Authors: Shirl Henke
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!
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.
“Clint—”
He muttered an oath and cupped her head, pulling her against his body with his other arm. His mouth savaged hers. No subtle,
nuanced seduction, this. No, this was raw, primitive, lustful. An affirmation of life…and something more. His hand pressed
her jaw, literally prying open her lips for his invading tongue. He slanted his head, shifting position, pressing her lower
body against the straining erection in his breeches. She could feel the arousal through the thin cloth separating them and
for a moment wondered if he would throw her to the floor and rape her.
Delilah had never seen him lose control this way. It was…savage. She pushed her hands against his chest, trying to get
free, writhing away from the bulge in his pants that probed the vee of her legs.
Suddenly, he released her and she stumbled backward. Her mouth burned from the abrasion of his whiskers. She raised one hand
to touch her lips and found that it was trembling. All thoughts of the illegal whiskey had fled. She dared not speak to him
while he was in this state.
As he silently strode on bare feet to the unconscious roustabout and knelt with a length of rope to tie him up, she fled toward
the stairs and the safety of her cabin.
Neither of them noticed the tall, thin form hidden in the shadows, nor saw him uncock the Colt pocket revolver gripped in
his uninjured hand.
The
air held the tang of spring and a warm breeze ruffled her hair, allowing it to blow gently around her shoulders. But Delilah
did not notice. All she could think about was the man standing at the opposite end of the deck from her, talking with their
first mate, Mr. Iversen. Clint Daniels wore a plain cotton shirt with the collar open and the sleeves rolled up, revealing
the golden hair on his chest and arms. Heavy black twill breeches clad his long legs. His tall boots were scuffed and creased.
Work boots!
The outfit was made for heavy labor, not lounging in a salon. He could have been a mate or engineer instead of part owner
of the vessel. But he
was
a gambler.
He’s ready to risk
my boat for the quick profit from illegal whiskey.
She had talked with her uncle earlier in the morning about the whiskey, but told him nothing of what had occurred between
her and Daniels after Riley’s man had been taken from the boat. Horace startled her by revealing that he knew about the contraband.
“The intent of the law is to keep whiskey from falling into the hands of warring tribes along the river. The army cares nothing
about sales to thirsty gold miners in Montana Territory. The worst that might happen is having to give a modest bribe to the
inspector,” he assured her.
“Just so long as the bribe money comes out of Mr. Daniels’s pocket, not ours,” she retorted.
“He has already agreed to that, my dear.”
Delilah was not happy about the matter, but Mr. Iversen and the captain had both given her assurances that the profits were
well worth the risks. The mate even showed her the ingenious method for hiding the whiskey barrels when inspectors came aboard,
dropping them over the stern of the boat in rope nets so they’d be hidden beneath the paddle wheels.
She returned her thoughts to Clint, watching the breeze catch his hair. He shoved it from his forehead, gesturing to the cargo
that had been stored on the hurricane deck in the space that had formerly been Riley’s gambling salon, the very place where
she had won the boat from Daniels. If he noticed her glaring at him, he gave no indication, but turned his attention back
to Iversen. Clint didn’t appear dangerous in the morning light. But he certainly had the preceding night. She had seen something
in those glowing gray eyes that was savage—not the wildness of unbridled lust, but something…other. Just what it was,
she could not guess, but it troubled her.
She was traveling nearly three thousand miles with a complete stranger. They would be in close proximity, unable to avoid
each other unless she hid in her cabin like a mouse. That was something Delilah Mathers Raymond had not done since Lee and
his Confederate forces invaded her town and destroyed it. But she had been a green seventeen-year-old girl then. Now she was
a battle-hardened survivor…just as he was. But still she found her feelings toward him unsettling. What had turned him
from her protector to her attacker?
In retrospect, she realized that it had been irresponsible of her to venture to the lower deck unarmed, in the dark of night.
She and her uncle had speculated with Captain Dubois and—yes, Mr. Daniels—about the possibility that one or more of the replacement
roustabouts he’d recruited might have been Riley’s men. But that did not explain Daniels’s actions once he had disposed of
the man who’d tried to kill her. After fleeing upstairs, she had watched from her cabin window while he and Iversen hauled
her attacker down the gangplank and up the levee. She suspected they had taken the man and dumped him on the doorstep of Riley’s
saloon.
Her troubling thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the noise and vibration of the steam engines being fired up inpreparation
for departure. The very floorboards beneath her feet seemed ready to jar apart. She stumbled and grabbed the railing to orient
herself to the alien sensation. Her only other time on a steamer had been crossing the Gulf to New Orleans several years earlier
for a high-stakes poker game. But that had been with placid seas aboard a huge side-wheeler. This felt totally different.
Placing her fear of Daniels and worries about the whiskey aside, she felt the excitement hum through her blood. It was time
to cast off! She wanted to be in the wheelhouse with Captain Dubois, who had invited her to join him for a bird’s-eye view
of the river and levee as they departed. Carefully Delilah made her way to her cabin for a wrap. In spite of the warm day,
once they were under full steam in the fast-moving current, the wind would be chilly.
Horace watched her enter her cabin and then shifted his gaze to Daniels. Their partner was not as uninterested in his niece
as he had appeared to be a moment ago. After witnessing the scene on the main deck last night, Horace had to reassess whether
his initial intuition about Clinton Daniels had been correct. The best way was to speak with the person who had known him
the longest, the one dearest to him—his young sister Sky.
He would do just that. But first he wanted to witness their departure with his niece. He joined Delilah on her climb up to
the small wheelhouse perched on top of the boiler deck. The small single room had windows on all four sides, allowing the
pilot a 360-degree view of the treacherous river. Just as he called out to her, a shrill whistle pierced his eardrums. He
watched her climb the steep stairs with cheeks flushed by excitement. For better or worse, they were on their way upriver
with Clint. Now he only prayed it had not been a mistake to make the journey.
Delilah stood behind Captain Dubois after exchanging greetings with him, watching in rapt awe as the big paddlewheel at the
rear of the boat began to churn up the water. “The vibration is incredible. Is everything all right?” she asked.
Dubois smiled reassuringly. “This is perfectly normal. Only wait until we’re in the main channel, forcing our way against
the current. Then the vibrations will grow worse.” At her look of dismay, he went on, “You will get used to it. My engineers
are very careful not to overtax the boilers. Have no fear that the boat will explode.”
Delilah sighed in relief. “If you say it’s safe, then I have no fear.” At least she had none about the boat. As to other matters
…
Horace entered the Spartan wheelhouse and made a quick visual inspection as he greeted his niece and the captain. A small
cot in one corner and an iron stove for heat in cold weather were the only furnishings. The centerpiece of the cramped quarters
was the giant wooden-handled wheel facing the bow of the boat. “Do you sleep on that?” Horace gestured to the cot incredulously.
Jacques Dubois smiled. “I would only do so in extremity, I assure you, M’sieur Mathers. My second pilot is a man I’ve known
for twenty years. With him spelling me, I am able to rest in my cabin. Having two pilots in the wheelhouse is a precaution
when captains choose not to berth at night but travel by moonlight.”
“I thought the river was too dangerous to do that,” Delilah said, her uneasiness returning.
“Tut, I found the cot and ignored it. Neither I nor M’sieur Hagadorn intend to run by night. We will not be on the river in
heavy rain either. One must see the serene surface of the Big Muddy to navigate safely.”
Delilah looked out at the rushing water and did not see a trace of serenity in its unfathomable depths. And this was the Mississippi,
known to be far safer than the Missouri! But she held her peace as gangplanks were pulled aboard, hawsers untied and coiled
up. Everything was secured and ready. Captain Dubois tugged on the whistle, signaling the engineers below that the boat was
backing away from the levee. As the spoon-shaped bow began its slow turn away from the shallows beneath the captain’s skillful
steersmanship, she could feel herexcitement build again. Danger be damned! Clinton Daniels be damned, too! She was going to
be a rich woman of business, independent and owing no man but her beloved uncle.
Horace watched as Dubois centered the boat’s bow in the channel, pointed north to the confluence with the Missouri just above
the city. When he looked down at Delilah’s face, he could see triumph written all over it. If only things worked out as they
planned…He excused himself and headed in search of Sky.
Sky carefully arranged her blue cotton skirt on the small settee in her cabin’s sitting room as she looked over at Horace
Mathers. “There is much you need to understand about my brother…you and your niece, although I doubt she’s willing to
confess her interest yet.”
Horace suppressed a smile at the young woman’s acumen. “No, Delilah can be…headstrong, but I’ve sensed her interest
in our new business associate from their first meeting—and his in her. Initially, I believed it would work out well for both
of them, but after last night…” He had already outlined what occurred after Clint had rescued Delilah from Riley’s henchman.
“I am not certain it’s my place to tell you everything. It would be best if Delilah heard the whole story from my brother.
But I will say this: He is a good man who has endured much suffering. When he caught three soldiers under his command raping
me and my older sister Teal, he rescued us. He told our father that he was shamed by the blue coat and would never wear it
again. He became one of us and married Teal.”
Horace’s body moved ever so slightly, giving away his surprise. “He has a wife?”
Sky’s expression darkened. “She is dead now…killed by a Pawnee raiding party while the men in our village were away
hunting. After that, Clint’s grief knew no bounds. He avenged her death by killing many of them.” She shuddered. “It’s for
him to explain the rest.”
“Is that why he’s called Lightning Hand?”
Sky shook her head. “No, that was because he killed the three blue coats before they could fire a shot, although all were
armed.”
“He does have a reputation as a fast gun on the river,” Horace said, turning over in his mind Clint’s Southern drawl and trying
to reconcile it with a blue uniform. He had a feeling that what Daniels had done to retaliate for his wife’s death was better
left unknown. Instead, he asked, “Was he a galvanized Yankee, perchance?”
Sky smiled now. “Yes. But that, too, is a story for him to tell,” she replied enigmatically. “I have known him since I was
eleven years old and, as I said, he is a good man. He brought me here and paid for my education.”
“And now he’s taking you home to your people.”
She nodded. “Yes…but…” Her hands, clasped together, began to twist nervously. At once, she forced herself to relax
and smooth her skirt again.
“But it would be better for him to return here, not remain with them?” he said gently.
Sky’s blue eyes were dark and troubled, yet she smiled at Horace. “You, too, are a good man—and a very perceptive one as well,
Uncle Horace.”
“Thank you, child.”
They pulled into a small outpost just below St. Charles to fuel up early that afternoon. The boat’s hungry engines demanded
huge quantities of wood to keep the boilers pushing steam through the pipes to drive the engine. When they tied up for the
night, they would have burned most of the wood on board and would require another load. Delilah knew they were short of roustabouts,
already having lost one, but she was surprised to see Clint stride ashore with the mate.
After a brief negotiation with the woodhawk, a tall, emaciated man in ragged leather breeches and a filthy flannel shirt,
Daniels paid the fellow. But instead of returning to the deck, he joined the men loading bundles of wood on their backsand
toting them up the gangplank to the open deck in front of the boilers. As sweat plastered his thin cotton shirt to his torso,
his muscles were outlined, indecently appealing. Of course, all the other men were equally sweat-soaked but none held the
slightest attraction for her.
Why him, of all the men on earth?
His straight, dark gold hair hung in lank damp hunks around his sun-darkened face. Now and then he’d stop and wipe the perspiration
from his eyes with his forearm. Her mouth went dry just looking at the flexing glisten of his skin. She tried to remember
how frightened she’d been of his fierce, brutal kiss last night, but in spite of it, she could not stop looking at him. Then,
as if sensing her, he raised his head and locked gazes with her. His face was grim, his mouth an angry slash, as he continued
up the gangplank with his burden.
Delilah turned and walked away, considering what his expression meant. Was he sorry for what he’d done? Or still furious with
her for being on the main deck late at night? More likely the latter. She doubted if the arrogant lout had ever apologized
for anything in his life.
Clint watched her stalk off. The sun caught the red highlights in her dark hair and the yellow dress she wore set off the
faint golden glow of her skin. His groin tightened as her hips swayed with every step. Last night he’d nearly done something
unforgivable. The woman drove him to distraction. Yet neither she nor he appeared able to control their attraction for each
other. He muttered an oath and hurled his load of wood onto the pile in front of the boiler’s steaming maw.
Why her, of all the women on earth?
Bathed, shaved and dressed in fresh clothing, Clint sat in the dining room of the
Nymph,
hunched over a table with a glass of Who Shot John in his hand. He looked down at the bourbon, then tossed it back, polishing
off the glass. As he reached for the bottle, his sister’s voice interrupted.
“Will that give you the courage to apologize to her? Idon’t think you’ll find it in the bottom of a bottle, Elder Brother.”
He set the bottle back on the table and turned to her. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Uncle Horace told me what happened between you and Delilah last night. He heard the fight and came down just after you’d
dealt with Riley’s man.”
“Great! Now he’ll probably shoot me.” Clint reached for the bottle again.
“I think not. He is an exceedingly good judge of character. He’ll give you the benefit of the doubt…this time. But I
wouldn’t try his patience any further.” She came over and took a seat across the table from Clint. “Put the bottle down and
tell me what you’re going to say to Delilah.”