The River Nymph

by Shirl Henke

  “You saved my life, ma’am. I’m sorry I was so ungrateful before, but I been thinking about what I’ll do once I’m out of the army. My father’s got a cabinetmaker’s shop up in Hannibal. He always wanted me to come in with him. Now I reckon I will.” He managed a weak smile. “He can even make me a wooden leg to get ’round on. I wouldn’t have made it this far without you. Thank you.”

  Delilah fought back tears and the lump in her throat and said, “You will do just fine, I’m certain.” She was immensely relieved that he had come out of his depressed state and had family to help him rebuild his life.

  The wounded soldiers, green youths and battle-scarred veterans alike, were shyly grateful to their nurses and thanked them profusely. A full military color guard had been turned out to honor the heroes of the Little Big Horn and a band played the Seventh’s fight song, “Garry Owen.”

  “Lots of pomp and glory. I hope the poor devils live long enough to forget what they’ve been through,”Clint said softly as the last of them disappeared from view over a rolling hill.

  Delilah had not heard his return over the babel of voices and music. “You still carry scars—and I don’t just mean the ones I’ve seen on your body. The nightmares will end—if you’ll just let go, Clint.”

  He snorted. “You can’t amputate my head, darlin’. There are some things even you can’t heal.”

  “No, I can’t…but you can,” she replied stubbornly. “It’s why you’ve been avoiding me—because of your precious guilt. While I’ve been nursing wounded soldiers, you’ve been nursing your wounded soul.”

  “Maybe so…or maybe I just want better for you, Deelie.” He turned away and strode down the deck, leaving her alone to ponder what he had said. And not said.

  The ten-mile trip up the Mississippi back to St. Louis took another day. As soon as they pulled into a berth on the levee, Delilah and Clint were the first to disembark, searching the melee for Horace.

  “Surely he must’ve heard that we steamed by yesterday,” she said, looking for his tall, thin figure but not seeing it.

  “I’ll head up to the Eagle Boat mercantile and see when his packet came in,” Clint said. “You wait here.”

  She had a twinge of unease as he hailed a hack and climbed in. Where was Uncle Horace? Deciding she was just being a worrier, Delilah returned to her cabin to pack. They would be able to afford a decent hotel now, and the thought of moving off the constantly rocking steamer and sleeping in a real bed sounded like heaven to her. Perhaps her uncle had already secured them rooms at one of the city’s best. With that comforting thought, she set to work.

  But an hour later, Clint knocked on her door. “Bad news, Deelie,” he said grimly when she opened it.

  “What’s happened?” she said, grasping his arm. “Has my uncle been injured or—”

  “No. He just hasn’t arrived yet. A half-dozen packet boats from upriver have left off passengers over the past week, but he wasn’t on any of them.” Seeing the stricken look on her face, he added,“Don’t fret. Those little boats sometimes break down and fall behind schedule, just like big steamers. Maybe he’ll arrive tomorrow. Meanwhile, the captain’s invited us to his home for dinner tonight. You get gussied up and I’ll be back to collect you in a couple of hours.”

  With visions of Horace’s packet smashed on rocks or asawyer in the swift Missouri current, Delilah had little desire to eat, but she nodded woodenly. “I’ll be ready.” At least it would be good to see Mrs. Dubois again, and to meet their daughter, who would be home from boarding school now. When she opened the door almost three hours later, Delilah emitted a small gasp of delight upon seeing the transformation in Clint. “You’ve gone to a barber,” she said approvingly as her eyes swept over his freshly shaved face. The ragged shoulder-length hair was once more trimmed with clearly delineated sideburns. Her eyes swept down from his ruffled white shirt and perfectly tailored dark blue suit to the polished black boots on his feet.

  “Do I look civilized enough, Deelie?” he asked, raising his scarred eyebrow mockingly.

  He looked good enough to eat, but she wasn’t about to tell the handsome devil that. “I’m happy the old Clinton Daniels has returned,” she said as she took his proffered arm.

  He looked at her and gave her that, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth grin. “Deelie, you set too much stock on outer appearance. You can’t know what I’m like inside.”

  She returned his smile with a dazzling one of her own, pushing her worry about Horace to the back of her mind for now. Clint was back; Lightning Hand had been banished. “I believe your outer transformation signifies an inner one, too.” Before he could remonstrate, she said, “Let’s enjoy an evening of celebration with Captain Dubois and his family upon completion of another safe trip from the wilds of the upper Missouri.”

  They both knew that the escape from Montana Territory had more to do with his problems than with the captain’s perfect record. Clint merely nodded and escorted her to the hurricane deck and down the stairs. As he helped her into the carriage he’d hired before returning to the levee, he feasted on her loveliness. She wore a copper-colored silk gown that molded to her upper body and flattered her sun-kissed skin and the more pronounced reddish highlights in her hair. When she raised her skirt to step up, he could admire aglimpse of slender ankle and foot encased in a matching high-heeled slipper. Hell, even if she hadn’t known a club from a diamond, any man would lose his shirt to her in a card game! And his heart…

  Their dinner with the captain and his family proved delightful. But on the carriage ride back to the boat, Delilah could not help returning to the worry gnawing at her ever since they had learned Horace was not in St. Louis.

  “He was carrying a great deal of money. You don’t suppose one of the crew—”

  “Jacques handpicked those men. He’s worked with them for years and is a passin’ good judge of character. No, no one’s robbed him and left him for dead, Deelie,” Clint said soothingly.

  She could see a worried look on his face in the bright moonlight. In spite of his reassuring words, something was wrong. “You say one thing, but I detect something else. Surely you don’t believe my uncle would steal our money?”

  He shook his head emphatically. “No, of course not. I’d trust Horace Mathers with my life.”

  “But…?” she prompted.

  “Well, you’ll find out soon enough, so I might as well tell you now.” Clint sighed. “Jacques didn’t want to worry you. That’s why he didn’t mention it. He’s willing to wait, but his crew will expect to be paid within the week. Lots of them live up and down the river and have hungry families to feed. And Herr Krammer knows that we’ve returned and we owe him three thousand, too, although like the captain, I expect he can afford to wait longer.”

  Delilah sat very still for several moments, dreading what she had to tell Clint. He sensed her unease. Taking her hand in his, he removed the glove and pressed a kiss on her bare palm. “All right. Tell me what’s goin’ on in that devious little mind of yours.”

  Now it was her turn to sigh. In a very small voice, she replied, “Mr. Krammer isn’t the only one we owe. Before we were able to begin outfitting for the trip, I took out a tenthousand-dollar loan on the Nymph from Consolidated Planters Bank in St. Charles. It will come due the end of the month.”

  “Damn, Adam must’ve done somethin’ really skunk rotten for the Lord to have created woman,” he muttered, combing his hands through his hair.

  Delilah bristled. “It was the only way I could manage. You were the one who cheated, tricking me with that low card—and…and walking off the boat stark-naked! No one would work for us!”

  “Oh, so now it’s my fault!” He threw up his hands, as if imploring the heavens for an explanation of the inexplicable nature of feminine logic. “You had no idea about what it cost to pay a crew or fit out a steamer. I suppose that was my fault, too, hmmm?”

  Delilah struggled not to rip out his eyeballs. “What’s done is done. There is n
o sense in recriminations,” she snapped.

  “Recriminations? Sounded a lot more like you callin’ me a card cheat.”

  “Uncle Horace saw you palm that deuce!”

  “And had the good sense not to say anything. Of course, he expected I was cheatin’ to win the thousand, not lose the clothes right off my backside,” he said with a chuckle. “Admit it, Deelie, you had that coming and I outsmarted you.”

  “You forced yourself into a partnership on the Nymph and now we’re both in mutual debt,” she replied smugly, regaining control of her temper. “We must look at this logically, Clint. If you’re right—and you must be—then my uncle will be here in a few days with plenty of money to pay what we owe and have a fat profit left to split. All we need to do is stall for time.”

  He slouched back against the seat of the carriage and regarded her. She sat ramrod straight on the edge of the seat, as if ready to jump if a feather touched her. “You’re still worried about Horace, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she replied in a small voice. “More than anything else. If something’s happened to him—”

  “Shhh, nothin’s happened to him,” he said, leaning forward and taking her in his arms. He rubbed her back softly. “Tell you what, in the mornin’, I’ll talk to the crew. Get them to wait for their pay. You explain to Mr. Krammer about what’s happened. I imagine he’ll be happy to extend your loan. We have enough time for the bank note. It’ll all work out, Deelie.”

  She squeezed her eyes closed and inhaled the smell of fresh starch from his shirt. It felt so natural and comforting to be in his arms. She wanted to be held this way for the rest of her life. When she raised her head and her eyes met his, she searched for the answer to her unasked question, but he looked away.

  “And after that, Clint—then what?” she dared to ask.

  He sighed as the carriage pulled up in front of the Nymph. “Hell, Deelie, I don’t know…I just don’t know. I reckon our creditors aren’t the only ones needin’ more time. A woman like you deserves better than the devil’s bargain we made upriver. I’m just not sure I can give you what you’re entitled to have.”

  Delilah deflated. Pulling away from him and gathering her skirts, she quickly stepped out of the carriage before he could assist her. He caught up to her at the top of the gangplank. “Deelie, wait!”

  “For what, Clint? I thought tonight…the way you looked, the way you acted…I thought you were through with your old life, that you’d put it behind you. But it seems as if I made a mistake.”

  “I told you, appearances can be deceiving. Just because I clean myself up and put on fancy duds doesn’t mean the past goes away. It’s still inside me.”

  “Well, hang on to your blessed guilt and grief and never let them go. See how happy that makes you—or better yet, go back to Eva and let her console you!”

  He stood and watched her stomp off, trying to convince himself it was better this way. Better to make the cut cleanand quick now that they were back in St. Louis. But the thought of returning to Eva’s bed made him feel hollow. If he did that, it would be no more fair to his old partner than he’d been to his new one…the one he had so foolishly allowed himself to fall in love with.

  “Deelie, Deelie, what are we going to do?”

  The quietly lapping waters of the Mississippi had no answers for him as he slowly climbed the stairs to his cabin.

  The next day Delilah watched from her cabin window as one of the roosters hauled the last of Clint’s belongings down the gangplank and deposited the two bags on a wagon. So, he was taking her advice and returning to Eva at the Bud. Good riddance. If the man wanted to wallow in guilt, who was she to think she could change his life? Did she believe that he could love a woman who had taken his boat and run him into debt? Or did Clint really think her uncle had stolen his share of the money and was waiting for her to sneak out of town to join him?

  Surely not. He knew them both better than that…which left his stupid, stubborn guilt blinding him to the possibilities of their making a life together. This was one game she could not control. Fate would deal the cards and she was powerless to do anything to change the outcome. She turned and looked in the mirror.

  “The hell I can’t!” she muttered to herself. If she had to claw off Eva St. Clair’s face and drag him from the Blasted Bud by the front of his ruffled shirt, Delilah Raymond would have Clint Daniels!

  But first things first: Until Uncle Horace returned, there was business to attend. Clint would do his part by speaking to the crew. Now it was up to her to get Mr. Krammer to agree to defer payment. Thank heavens they had nearly a month until the bank in St. Charles foreclosed. She dressed in her best dark green linen business suit, fixed her hair into a sleek chignon and jabbed a pin through her feathered hat, setting itat a rakish angle just to give herself confidence. After a final inspection of her appearance, she sent word to Mr. Hagadorn to summon a hack for her.

  Within a quarter hour she reached Krammer Mercantile. Smiling when she saw him through the window arranging bolts of calico on a table, she entered the large, dim emporium. “Good day, Herr Krammer. It’s good to see you again.”

  “Ach, Frau Raymond, it is happy I am to see you also. Last night I hear your boat has returned safely,” the short, stocky man said, shaking her proffered hand as if priming a water pump. But the normal sparkle in his blue eyes was not there. He stammered, “Something there is…I must explain…”

  Delilah could tell he was upset, and here she was with more bad news. “Please, my friend, what’s the matter?” she asked gently. “Have you heard that my uncle has not returned yet with the money we made upriver? I promise we will—”

  “Nein, nein, never would I doubt your honesty. I know you would pay.” He sighed, running his hands over the top of his pink scalp. “To tell you this is very difficult. It is not me you must pay. It is Red Riley.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Red Riley?” she echoed, appalled. “How could we owe him?”

  “I was late on a payment at my bank. This, it happens now and then. Never before was there a problem. Until now. Herr Riley buys my note from Herr Brinker at the Boatman’s Bank. He forecloses. Now Riley owns this business…and I do not believe an extension on your debt he will allow.”

  Delilah felt as if one of the teamsters on the levee had just run over her with a load of quarry rock. “How soon will we have to make good on that note?” she asked, resisting the urge to twist her handkerchief into shreds. Riley would be merciless.

  Krammer chewed his mustache, shaking his head hopelessly. “Next week, the first day.”

  “Monday?” she echoed numbly. That gave them only five days. Would Uncle Horace return by then? “My uncle is bringing a huge amount of money from the sale of our cargo. He should be here any day now.” She tried to say that with conviction, but a premonition of dread began to settle over her. What if Riley had sent men upriver after them, waited and waylaid Horace? Not only might the money be lost, but her beloved uncle as well. The thought was too horrible to contemplate.

  “Do not fear, leipchen,” Krammer said, patting her arm in a fatherly fashion. “He will be here, I am certain.”

  Delilah’s eyes narrowed as she considered Riley and his vengeance. One way or the other, she would beat the vicious bastard. If one hair on Horace Mathers’s head was harmed, she would see Big Red Riley begging in the streets before she was finished with him. “I’m sure we’ll be fine—oh, yes, and when this is over, you’ll own this mercantile again. I swear it!”

  Clint and the captain called a meeting with the crew of the Nymph. The men assembled restively that afternoon, milling about the main deck. Daniels explained that until Horace arrived with the money, they would be strapped to pay unless they sold the steamer, which would guarantee that the men would not have a job the following spring unless they signed on with one of the large companies gobbling up independent owners. These larger lines had already driven down crewmen’s wages.

  He promised
a bonus to every man content to wait for another week. Of course, what he would do if Horace didn’t show by then with the cash, he did not know. They would have to sell the Nymph. Hell, to make good on their other debts, he’d have to sell his share of the Bud, too! But he’d cross that river when he came to it. For now, the men, at the captain’s urging, agreed to wait.

  Clint knew that word of this meeting would spread like wildfire on the levee. By the time he reached the Bud that afternoon, Banjo Banks confirmed his surmise. That and other things far more alarming. He’d no more than walked in the door when his pear-shaped partner came barreling toward him.

  “Boss, heerd you was back! I wuz just fixin’ to fetch ya from the Nymph. Everbody in town’s talkin’ ’bout them bluebellies taking over the boat…” He shuffled around from one foot to the other for a moment, removing a greasy, high-crowned hat to scratch his straggly hair into further disarray.

  “Spit out the bad news, Banjo,” Clint said in resignation. His gut tightened.

  “Wall, everbody knows ’bout yer partner’s uncle stayin’ behind to sell the cargo ’n fetch the cash back here. ’Pears a packet bound from Fort Benton ta St. Louie got smashed upjest above Sioux City last week. Hit by river pirates, looked like. Rumor says that Mathers feller and four of Cap’n Dubois’s men was aboard. Capt’n of the Greyhound, ole Foxy Whitfield, he says he passed the wreck of The River Race a day ’er so after it happened. Stopped to look ’round fer survivors. Said he didn’t find none.”

  Daniels’s heart skipped a beat. “Foxy Whitfield wouldn’t slow his packet run to rescue the Queen of England unless she waved the crown jewels from the riverbank.”

  “They’s more…”