Authors: Shirl Henke
Horace laughed as Daniels sauntered toward the clapboard saloon where Dubois was waiting for him.
If only the ghosts
haunting you would so easily vanish.
Delilah stood on the hurricane deck late that night as her uncle walked around the cargo, speaking with their guards and making
certain all was secure. The captain had returned from town after the conclusion of their deal for the whiskey. Clint had yet
to appear. She chewed her lip in vexation. Surely he would not spend the night with one of those diseased whores she’d seen
displaying their garishly painted faces from the upper stories of the saloons, calling out enticements to passersby.
“I’m being a jealous fool. He’d never do that, no matter how things stand between us,” she murmured to herself, remembering
the beauteous Eva St. Clair. At least his taste was high, if not his moral standards. Of course, what did that say of her
own? She had been carrying on a passionate affair with a man she neither trusted nor intended to marry.
Damn you, Clinton Daniels!
Delilah feared for him…yes, and cared a great deal more than she had been willing to admit. His wild, self-destructive
actions with the Tetons and the confrontation at the Liver Eater’s camp proved that he still carried the burdens of his bloody
past. And, sadly, she had not been able to free him. Perhaps no one ever could, but back in St. Louis, he functioned as a
civilized, rational man. Out here…out here lay only danger and death.
She had to get him safely home. If that meant relinquishing him to Eva, so be it. At least he’d be alive. Then, as if conjured
from her worried imagination, she saw his tall, lean figure approaching. He was none too steady on his feet. Doubtless he’d
been sampling his own wares with their buyers. After a brief word with her uncle, he climbed the gangplank. Surprisingly he
managed to make it without a dunking in the cold, muddy water. She turned and quickly slipped into her cabin before he saw
her.
Clint climbed the stairs to the hurricane deck, then meandered toward his cabin. He had not told Horace what he’d learned
in town from a miner with a Teton wife. The rumors would spread like wildfire all too soon. That damned suicidal idiot Custer
had split his command and led a few hundred men against thousands of Sioux, Cheyenne and Arapahoe camped along the banks of
the Greasy Grass. All his soldiers had been wiped out with Custer.
The army’s retribution would be swift and terrible. He only prayed the Ehanktonwon, being part of the Sioux Nations, would
not be swept up in the coming decimation. They were far away, living peacefully on a reservation. With Father Will and Sky
to speak for them, surely they would escape this time, but he knew the public outcry for vengeance would deprive them of yet
more of their land. The army would see to that, too.
“Civilized progress,” he muttered. All because one arrogant madman had been loosed to destroy the high plains Indians and
then disobeyed orders from his own commanding officer. But now the Long Hair would become a hero. The lieutenant colonel would
go down as
General
Custer in the history books, even though it was only a brevetted rank for a brief period during the late war. Clint knew it
in his gut. And it made him sick.
He walked down the narrow passage between the cabins and the railing, angry, fearful and quite suddenly unbearably lonely.
When he passed Delilah’s door, he heard her stirring inside and caught the faint essence of her rose perfume on the air. Was
she hiding from him? With the liquor to fuel his nerve, he turned the handle and opened her unlocked door.
Delilah turned, startled by his sudden appearance. He stood silhouetted in the doorframe with the dimmed lantern on the outer
deck casting his face in harsh shadows. “You’re drunk,” she accused.
He took a step inside and closed the door. “Appears so,” he drawled, pleased when she did not back away from his advance.
Her heart pounded and her mouth went dry as he came closer. She could smell the whiskey fumes. “You can’t believe you’ll…you’ll be able to…”
A slow grin split his face. “Oh, yeah, Deelie, I can—and I will…if you want me to.” He reached out and ran his fingers
down the lapel of her silk robe. “Your call, ma’am.”
His fingers did maddening things to her heartbeat when he brushed them softly across her collarbone, then slipped his hand
inside to let it graze the tips of her already sensitive breasts through the thin fabric of her night rail. She could see
the need in his eyes, unspoken yet clearly visible—to her. Perhaps only to her. “I call your bet, Mr. Daniels, and I raise,”
she whispered, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pressing her body against his.
“I like it when we both win,” he murmured against her throat. He kissed her hungrily, a deep, devouring kiss that she returned
with equal fervor.
When they finally broke apart, breathlessly, she guided him to her bed. “Sit,” she commanded, shoving him down. “You’d never
manage without toppling over.”
“Anythin’ for a lady,” he replied, plunking himself on the edge of the mattress. He watched as she tugged off his boots, a
concession to conditions on the riverfront and streets of the rough town; moccasins would have been sucked into the foot-deep
mud within three steps. His lips split into a lopsided grin when she dropped the footgear by the door and made a moue of distaste
over her dirty hands. Clint loved watching her wash them with scented soap, then briskly dry them on a spotless white towel.
By the time she turned around, he’d pulled off his shirt andwas working at the lacings on his buckskins. She had felt his
eyes on her as she acted as valet. Now she swallowed for courage and untied the sash of her robe, letting it fall across the
chair behind her. His gaze, gleaming like blue ice in the lantern light, penetrated the sheer batiste of her night rail, raking
the curves of her body until she felt on fire.
She looked at his broad, lightly furred chest, enjoying the flexing of his muscles when he stood and pulled down his breeches.
He kicked them away without losing his balance. “Are you sobering up?” some imp made her ask.
“Hell, yes. You could raise the dead, Deelie,” he said raggedly as she walked over to him. “Not to mention this.” He looked
down at his stone-hard erection ruefully.
Delilah took it in her hand and stroked it delicately, eliciting a low growl of pleasure from him. Her own boldness pleased
her. So did having a dangerous man such as Clint Daniels utterly at her mercy. “Now, I think it’s time for bed.”
“Just so it’s not for sleeping,” he murmured, sweeping the wisp of sheer cotton from her body. It floated across the small
cabin and landed on his muddy boots. Neither of them noticed, nor would they have cared….
Early the next morning, as Clint directed the roosters about where to place the last of their cargo, he cursed his foolish
celebratory drinks with Toots Messinger, owner of the largest freighting outfit that hauled goods—especially whiskey—to thirsty
miners in the gold camps. Messinger’s men had unloaded the barrels before dawn this morning and paid in hard currency, which
he’d given to Horace to deposit in the bank until they were ready to leave. It was an astounding amount of money.
Clint grinned, thinking of how delighted Deelie would be with the profit—in spite of her outrage over the risk. He knew the
pounding in his head was not solely due to overindulgence…at least not in drink. It was Delilah Raymond’s fault that
his head spun. She had swept into his life and turned it upside down, right from that first night aboard the
Nymph.
What was it about the woman? Yes, she was beautiful…and highly intelligent…and wonderfully responsive in bed.
But she had a shrewish tongue and the devil’s own temper. Not to mention that she was stubborn as a mule, spoiled as a debutante
and came from an upper-class, monied background that he had despised all his life. But she stuck in his craw like no other
woman he’d ever known.
The image of his docile and loving Teal faded from memory in spite of the hole her death and that of their unborn child had
left in his heart. He’d sworn never again to love another woman, to risk that kind of all-consuming agony and emptiness.
I do
not
love Deelie, dammit!
But somewhere deep inside him a mocking voice called him a liar.
His troubling ruminations were suddenly interrupted when a spit-and-polish captain with gray sideburns, a soft belly and a
self-important manner came walking up the riverfront. The bluebelly was followed by a contingent of soldiers, marching in
formation. Clint could smell trouble closing in. Apparently Horace could, too, because he came ambling down the gangplank.
“Take over the unloadin’, will you?” he asked Horace, who nodded and turned his attention to the roosters’ careful placement
of boxes of dynamite on the soft riverbank. Nevertheless, he kept one eye on Clint’s stiff back as he sauntered toward the
army officer. When Daniels was out of hearing, he told one of the roustabouts to fetch Mrs. Raymond.
“Mornin’, Captain,” Clint said, his tone none too cordial, as the potbellied man stopped directly in front of him.
“I am Captain Dwight Andrews. Are you the owner of this vessel?” he inquired.
“Part owner,” Daniels replied noncommittally. “Why?”
“And you are?” the captain asked, tipping his head to indicate Clint’s lack of manners.
“Clint Daniels.” The reply was curt.
Ignoring the hostility, the officer nodded. “Perhaps you heard in town last night about the catastrophe visited uponour Seventh
Cavalry under Lieutenant Colonel Custer’s command last week?” he asked gravely.
Clint nodded. “Don’t rightly see what I can do about it, though,” Clint drawled.
“Actually, quite a service to your country, sir,” the captain replied sternly, then turned to doff his hat when he saw Delilah
coming down the gangplank.
Every man on the riverfront paused to stare at her. She was a vision in yellow dimity, a simple dress for a warm day, but
one that showed off her golden-hued skin and lovely curves to great advantage. Her hair was caught in a white ribbon and waved
gently on the breeze.
“Good morning, Captain,” she said briskly, offering her hand in a businesslike manner. “I’m Mrs. Raymond, Mr. Daniels’s business
partner and half owner of
The River
Nymph
.” She hoped to defuse any conflict between Clint and the officer. Horace had assured her the whiskey was off the
Nymph,
and the money for it already in the bank. That could not be the reason for the captain’s presence. “To what do we owe the
pleasure of your visit?” she asked as he made a show of saluting the back of her hand with a very proper kiss.
“As I was explaining to Mr. Daniels, there was a most tragic—”
“Custer and his men wandered into a camp of three thousand or so Indians and attacked them,” Clint cut in. “Long Hair and
the Seventh are gone.”
Delilah’s face registered horror at the news. “All of them?” she asked.
“Not quite all,” Captain Andrews replied, clearing his throat. “Er, the colonel split his command. Some of Major Reno’s and
Captain Benteen’s companies found places to make a stand and survived.”
Clint muttered something about fools being lucky beneath his breath, but Delilah covered it up by asking, “How many survivors
are there?”
“We don’t know precisely yet, but we were just informedby telegraph that Grant Marsh’s
Far West
is bringing nearly three score down to Fort Abraham Lincoln. Some of these brave soldiers are so gravely wounded that we must
have them sent to Jefferson Barracks for better medical treatment than is available above St. Louis. Since Captain Marsh’s
steamer is needed to supply the troops as they pursue the hostiles, we require another boat to pick up the injured soldiers
at Lincoln posthaste and transport them downriver—yours, ma’am.”
“And I require that you get the hell out of here before I throw you in the river, bluebelly,” Clint said tightly, taking a
step toward the bug-eyed officer.
Delilah quickly interposed herself between the two men as Horace walked over and stood beside Clint. “But surely, Captain,
there are other boats that would serve as well as ours,” she said, gesturing to the six stern-wheelers lining the riverbank
above and below them.
Andrews shook his head. “I fear not, ma’am. None of the others have fully unloaded their cargoes. Yours is in prime condition
and ready to move immediately. And Captain Marsh informed General Terry that your Captain Dubois is as fine a pilot as he
himself—high praise, indeed. The general wants
The River Nymph
and its captain. You will be carrying a very precious cargo, and the army will reimburse you generously for your effort.”
“If we wait until the end of summer, we’ll make a fortune taking miners downriver. They pay gold—up front,” Clint snarled.
For once, Delilah could not feel mercenary, even though she knew how slowly the army paid and that they would not receive
as much as they’d make from private passengers. “Clint, I know how you feel, but we can’t just—”
“Yes, we can. Get another boat,” Daniels said flatly to Andrews.
The captain stiffened and pulled a sheaf of papers from his jacket, thrusting them at Mrs. Raymond, knowing if he tried to
hand them to Daniels, the Southerner would grind theminto the mud. “I regret to inform you, ma’am, that you and your associate—”
he paused to give Clint a triumphant look—“have nothing to say about the matter. I have direct orders from General Terry to
commandeer this boat if necessary. Captain Dubois will depart forthwith for Fort Abraham Lincoln to board the injured soldiers.
A contract for
The River
Nymph
’s services will await you there.”
“And if we don’t
depart forthwith
…?” Clint said through clenched teeth.
“I’ve been authorized to use all due force to see that the orders are carried out. If you refuse to cooperate, I have thirty
infantrymen at my disposal.” He now gestured to the line of armed soldiers encircling the boat’s cargo. “Rest assured they
will shoot if they have to. Be prepared for boarding. We leave by two this afternoon.”