Do you work for Riley? If so, I’ll double what he’s paid you.”

  He appeared to consider her offer. “Dunno. Pissin’ off Big Red’s real dangerous. He wants you dead. A hunnert bucks worth. How much yew offerin’ ta stay alive?”

  That was when she saw the gleam from his belt, the blade of a big, ugly Bowie knife. She knew that no amount she proposed would work. But it might buy her time to bolt into the cargo aisle. Just as she started to jump, a voice came from the darkness behind her and the roustabout’s eyes widened.

  “Save your money, Deelie.”

  Clint stepped out of the shadows. He shoved her behind him. She could see he was half dressed, with his shirt hanging open as if he’d just slipped it on to take a late-night walk. He was also barefoot and unarmed. Still, the big man backed up, raising one hand as if in supplication.

  “Watch out, Clint. He’s got a knife!” Delilah screamed loud enough to crack plaster, but all she could hear in return was the faint snores of a drunk at the opposite end of the big boat. She searched for something to use as a weapon. The two men advanced on each other.

  The giant had composed himself once he realized his opponent was unarmed. Now he grinned. “Red, he said ta takekeer ’o yew, too. ’Nother hunnert. Didn’t figger on luck ’nough ta git yew both at th’ same time.”

  “You a bettin’ man, rooster?” Clint asked, circling the brawny outstretched arm that held the knife, looking for an opening. “I make it seven to one you don’t live to collect your pay from Riley.”

  “Seed yew kick Pack Wilson in th’ knee thet day on the levee. Busted him up real good. But yew ain’t got no boots now. No gun neither.” He made a swift slash with the knife, narrowly missing Clint’s belly.

  “Get Horace,” Clint said to Delilah, never taking his eyes from his foe.

  “I’m not leaving him to kill you.”

  “Should’ve thought of that before you went for a two A.M. stroll,” he gritted out. “Go!”

  As he spoke he jumped agilely to one side, maneuvering so she could slip past, using his body for cover. But Delilah continued to scan the deck. Then she saw what she wanted—but it was on the side nearest the roustabout. She dared not allow herself to be grabbed and used as a hostage, but she had to reach the long ax handle protruding from a pile of cargo covered by canvas. She darted into the aisle from which Clint had emerged and tried to figure a way around to the weapon.

  Her sudden movement diverted the roustabout’s attention for just a second. But that was all Daniels needed to move in and seize hold of the larger man’s arm, twisting it upward while applying pressure on the wrist. The giant emitted a hiss of surprised pain. Clint’s shoulder came in under the man’s arm and he used it as a fulcrum. Daniels threw his foe over his shoulder. The roustabout landed directly at his feet with a loud thud. As he got to his hands and knees, Clint kicked the knife away from his grasp. It clattered toward the side of the boat, then plunked into the water.

  Delilah could hear the sounds of the fight as she frantically circled the cargo. Unlike the warehouse, this was not arranged in neat rows but lashed haphazardly to the deck. Shetripped in the darkness, clawing onto a splintery crate to keep from falling. I have to get that ax!<
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  At last she saw dim moonlight on the opposite side of the deck and ran toward it, then around to where the sounds of the fight continued. She knelt by the ax handle and seized it, tugging with all her might to free it from the lashing. It barely moved, unlike the two men tumbling around on the deck. She saw no sign of the knife, which was good, but the roustabout was huge, dwarfing Clint’s tall, lean body by at least three inches and seventy pounds.

  Daniels rolled away from his attacker’s attempted choke-hold and got to his feet only a second before his opponent. Clint used that time to land a hard right punch to his jaw, followed by a series of left jabs to his eyes and nose, staggering the roustabout backward. Daniels pursued, now landing a powerful blow to his opponent’s throat, and followed up with a knee to his groin. The roustabout dropped like a stone into water.

  This time he did not get up. He lay curled in a fetal ball, immobilized. Only then did Clint see Delilah, still struggling to pull an ax from the canvas. In spite of the night chill, he shook with red-hot fury. “You could’ve gotten us both killed, you damned little idiot!” he shouted, yanking her up from the floor.

  “What about your seven-to-one odds that you’d whip him?” she asked, hating the crack in her voice. She could feel his hands tremble as he grabbed her by the upper arms and shook her until her teeth rattled.

  “Do you have pasteboards between those pretty ears instead of brains? A woman alone and unarmed, walking around in the middle of the night aboard a steamer filled with drunken steamboaters—not to mention the stray assassin or two Riley’s managed to plant aboard. Didn’t you hear the captain explain how he’d had to hire men he didn’t know and couldn’t trust to fill our minimum quota?”

  Her teeth kept chattering, whether from fear of their brushwith death or from the way he was glaring at her, she did not know. He continued to shake her until her hair came loose from its pins and fell around her shoulders. Then, realizing what he was doing, he stopped…and reached up to lift a gleaming fistful of curls, letting them fall like silken water through his fingers.