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THE RIVER NYMPH

By

SHIRL and JIM HENKE


Clint has just refused Delilah’s offer of a job hiring crewmen for the River Nymph, saying that he owns the elegant saloon and bordello where this scene takes place.  Shocked, Delilah and her uncle Horace regroup and try another tack:

Horace was the first to recover.  “Mr. Daniels, perhaps, we could revise our proposition from one of employment, which you obviously do not need, to a business venture that might be of some interest.”

            Clint, who had already risen, heading toward the stairs, turned and cocked his head.  “A business venture?  Hmm."  He stroked his jaw, allowing his eyes to flick briefly to Delilah, then ignore her and return to her uncle.  "What do you have in mind?”

            Bristling at his curt dismissal, she cut in.  “What I have in mind is—“

            “Er, would you pardon us for a brief conference?” Horace asked, now interrupting his niece.  He didn’t like the look in her eyes.  “Could we use one of the tables at the other end of the room?”

            Clint nodded, and the old man practically dragged her across the floor.  Daniels could see the fury radiating from every delectable inch of her body.  Quit thinking with your neither parts, old boy, or that female will land you in deep water.  Ah, but what a wonderful way to drown!  Then Eva glided up to him and he realized that it might be wise for more than one reason to put on a show of indifference to the beauteous Mrs. Raymond.  She knew how to handle a deck of cards but he doubted she’d faire very well in a catfight with the woman who ran the “upstairs recreation” for him.  Then again…the gambling “lady” might just surprise him.

Dismissing the visions of a naked Delilah, draped across his big bed upstairs, he  resumed his seat at the table.  Daniels again riffled through his deck of cards, although he watched from the corner of his eye.  While Horace leaned across the table talking intently, Delilah shook her head stubbornly.  Her chestnut curls bounced and those cat eyes glinted dangerously whenever she turned to glance in his direction. 

Clint waited with an air of supreme indifference as Eva lightly stroked his back…more possessively than he liked.  He enjoyed her company and respected her business acumen, but no female would ever again own his heart.  That had only happened once and it remained a raw, aching wound.  Besides, he though, diverting his attention to the woman standing beside him, it never paid to mix business and romance.  A man always ended up with a losing hand both ways.

            Finally, Delilah and Horace returned to their seats across from Clint.  Delilah was flushed and began to speak, “First of all—“

“Perhaps, it might be wise if I do the talking, my dear.”  Horace’s voice was rife with caution.

When Daniel's whore laughed softly, Delilah could feel her cheeks burning.  Slut, I’d love to give you a real belly laugh by jamming an ostrich feather right up...  Forcing herself to take a deep, calming breath, Delilah ignored the blonde and fixed her gaze firmly on Clinton Daniels.  Her nemesis…her business associate.  Damn him!   “I believe Mr. Daniels and I can come to an…accommodation.”

“As you wish, my dear,” Horace said in a resigned voice.

            “I’ll speak frankly, sir.  We are prepared to make you a very generous offer.  Ten percent interest in the Nymph and, of course, in our upriver trade venture, for your good offices in obtaining a crew.”

            Clint looked from her to her uncle, then back to her, riffling the deck in front of him with one hand, drawing out the time before he replied, watching her delectable derriere perched on the edge of the chair.  Then he drawled softly, “By all means, Mrs. Raymond, let us do be frank.  Without my help, you’ll never get the Nymph up the Missouri.”

Eva’s beautiful laugh splashed over Delilah like a bucket of lye water, but this time she did not allow her face to betray her fury.  Think of this like a poker game.  She focused on Daniels’ long tanned fingers expertly massaging the deck of cards.  No, not a good idea.  Think of the boat.  That aided her concentration, until his next words jarred her. 

“Everybody on the levee knows that Riley's blackballed you.  No one else will work for you because..."  Clint paused and smiled at Delilah.  It was not a nice smile.  "Let’s just say they have the bizarre notion they might end up working mother naked.”

            “You...”  Delilah choked on her rage.

            “You...’bastard’?” Daniels offered helpfully?

“Yes,” Delilah snapped.

            “You chamber pot with ears?  Son of a bitch?”  Clint added.

            She was furious and didn't care if he knew it.  “Yes, all of the above, and any more filth the cesspool of your mind can dredge up!”

            “Ah,”  Clint said pleasantly.  “We're making progress.  I’ll take two-thirds of the boat.”

            Delilah gripped the edge of the table with both gloved hands to keep from pounding on it.  “Never!”

            “Everybody on the levee knows everybody else’s business," Clint said relentlessly.  "You have a real serious cash problem.  A good up-river captain, or pilot, costs a thousand a month, his second pilot $600 to $700.  Oh yeah, the crew will all expect a month’s salary in advance before you pull out of your berth.”

            Delilah pursed her lips.  “My uncle’s research indicates that your figures are inflated, especially the captain’s pay.”

            “Mr. Mathers, where did you get your information, sir?”

            Horace cleared his throat nervously.  “From what I was given to understand was an impeccable source of river lore, a Mr. Claude Beloit.”

            Daniels cursed, disgusted. “What did he tell you was the going wage for a captain?”

            “$600 to $700.”

            “Did you tell him that you intended to take a boat up the Missouri?  Clint asked, already knowing the answer.

            Horace felt like a school boy who had botched his homework.  “I don’t believe so, no.”

            “The Mississippi and the Missouri aren’t the same beast.  Claude figured you were askin’ him about downriver runs from here to New Orleans.  That’s all he does.  He couldn’t get a canoe past Kansas City without ripping the bottom out of it.  Upper Missouri men are a different breed and they're damned expensive.” 

            Clint turned his attention from Horace back to Delilah.  Her fierce anger had faded, the poker professional’s control was gone.  Her expression now was an open book.  He read desperation, despair, and denial.  There was far more to the widow than he’d ever imagined.  Why would she want to leave what was obviously a comfortable life to brave the hardships and take the financial risks of going into the Fort Benton trade?

She started to speak, but he raised his hand.  Holding her eyes with his, he asked the woman behind him, “Eva, didn’t I see Ronnie Bates come in a while ago?”

            “Yeah, he came in just before these two.”

            “Darlin’, send Walter upstairs and ask Bates, if he’s not busy, to come down here for a minute.”

            Eva snickered, “Clint, honey, Ronnie’s so quick on the trigger he should’ve been one of those Texas gunman instead of a river man.  I’ll guarantee that his ‘busy’ has been over for at least five minutes by now."  She sauntered to the bar, hips swaying, mules clicking. The bartender then hurried around the bar and headed upstairs.

            Clint leaned back in his chair and spread his hands on the table in front of him. “Ronnie Bates has been a mate on Missouri river boats for over twenty years.  You can double-check your information on crew salaries with him.”  Goddamned greenhorns!  He refused to admit that he couldn't bear to see the expression on Delilah Mathers Raymond's face.

                Delilah felt nauseous.  Every night since she had won the Nymph she had gone to bed with fear gnawing at her.  It had seemed too good to be true, given the hard knocks life had dealt her in the past decade.  The riverboat was to be their transport back to respectability, yet each night in the silence of her cabin a bone deep foreboding seized her. Things were going too smoothly, moving too fast.

            Under her lashes she studied Daniels, who oddly for once did not boldly return her perusal.  His straw-colored hair fell across his forehead but he made no effort to shake it back.  The indolence of his lanky body belied an underlying tension that she could not identify.  But one thing she did feel for certain—he was not gloating.  In fact he appeared to be holding back anger.  Why? 

Ronnie Bates bounded down the stairs.  Delilah thought that for a man with over twenty years of river experience the slender smiling fellow seemed exuberantly youthful. 

“Didn’t see ya when I come in, Clint.  What can I do ya fer?”

            Daniels made introductions and said, “Just answer some questions for my guests.  I’ll be over at the bar.  What if I send you a bottle of sour mash to oil your brain?  On the house, of course.”

            Ronnie grinned.  “Hell, man, for that I’ll give'em the wisdom of the ages.  Or at least tell'em where half the bodies on the levee’s buried.”

            Clint rose and headed for the bar.  Walt quickly appeared with a bottle and a glass.  Horace and Delilah commenced their interrogation.  Half an hour and half a bottle later, the question and answer session ended.  Bates wobbled to his feet and started to the bar, the remainder of his whiskey in hand. 

Eva, who had been lounging at the bar with Daniels, waved the man up the stairs.  “Keep the bottle, Ronnie, and tell Stella that you’re a guest of the house...but not for too long.”   She laughed.

            Clint returned to the table and took his seat.  With a proprietary air, Eva returned to stand beside him.  He said, “Other river men will give you the same information.  Hell, go ask Beloit.  See if he doesn’t agree with Bates.”

            Horace held up his hand.  “Mr. Daniels, I appreciate your, ah, straightforward dealing.  My niece and I are satisfied that Mr. Bates knows whereof he speaks.  And it would seem that you, yourself, have somewhat understated the case. Apparently Captain Grant Marsh, commands $1500 a month.”

            Daniels shrugged, “Maybe so, but Marsh  and his Far West are now Custer’s “navy” in the war against the hostiles.  The Army is making the land safe for civilized people.” 

The way he stressed the last words and the harsh cast of his features indicated great bitterness.  Delilah could sense his hatred of the blue-coated soldiers, even a decade after the war had ended.  Well, he wasn’t the only one who’d suffered…  Her uncle’s response brought her back to the matter at hand.  The Nymph was her ticket to freedom, well worth the price of dealing with the Yankee-hating Mr. Clinton Daniels.

            “Mr. Bates left a list of ‘topnotch’ men, all of whom demand at least a thousand dollars a month,” Horace said.  “You have made your point, sir.  We sorely underestimated startup expenses…and we need your good offices to obtain a crew.  Now, shall we craft a deal?”

            Daniels smiled.  “I'll have to contribute several thousand dollars to the venture.  And you won't obtain a crew without me.  Does my request for majority control still strike you as unreasonable?”

            Horace started to reply, but Delilah placed her hand on his arm.  “Please, uncle, allow me.” 

When she turned to face Clint, he was surprised to see a devastatingly beautiful smile.  Damn, those lips…those eyes. 

“It would appear, Mr. Daniels, that while distasteful to us, a business arrangement with you would be mutually beneficial.  You’ll obtain a crew and contribute a few thousand dollars for the startup.  None of which requires much financial risk on your part."  She paused.  "So you can see why we're  fiscally compelled to reject your request for a two-thirds share of the venture."      

Clint slouched further back in his chair.  "Go on."

“We'll give you twenty percent.  Quite lucrative for a one hundred percent return on your investment, don’t you agree?”  Her husky voice was genial, her entire presence radiated friendliness now. 

            Daniels felt as levelheaded as a drunken teamster when he looked at her plump pink lips, but he forced himself to focus and return her smile.  “On reconsideration I agree a two-thirds share was perhaps a touch greedy.  An unfortunate failin’ of mine."  Now it was his turn to pause.  "But since the venture's  doomed without me, let me revise my offer.  Sixty percent."          

Her smile never wavered.  She was hitting her stride now.  Clint had to hand it to her.  He watched with admiration that he skillfully hid.  The woman wanted the boat and this business venture so bad she could taste it.  But she was up against a stacked deck,  forced to salvage what she could.  He’d bet the sweat was rolling down her back or between those breasts that needed no corset to push them high and taut. 

Mind on the game, Daniels.  He waited her out.

            “All right, Mr. Daniels,” Delilah replied congenially, “we both know you have us over a barrel.  I'll make my final offer. A forty-nine percent interest in the Nymph and our present venture in return for your assistance in obtaining a crew and for providing us with additional funds.”

            Clint examined the green table top for a moment and then raised his eyes to hold Delilah’s.  “I must insist upon sixty percent, ma’am.”

            Her smile faded now.  “I don't believe you understand.  Before I give up controlling interest in the Nymph, I'll sell her to another interested buyer, anyone except you.  Or…I'll torch her to the waterline.”

            “Now, Delilah—“ Horace remonstrated.

But Delilah was on a roll, unable to stop.  “I'll get a refund from the warehouse owner.  One way or another my uncle and I'll leave town with substantially more money than we brought here.  But take this as gospel.  If I do not destroy the boat, I will keep majority control of it.”

            Delilah stared across the table at that handsome face, so totally devoid of expression, and hated its owner.  The very absence of male superiority in his eyes fanned her rage because she knew it had to be there, hidden.  This Southern lothario had the power to destroy her dreams.  He'd do it with casual indifference.  The thought drove her almost beyond control.  Almost.  She waited him out.

            Across the table Clint was anything but indifferent.  He studied her eyes, measuring the suppressed anger that turned them deepest green.  They flashed a barely leashed wildness.   The woman was magnificent.  Velvet over steel.  He would have to be very careful.  Daniels, you're a fool.  "Forty-nine percent for me.  And—”

            “I give the orders.”

            Clint shrugged.  “Why certainly, ma’am.  As senior partner that would be your prerogative” he drawled.  Until you get yourself in so deep you’ll be begging me to pull you out of Missouri mud.         

            Delilah stared at him intently.  There was no hint of smirking condescension in his face or in his voice.  She rose and extended her hand.  “Then, we have a deal, Mr. Daniels.” 

            He rose and shook her hand and then Horace’s.  “Let's hope it proves profitable."  He looked at Eva and smiled.  "If Bill Holland is still in with Marie, could you ask him to come down please?  My partners and I need his services.”

            "Who is Mr. Holland?" Delilah asked more sharply than she intended.

            Eva paused, waiting for Clint's response.

             “Bill's a bank officer and a notary.  He'll draft a business agreement for us and then notarize it.”

              Delilah froze.  “Are you insinuating that my word cannot be trusted?”  Her  words were like icicles dropping from the eves of a roof. 

            Clint lost his hard won patience.  “I'm not insinuatin’ your word can't be trusted.  I'm saying your word can't be trusted.  You, madam, are as slippery as cow slobber on a flat rock.  God, you think the twist you turned on Riley isn’t common knowledge on the levee?  The stupid ass never thought of a signed agreement when he brought you in as a ringer to win the boat back from me.”

            He walked around the table and stopped within inches of her.  “I’m not Riley.  And you, for certain, aren't a poor helpless widow.  You, ma’am, howl with the wolves.”  He smiled enigmatically.  “My people up-river have always respected the wolves…but we sure as hell don’t trust them.”  

            Horace interposed himself between the two and glanced over to the silver blonde.  “Miss Eva, would you be so kind as to see if Mr. Holland is available and willing to provide us his services?” 

            Loving the way Clint had put the gambling hussy down, the blonde smiled at Horace with his courtly manners.  "Why not?"  She headed upstairs.

“Please sit down, my dear,” Horace said soothingly to Delilah, then asked Clint,  “While we wait for Mr. Holland, would you perchance have brandy for a toast to seal our bargain?”

“Why, certainly,” Daniels replied with a grin.

Oh so civilized.  A Southern gentleman who lived in a bordello!  Gritting her teeth, Delilah silently watched him select a bottle from behind the bar.  His private stock, no doubt.  She was certain it would be swill.

Clint poured a snifter and handed it to her, allowing their fingers to brush deliberately.  She didn't flinch.  Neither did he.  But both of them felt the sizzle like a lightening strike. 

What the hell have you dealt yourself into? Delilah and Clint’s feelings, for once, were in perfect accord.

            She took one sip of the brandy.  Damn the man, it was excellent.  Trying to ignore him, she studied the ornately framed mirrors and paintings, the heavy masculine furniture.  Anything but look at her new business partner.  A partner who had outsmarted her at every turn…so far.  And a man who made her feel things she had never imagined before.  And would not allow herself to imagine ever again!

            Eva swished back down the stairs and resumed her position beside Daniels.  “Bill’ll be down in a couple, Clint.”  One smooth pale hand rested on his shoulder, her long lacquered nails kneading into the expensive wool of his jacket like a contented cat.  Looking at Delilah, she said, “Well, honey, since we're both doin' business with Clint, I guess we’re sorta partners-in-law.”  She paused for a moment and then sunk the harpoon.  “Sorta sisters under the skin.”

            Delilah blanched.  “Only like Cain and Abel were brothers, madam.”  Her voice  thickened with anger to a low, throaty rasp.  “In addition to the more obvious dissimilarities in our positions…”  She watched Eva draw back at the barb, then continued, “I’m the majority owner in my venture with our mutual partner, while—as I understand it—you own only twenty percent.”          

Eva studied the seething brunette.  Uppity woman thought she was better just because she talked fancy and dressed oh so ladylike, but she made her living gambling.  Not any more respectable than Eva’s chosen career.   “The way I figure it, my twenty percent is worth a lot more than your fifty-one percent.”

            Delilah arched her brow condescendingly.  “Indeed?”

            “Deed?  That’s right, honey!”  Her eyes remained locked with Delilah's.  Before Clint could stop her, she bent over his shoulder and slid her splayed hand down his chest until it disappeared below the table top.  “See, Mrs. Raymond, with my twenty-percent comes the deed to some fertile Southern territory...the same one you’re interested in.”

            Delilah snapped back in her seat, too appalled to utter a word.  Denial would only give credence to the harlot’s absurd accusation. 

            Removing Eva's hand from the waistband of his pants, he kissed the palm lightly and murmured, "Behave yourself, darlin'.  Can't you see you're embarrassing my new partner?"  There was just enough steel beneath the softness of his voice to make Eva subside.

To Delilah, however, his remarks were a red flag.  She rose so quickly that her chair tipped over.  "You coarse, vulgar little trollop!"  Illogically, she attacked Eva rather than the man between them.

Eva emitted a hiss of indignation and jerked her hand free of Clint's grasp, moving around the table.  Both Clint and Horace jumped to their feet.  Clint seized Eva's arm as Horace murmured in Delilah's ear, "Dear one, unless you wish to dispute ownership of the aforementioned territory with Miss Eva, I suggest that you let me right your chair and       that you be seated."

With a most unladylike oath, Eva jerked away from Daniels and stomped to the bar, loudly ordering a double whiskey.

Once satisfied that the foe had been vanquished, Delilah sat back down.

            A stone-still Clinton Daniels stood pondering the distinct possibility that God had created female rage as a male purgative.  Then Attorney Holland clamored down the stairs, interrupting Clint’s ruminations.

            “I understand you need some legal work done.  Hell of a time, Clint.”

            “There are paper and pens in my office.  You know where to find whatever you need,” Daniels replied, ignoring the lawyer/notary’s ire.  He gave the man too much business for it to last.

            In a quarter hour, Bill Holland returned with two copies of a contract between  Clinton Daniels and Delilah Mathers Raymond.  After the copies had been signed and notarized, the attorney returned to unfinished business upstairs.

Horace raised his glass in a perfunctory toast.  Warily, his niece and Clint joined in.  The two men arranged a business luncheon for the next afternoon.  The older man wanted to get Delilah out of the immediate vicinity of Miss Eva, who had spent a quarter hour at the bar slugging back shots before retiring upstairs, the remains of the bottle in hand.  She was well on her way to inebriation and he had always observed that women and alcohol were a most combustible commodity.

            As he and his niece were almost out of the Blasted Bud, Delilah murmured, “Don’t worry, Uncle Horace.  I'll strip him of his share of the Nymph just as easily as I stripped him of his clothes.”

            Horace whispered vehemently,  “My dear, you must stop underestimating this man.  You didn’t win that cut by chance.  He cheated you.  As he was examining the cards, I saw him palm one.  Well done, too.  I almost didn’t catch it.  I thought he had palmed an ace.  I said nothing because I thought he would take his thousand and save you from acquiring the unfortunate reputation to which, alas, you now have fallen victim.”

            Delilah halted abruptly on the walk outside of the Bud.  “You mean he deliberately palmed the deuce so he’d loose?”

            “Do you believe a man that skilled would filch a deuce instead of an ace by accident?”  The moment he asked the rhetorical question, Horace realized he'd just made a major tactical blunder. 

Before he could stop her, Delilah spun on her heel and slammed through the door.  Clint was still standing at the table, brandy glass in one hand, contract in the other.  He looked up in surprise as his new partner made straight for him with purposeful strides.  “Back so soon, Mrs. Raymond.  What can I do—”

            She swung her reticule by it drawstring.  It connected with the side of his face, making a satisfying “thunk.”  “You sneaky, conniving…deceitful wretch!”

The attack was so sudden that Clint could not even get out a curse.  He simply stumbled backward, got his feet tangled with chair legs, and landed flat on his back.  Delilah stood motionless in front of her prostrate tormentor as he struggled to a sitting position, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears.  “What the hell’s—”

“I’ll give you hell, right enough!”  She drew back one foot and tried to kick him in that hateful face.  Unfortunately, the toe of her slipper caught in her petticoat and snapped the rear hem of her narrow skirt against the heel of her other foot, sending both feet flying upwards.  She landed in a sitting position in front of Clint.  Her spine felt like a compressed accordion.

            “Merciful Christ, woman, what’s in that bag?  A hunk of brick?”

            In spite of her pain, Delilah noted with satisfaction that the upper left side of his face was beginning to swell.  “A .41 caliber double-barreled Remington Derringer!”

            “A must for any lady of  fashion.”  Daniels touched his throbbing face, muttering, “I'm gratified you used it as a bludgeon rather than shooting me with it.”

            “Don't tempt me, you…you…”

            “My brain’s too rattled for me to provide you with cuss words at the moment,” he muttered.

            “You deliberately lost that cut!  You did it so I wouldn’t be able to get a crew.”

            He shrugged, then winced.  “I had no idea  you were going to haul freight.  I thought you intended to keep the Nymph as a floating gambling palace, same as Riley.  I don’t need competition from a lady gambler.  I let you win to protect my business here at the Bud. No man would sit down at the table with a woman who humiliates other players.   If I'd known you were going into the upriver trade....”  He shrugged, then grinned.  “Hell, I’d a probably done it anyway.”

            Delilah stared at the grinning oaf.  In just two meetings, he had succeeded in stripping her of a lifetime of refinement, not to mention the hard earned self-discipline she had acquired over the last decade.  Now here she sat spraddle-legged on the floor of a bawdyhouse.  What was happening to her?  His congenial expression was intolerable.  He’d succeeded in making her lose her temper, her self control, everything she prided herself on.  She needed to make him pay, but how?              Then, noting the way he looked at her, an idea occurred…

            Clint watched the confused expression on her beautiful face.  A minute ago, she had been all self-righteous anger, enraged sufficiently to try and kick out his teeth.  Now she looked like a lost child.  He came up on one knee and leaned forward with deliberate slowness.  She seemed so very fragile and vulnerable that he held his breath, afraid to frighten her, but she didn't move. 

            A part of his brain sounded warning bells.  He dismissed them as the aftermath of her blow to his head.  With exquisite care, he placed the lightest kiss on Delilah's luscious mouth.  Gentle, oh so gentle.  She closed her eyes.  He leaned away, watching as they opened and she smiled tentatively.  God she was precious.  God he was crazy!

            She rose to her knees in a seductively fluid movement and reached out one hand to his cheek, then slipped it to the back of his head,  Grasping a fistful of straw-colored hair, she drew him to her.  His lips parted as he prepared to kiss her again with much more vigor. 

That’s when she sunk her teeth in the lower one.  And held on. 

“Auugh!  Godda eh!  Leggo!  Awww!  Daa!”  He couldn't get his mouth to form the curses while she held him in the agonizing lip lock. 

Abruptly, Delilah released his lip and he snapped his head back.  Still a bit loggy from the blow to his skull, Clint lost his balance and toppled onto his rump again.  Blood  streamed down his chin, staining his jacket and shirt front.  He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and pressed it to his lacerated lip.

            From the top of the stairs, Eva’s beautiful laughter filled the room.  “Clint, honey, let that be a lesson.  If you don’t wanna lose that valuable Southern bottom land, you  better keep your fly buttoned when that bitch is around!” 

 

 

############ Chapter 1  ############

            It wasn’t every night a crowd on the St. Louis Levee got to see a female riverboat gambler.  It for sure wasn’t every night they got to see Clint Daniels lose his shirt either, as he sat across from her in the made-over salon aboard his sternwheeler, The River Nymph.

           The boat’s long narrow card room overflowed with goggle-eyed spectators of every stripe, from wizened “wharf rats” and hard-eyed harlots to staid tradesmen and even a few elegantly dressed bankers and other swells.  The lower classes lined the bar at the far end of the room while the rich men sat around tables in the shadowy corners. 

Bright lights from the St. Louis waterfront flickered through the windows, but every eye in the place was fixed intently on the center table.  A large globe lamp overhead illuminated the players seated around its green baize surface—Clint Daniels, Ike Bauer, Teddy Porter…and the female. 

Although no lady would ever set foot in a gambling establishment, she certainly looked like one, dressed in a pale green linen suit with dark green piping.  The frilly lace collar of her white blouse peeped tantalizingly above the jacket’s high neckline, caressing her slender throat. Rich chestnut curls were piled atop her head where a tiny hat with a dark green feather perched.  She had an arresting face with a slender nose, high brow and full pink lips. But the deep-set jade green eyes were her best feature.  If she knew every man in the place desired her, she gave not the slightest indication.  

This was a very high stakes game, five card stud, St. Louis style, first card down, next three up, last card down.  Ike Bauer, who was the dealer, folded after the second round of cards, pushed the remaining few dollars left of his original $10,000 table stake into the pot and declared himself out when he finished this deal. 

Now, after the fourth round and final up card, Clint bet a thousand.  The woman examined his up cards and counted out a stack of bills from the obscenely large mound of cash in front of her.  “Your thousand and two thousand more.”  Mrs. Delilah Mathers Raymond possessed a rich whisky voice, even though she never touched a drop.

            Teddy Porter stared at the globe lamp above him as if seeking a miracle to keep him in the game.  The freight company owner was an obese man whose tiny moustache could not stem the flow of perspiration dribbling down his upper lip.  Pulling a red handkerchief from his pocket, he mopped his down-turned lips.  “Damnation! I ain’t got that much in my stack.”  Porter pushed his cards into the middle of the table and started to pocket his remaining few hundred dollars.

            “You know better, Teddy.  What’s left of your table stake remains for the winner.”  Clint deliberately did not look at the fat man, but every spectator knew that Teddy Porter was within a hair’s width of being turned into fertilizer. 

Porter tossed the money into the pot, then pried himself out of his chair.  “Now I know why men oughta keep women barefoot and pregnant.”  There were snickers of agreement from the bar.

            Ignoring them, Mrs. Raymond fixed Porter with a calm stare, then said in that throaty voice, “A woman might find it difficult to deal a hand while nursing a child, sir.  But I'm certain even a barefooted woman with a babe at each breast could separate a  player of your...skill from his money.”  The room filled with laughter.   Porter’s sweaty red face glowed like the globe lamp overhead when she added, “As for handling cards with a bloated stomach, you could perhaps enlighten us regarding the difficulty?” 

The laughter became raucous, drowning out the freighter’s snorted obscenity.  When he placed his meaty fists on the table and leaned across it, the woman’s chaperone, a tall cadaverously gaunt man of indeterminate age, slide his hand inside the jacket of his frock coat.

“Teddy,” Clint Daniels said in a deceptively soft Southern drawl, “you started the mouthin' and you got bested.  Hell, you know a man can’t beat a woman in a barkin' contest.  Take your whipping like a sport and leave…while you’re still upright.”  Porter hesitated for a moment, looking from Daniels to the thin man in the high starched collar.   Unclenching his fists, he backed off and waddled out of the room.

            Mrs. Raymond ignored his retreat.  “I repeat, Mr. Daniels,  two thousand to you… or should I say ‘woof ’?”

            Clint threw back his head and laughed.  “‘Woof’ would definitely be the wrong language for a lady with cat eyes.”  Her deep green eyes did not blink.  “You have three spades up same as me.”  The odds were getting better.  “I’ll just call your two thousand.” 

            Bauer dealt the last down cards.  Clint watched as she looked at hers.  Damn, she’s good.  Absolutely no expression.  After playing against her all evening, he expected she would give away nothing.  He looked at his last card, his face revealing no more than hers.

            “Well, since I’m still high, I’ll bet...” Clint counted his remaining cash.  “$1700 dollars.”

            “Call and raise five thousand.”  Her gaze was cold as ice.

            Clint smiled.  Well, that’s what you get for playing poker with a beautiful woman.  Mrs. Raymond was a professional, and she was doing what any professional would do.  Hell, what he would do in her place.  Having cleaned him out of his ten thousand dollar table stake, she raised.  Since he had no money left to call that raise, he would have to forfeit the game.

            "I'd love to play this hand, but at the moment, I'm sufferin’ from an obvious financial embarrassment.”  He shrugged carelessly and smiled at her.

            Delilah Mathers Raymond tapped her delicate chin with one slender finger as she examined the tall gambler lounging so carelessly in his chair.  She did not return the smile.  His eyes were palest blue, almost gray, fathomless.  Thick coarse hair the color of straw fell across his forehead.  His jaw line was firm and his chin possessed a slight cleft.  The smiling lips could be either cruel or sensual, or both.   Regardless of which, the arrogant clod probably had women, from both sides of the track, swooning over him. 

Delilah was maliciously pleased to detect a few minor imperfections.  A small scar in one eyebrow and another thin white slash that ran from the corner of his right eye an inch down his cheek.  His patrician nose was slightly off center, too, probably broken in a fight over a woman.  She had seen his type from Boston to New Orleans.  Mrs. Raymond smiled inwardly.  The way her luck was running tonight, perhaps someone might knock out a couple of those white, beautifully even front teeth! 

Damn but she detested Southern cavaliers!  She had spent almost a decade holding her own against what they had done.  Far easier to handle a bloated pig like Porter.  At least, he showed his bruised male ego rather than hide behind a facade of polite, supercilious courtesy.  She was determined to wipe that superior smile from Mr. Clinton Daniels’ face.

            “For shame, Mr. Daniels.  Capitulate so easily?  I have a proposition for you.”

            Clint’s smile broadened into a full-blown grin.  “A proposition?  From a lady?

This must be my lucky night.”

            “Not that I have detected so far."  She stared pointedly at the empty expanse of table in front of him.  "But that could change."  Lady!  Delilah knew no woman who played cards for a living was ever considered a lady, least of all by a Southern gentleman, even if he was a gambler. "Since you and I are the only players remaining in this game I propose an alteration to the rules.  I’ll wave the ten thousand table stake restriction so you may call my bet...if you so desire.”

            Though his face betrayed nothing, Clint felt a little rush of triumph.  So, Gorgeous, you filled that flush.  “All right ma’am, I can arrange to have the cash....”

            “No cash,” she interrupted calmly.  “I understand that you own this boat.  I will allow you to call my raise with the deed to the River Nymph.

            The room could have been a mausoleum.  No one moved.  The silence was absolute.  Even old Timmy Grimes, the waterfront drunk, paused his whisky glass half way to his mouth.

            Daniels tipped his flat crowned Stetson even farther back on his head.  The corners of his mouth lifted slightly.  “Mrs. Raymond, your raise, in fact, all the money in the pot isn’t equal to the value of the Nymph.” 

            Delilah counted out a stack of bills and handed them to her gaunt protector.  Then, she pushed the rest of her winnings into the pot, arching one brow in a dare.  Her smile was contemptuous.

            “All right, ma’am, we’ll say that’s close enough.  Consider yourself called.”

            Delilah shook her head.  “Oh, I think not , sir.  I don’t accept markers.” 

            A collective murmur rustled through the card room.  Clinton Daniels had been a fixture on the St. Louis waterfront for seven years.  His reputation for fair play was legendary.  As was his skill with cards and, when needed, with a gun.

 And this female had just insulted him.

            Clint tipped back his chair and stared at the woman as is she were some “curiosity” in a freak show.  He shrugged and motioned to a man behind the bar.  “Banjo, please fetch Mrs. Raymond the deed.”  Banjo Banks, whose nickname was derived from the unfortunate bulk of his posterior relative to that of his upper body, scurried out of the salon.

            In the silence that once again settled over the room, Clint decided that it was his turn to catalogue Mrs. Delilah Mathers Raymond as she had so thoroughly done to him earlier.  As soon as their eyes met in the thickening silence, she averted her gaze.  Calmly, she studied the flickering lights along the St. Louis levee revealed through the door Banjo had left open.

            Clint was certain that she not the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.  But he was damned if he could recall when or where he had seen one better.  Her hair was a dark rich brown--except when she turned so the lamplight streaked it with sparkling bursts of dark flame.  Her face was that of a mature woman, perhaps in her late twenties.  There was none of the pouty softness of a schoolroom miss.  High cheekbones, stubborn chin  and delicate nose—but it was the dark green eyes, the lush shade of river moss, that held his fancy most.  That and her slightly plump lips.  Positively wicked, they begged to be kissed.

            Clint nodded to Delilah’s hand resting on the table.  “I take it that you are a widow, Mrs. Raymond?” he said in a soft low drawl.

            Delilah twisted the simple wedding band.  “Yes.  I lost my husband during the war.

‘64.”

            “You must have been very young.  My condolences, ma’am.”

            “I don’t want your condolences, sir, just your boat.”  The tone of her voice was underlaid with a snappishness at odds with her earlier cool professionalism.

            Daniels noticed.  “I take it from your eastern accent that your husband fought for the North.”

            “And quite obviously, judging from your accent—if  you fought at all—you fought for the rebels.”  Delilah struggled to control a spurt of dangerous anger.

            “You just might be surprised,” Clint murmured.

            Banjo came barging into the room and hurried to the table.  He handed his boss a sheet of heavy legal vellum.  After glancing over it, he gave it to Delilah.  She quickly scanned the document and then pushed it back for his signature.  Clint shook his head.  “Only if you win, Mrs. Raymond.  And another thing,” he added, his lips thinning, “Since you’re such a sticklers for details, I still don’t reckon that the pot equals the value of my boat, so I consider this deed as calling your bet and a raise equal to the amount of the money you just passed to...?”  He looked at the black clad man towering protectively behind her.

            “My uncle, Horace Mathers."  She paused and moistened her lips.  "Mr.  Daniels, there is over thirty thousand in that pot—”

            “And a prime shallow-draft stern wheeler like the Nymph’ll go for over forty.  Do you call my raise, lady?”

            Delilah looked at Daniels three up cards, all spades.  She nodded to Horace who tossed the stack of bills into the pot.  The brunette looked her opponent squarely in the eyes.  “Now, you can consider yourself called.”

            Clint flipped over his two down cards, both spades, one the king.  “King-

high flush, ma’am.”  The tension broken, the spectators expelled a collective sigh.

            Delilah turned over her two down cards, both spades, one the ace.  “Ace-high flush, sir.  I believe I hold the winning hand.”

            From the moment that Horace had tossed in the money to cover Clint’s raise, neither Clint nor the woman had bothered looking at the table.  They had locked eyes and had never broken contact.  His eyes were empty, even when he smiled. She almost shivered.  But when the crowd broke into astonished cries of disbelief, Delilah deliberately allowed a fleeting spark of triumph to flash across her face. 

            Daniels’ registered no response.  In fact, his eyes, intently studying her, remained void of any emotion, certainly not the anger or sense of defeat she had hoped to glimpse.  After a moment, he merely smiled that smile that did not reach those eyes, pulled the deed across the table and signed it with a flourish,  then tossed it cavalierly on the pile of currency.

            “Well, ma’am,  you wouldn't accept my condolences, but I do trust you'll accept my congratulations.”  He rose, touching the brim of his hat, and turned to leave.

            Delilah was furious.  The bastard was patronizing her.  Refuse to admit defeat, would he!  She waited until he almost reached the bar.  Then her husky voice stopped him.   “Mr. Daniels, please don’t leave just yet.  I pride myself on being a magnanimous victor...” 

Her uncle Horace bent down and put his hand on her arm,  whispering something, but she shook her head. 

“I always like to leave my less fortunate opponents with something.  How about one last bet, sir, a chance to win back a stake for another game?  I’ll bet $1,000 against the clothes you’re wearing that I can beat you cutting for high card.”  The crowd was stunned into silence.  No one up or down the river had ever heard such an outrageous proposition.

            Clint cocked his head, studying the beautiful woman. 

Delilah had expected shock or anger, but not curiosity...or was it disappointment?  At least his eyes were now alive. She flushed, suddenly uncertain of her triumph.  

Clint finally replied, “I’ll accept your wager, ma’am, if you’ll allow me to exclude my weapons and cigar case from the bet.” 

Delilah nodded woodenly.  She had done what no professional ever did.  What Uncle Horace had warned her not ever to do—let her emotions interfere with business.

            Clint moved back to the table, but did not take a seat.  Delilah had not realized he was quite so tall.  He picked up the deck and riffled it contemplatively.  Then, he handed it to Ike Bauer, who was watching from the sidelines.  “Would you shuffle the cards?”  When Bauer nodded, he looked over at Mrs. Raymond’s protector.  “If that’s all right with you?” he inquired. 

With a disgusted look at his niece, Horace agreed, eager to terminate the distasteful business.  Bauer shuffled, then lay the deck on the table and stepped back.  Clint nodded to Delilah.  “Ladies first.” 

She drew a three of hearts and sighed with relief.  This was one game she would be happy to lose.  She had been a fool to taunt the hometown favorite into making the bet. 

The room grew deathly silent when Clint flipped over a deuce.  The crowd groaned. 

But Delilah’s whisper-thin voice echoed over the noise.  "You may send the clothes to the boat in the morning, Mr. Daniels."

            Her face burned and she could not bear to look at any of the people surrounding her, least of all Clinton Daniels.  Delilah knew she had humiliated him.  He represented the life she hated, but the man had nothing to do with her past.  A hard lump formed at the back of her throat.  She turned away, staring out one of the side windows, recently installed to turn the open hurricane deck into an enclosed salon.  The winking lights from the city above the levee seemed to mock her. 

Suddenly her attention was pulled back to the table by a soft thump. 

Clint’s hat dropped onto the pile of cash in the center of the table.  Next came his coat, his waistcoat, and a handful of shirt studs.  An alarmed Delilah looked at his face with something akin to terror.  “My god, Daniels, send the clothes tomorrow...or don’t send them at all—I was just making a bad joke.” 

            Clint shrugged off his shirt, revealing a muscular chest flecked with gold hair narrowing to his waistband.  Smiling, he said,  “I don't think so, ma’am.  Remember?  You never leave a table without collecting your winnin’s...no markers.” 

The stillness remained palpable as he continued to undress.  But everyone's hostile eyes fixed on her.

Delilah could not seem to stop staring at the cunning pattern of his chest hair until he bent down and yanked off  his hand-tooled leather boots and socks.  When he straightened up and reached for the top button of his fly, her face was flame red.  She bit her lip to keep from gasping aloud.  But she could not force her gaze away from his hand as he deftly unfastened his trousers and shucked them down his long legs.  Calm as could be, he peeled off  the last item, silk unmentionables which almost floated onto the pile of clothing littering the money-covered table.

Finally, he was newborn-naked, the most striking specimen of masculine beauty  Delilah could ever have imagined.  Like a Greek statue.  Sinking her teeth into her lip with renewed vigor, she forced herself to look away from his coolly detached gaze.  He was completely unconcerned about his nudity in a room full of people—in front of her.  And why not?  The rotter knew how humiliated she felt.  He knew, too, that she had been fascinated looking at his body.

            He casually slipped into the shoulder sling of his .38 caliber Smith & Wesson, picked up the small Colt Derringer that had been tucked in his waistcoat, then held up a cigar.  “Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked. 

She shook her head in a daze.  He fired up the stogie, picked up his wallet, knife, and cigar case.  Clinton Daniels strolled out the door in an easy long-legged gate, completely at his leisure, leaving pandemonium in his wake as the room exploded with  furious whispers and muffled curses. 

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