The River Nymph (23 page)

Delilah and Horace each seized hold of one of Clint’s arms as the red-faced little captain marched smartly off. His men remained
in position, their Springfield rifles at their sides.

“Well, it looks as if you’ve just enlisted,” Clint said flatly. “But I haven’t.”

Chapter Eighteen

What
do you mean,
you
haven’t?” Delilah asked, frightened at the look in his cold gray eyes as he stared at the sergeant left in charge of the soldiers.
“You heard Captain Andrews. There is no choice.”

“Way I figure, there are always choices, Deelie. Sometimes they aren’t the ones a man wants…”

“I fear the officious little captain has commandeered the boat. The issue now is who among us will remain behind to sell our
cargo while the
Nymph
heads downriver on its mission of mercy,” Horace said, attempting to interject the practicalities of business, something Clint
and his niece could discuss without coming to blows.

“I’m staying here. I’ll conduct the auction. You two go.” Clint’s tone and granite-hard expression indicated there would be
no discussion. He started to walk away, then paused and said, “Oh, don’t take less than three hundred a day from that damned
bluebelly Terry for the use of our boat.”

“No!” Once again she seized hold of Clint’s arm and stepped in front of him. “Uncle Horace can auction off the cargo and arrange
passage downriver for himself with the money. I need you to negotiate with the army so we get the best deal we can.”

He cocked his head and looked at her, then laughed bitterly. “You still don’t trust me, do you, Deelie? What do you expect
I’ll do—take the money and run off to Chicago or New York with it?”

Delilah looked stricken. “That is hateful. I know youwouldn’t steal our money. I want you with me, Clint,” she said simply,
looking into his cold eyes unflinchingly.

“Darlin’, I don’t give a damn what you want. I’m not goin’ on a boat ride with a bunch of bluebellies.” He stalked away, shaking
off her hand as if it were a snake.

Horace saw her shoulders slump in dejection. He walked over to her and placed his arm around her. “Tut, child. We can straighten
this out. Only remember Clint was forced into the Union army once before with disastrous results. It’s natural he would resent
the way this has been thrust upon him.”

“He’s headed for the saloon,” she said, watching as Clint climbed the crude plank walk in front of the closest establishment
lining the street. “We can’t leave him this way. He won’t take the money. He probably won’t even sell the cargo. He’ll…”

“Return to his adopted family?” Horace supplied.

“No, Sky and Talks Wise would never let him go wild again. You’ve seen it, how he’s reverted the farther upriver we’ve come.
He’ll either drink himself to death or join the Sioux fighting to escape the army’s vengeance. He’ll die, Uncle Horace!”

Horace nodded sadly, knowing that she was most probably right. “Then we must act quickly to stop him. There is a way, although
it would best be implemented by you, I believe.”

Moments later, Delilah approached the sergeant in charge of the soldiers. “I need your help with a problem.” She fluttered
her lashes and wrung her hands. What man—besides Clint Daniels—could resist a damsel in distress?

When she finished telling her story, Sergeant Jamie Finn was putty in her hands. The big man had a large nose that bore the
hallmarks of having been broken multiple times, as well as scars over much of his beefy, weathered face. But there was kindness
in his dark brown eyes. “I’ll have to clear this with the capt’n, ma’am, but don’t ye be a worryin’ about it. We’ll have your
husband back aboard the boat before it’s time to shove off.”

Approximately two hours later, after Finn had cleared the matter with Andrews, he and three of his men approached the boat
with Clint. The sergeant led the way, two troopers walked beside Daniels and a third followed behind him. Clint’s hands were
shackled behind his back, his shirt torn and bloody and his face bruised, with one eye starting to swell. A thin trickle of
blood came from one nostril. Delilah knew his knuckles must be as bruised and bloody as his face. But he was intact and able
to walk under his own power, thank heavens.

The sergeant beamed with admiration as he walked up the gangplank to where she stood. “Niver saw a man fight like that since
I left the old sod. Are ye certain he’s not Irish?”

In fact she had no idea what
her husband’s
heritage was, but Delilah merely said, “I fear not,” as she inspected the sergeant. His lip was split, his nose newly displaced
and he, too, was sporting a fresh shiner.

“Best barroom brawler ever, that man of yours. It took eight of us to bring him down. Four of me troopers, they’re getting
patched up at the fort infirmary. And this after we waited until himself had a belly full of whiskey to slow him down.” There
was awe in his voice.

Clint stared past Delilah as if she were invisible. His eyes were flat, his face emotionless. As she thanked the sergeant
for returning
her husband,
she wished Clint would rage at her, show some feeling, even if it were hatred.
He’s all Indian, now.
What have I done?
But what else could she have done?

“I’ll be shacklin’ him to a bunk, if that’s all right with ye, ma’am?” Finn said, sensing that much was amiss between Mr.
and Mrs. Daniels.

“My uncle’s on the hurricane deck. He’ll direct you,” she replied as Finn handed her the key to the irons and Clint’s weapons.

“It might be for the best if ye’d be keepin’ him under lock ’n key until we’re well on the way.”

Delilah nodded as the three troopers led the prisoner toward the stairs to the upper deck. She clutched Clint’s gunbelt as
Finn followed his men, still muttering about a man who loved to fight so much he’d take on eight-to-one odds. She was just
grateful no one had been seriously hurt, especially Clint. Finn had assured her that he knew the proprietress of the Gold
Nugget. At his request, she had insisted that Mr. Daniels remove his firearms before she served him any whiskey.

Delilah stood by the railing, staring out at the cargo on the bank, her mind a muddle of conflicting emotions. Horace joined
her shortly. “He’ll come around, my dear. I’m certain of it, although,” he chuckled ruefully, “it might take some time…and feminine wiles.”

“Will you be able to sell the cargo and make it all the way home safely?” she asked, realizing what a huge responsibility
she was asking her uncle to assume. “All of this, deceiving Red Riley, converting the boat for upriver trade, it was all my
idea, but now—”

“Delilah, child, you know I’ve wanted this as much as you. And I am certainly capable of dealing with the ruffians masquerading
as merchants here. Never fear, I shall book passage aboard the first steamer heading home as soon as I’ve made us a sizable
profit and retrieved our whiskey money from the bank. You see to Clint. I suspect that will prove the more daunting task.”

Delilah kissed his leathery cheek. “I suspect you’re absolutely right.”

“Excellent. Now, while Captain Dubois and I discuss how to conduct the auction of the cargo, I suggest that you gather your
medicinals and tend to your patient.”

Delilah stood outside the door to Clint’s cabin, clutching her basket of medical supplies with a white-knuckled grip. Swallowing
for courage, she opened the door and stepped inside. He lay on the mattress on which they had made love, but this time his
wrists were chained to the frame of the bed. He stared at the ceiling above him in stony silence, not turning to look at her
when she approached.

Well, if that was the way he wanted to play out the hand, she could act as dispassionate as he, damn him! She walked over
to the bed and pulled up a chair beside him. Willing her hands to cease their trembling, she took a soft napkin from her basket,
soaked it in the basin of clean water on the nightstand, then sat and began to cleanse the cuts and abrasions on his face
and hands with nurselike precision.

His lip was split, but fortunately no teeth had been loosened. When she inserted her fingers in his mouth to check, she half
expected he’d bite her, but he did not. His long, dexterous gambler’s hands were a mass of bruises and cuts, the knuckles
swollen horribly. It was all she could do not to bend over and kiss them, remembering how he had used them to caress her body
so exquisitely.

As she worked, he did not flinch or in any way acknowledge her presence. “I could use the carbolic solution on you again,”
she murmured but received no response. “Very well,” she said softly, soaking another cloth with plain alcohol.

Very gently she disinfected his cuts, then applied a cold compress to his swelling eye. Still, he did not move. When she had
done all she could for his injuries, she left the cabin, shaken and close to tears that she refused to shed. She would not
show him how he’d hurt her. At this point, who knew how such a revelation would affect their relationship? Delilah certainly
had no idea.

He’d accused her of not trusting him. She did not. But not for the reasons he assumed. Her greatest fear had not been for
the money but for his life, that he’d turn wild red Indian again and die. Then she would own the
Nymph
and collect all the profits. Delilah laughed bitterly to herself. She would never have imagined that freedom, respectability
and money would mean so little to her as they did now.

Horace was waiting with Captain Dubois in the dining room when she composed herself and went in search of them. Her uncle
explained that several merchants who dealt with the gold camps had already come calling after receiving word about the auction.

“It should not take more than a week at most to dispose of everything on the riverbank for a handsome profit, Madame,” Dubois
said with a reassuring smile.

Horace could see the haunted look in her eyes and knew things with Clint had not gone well. As he pulled out a chair for her
to take a seat at the dining table, he said, “The captain has graciously agreed to provide four of his most trusted roustabouts
to act as guards until the transaction is complete. Then we’ll take the first packet downriver for St. Louis. There should
be no problem arriving in plenty of time to pay off our note at Consolidated Planters Bank.”

Delilah smiled at the captain. “I do thank you, sir. We had not expected to have this sort of difficulty with the army.”

Dubois gave a Gallic shrug. “I fear I am partially to blame. If Grant Marsh had not been so laudatory about my skills, General
Terry might not have telegraphed here to commandeer your boat. Although it will take considerable time, you will be handsomely
reimbursed for transporting the wounded soldiers. Captain Marsh has told me what his going rate is. If I am so fine a pilot
as he says, then they must pay you that same rate.”

Delilah and Horace had both heard of Marsh’s lucrative deal with the army. “Do discuss that fee with Clint before you reach
Fort Abraham Lincoln,” he said to his niece.

Now Dubois looked a bit uncomfortable. “I know how he feels about the Union army, and several of my crew have given me a grisly
description of how the soldiers returned him to the boat. Is he feeling…well?”

“As well as can be expected,” she replied calmly. “Sergeant Finn was quite in awe of the fight he gave them.”

Jacques and Horace chuckled over that and the tension was broken. But Delilah knew she would have a difficult task getting
her galvanized Yankee to deal with General Terry…and to forgive her.

After a final wave at Horace standing on the muddy riverbank, Delilah watched as his figure grew smaller in the dis-tance.
It was quite amazing how swiftly a boat moved with the current when one was used to laboring upstream against it. The journey
to Montana Territory had taken well over two months. Even if their stop at Fort Abraham Lincoln held them up for a few days,
they would still make St. Louis in as little as three weeks.

She trudged to the kitchen, where Luellen was overseeing dinner preparations. Clint had not been given a noonday meal. Delilah
knew he’d refuse to eat. Well, if she had to starve him into submission, so be it. She knew that the rotgut whiskey he’d consumed
on an empty stomach would make him utterly miserable by the time they moored for the night. That morning, Luellen had purchased
a dozen fat live hens from the boat moored next to them, then enlisted Todd, Sadie and Beth to help her kill, pluck and clean
them for a feast. Delilah intended to take Clint a tray of delicious fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy. If he could
resist such a treat, he would indeed win a contest of wills.

“We’ll just see who folds,” she said with steel in her voice.

The
Nymph
pulled up against a stretch of shallow embankment around dusk that evening. The smells of Luellen Colter’s cooking wafted
on the warm evening breeze. The officers in the dining room gave lip-smacking approval. Even the captain, with his fine New
Orleans palate, complimented the cook effusively. Delilah ate sparingly, too nervous to really do justice to the excellent
meal.

Luellen watched her picking at her food as Sadie and Beth served coffee. When Delilah rose and started to leave the room,
the cook caught up with her. “Yew feelin’ poorly?” she asked, knowing her young friend’s lack of appetite had little to do
with physical health.

“I’m fine…no, that’s a lie. I’m not fine at all. My uncle has been left behind in that horrible town of cutthroats,
the army’s commandeered our boat and Clint is chained up in his quarters.”

Luellen let out a hearty laugh. “Chained up, huh? Whutbetter way kin a woman have a man? Sounds like jest the ticket. He ain’t
et today neither, has he?”

“What are you saying?” Delilah asked, half afraid of the answer.

Luellen’s warm brown eyes stared into Delilah’s cat-green ones. “Git yerself all decked out in some fancy, lacy rig. I’ll
fix a tray fer yew ta take ta the mister’s cabin.”

“Does everyone aboard this boat know that Clint and I have…that we…?” She sighed and shook her head. Of course
they did. But surely her uncle…Delilah was not certain of anything these days.

Luellen patted her on the back in a motherly fashion. “Naw, not th’ capt’n er crew er yer uncle, if that’s whut yer afeard
’o. But Miss Sky ’n me, we knowed right off. Wim-menfolk, we got us a way. Now, don’t fret, jest do like I say.” With a wink,
she turned and waddled back toward the kitchen, calling out, “I’ll fetch th’ tray ta yer room in ten minutes er so.”