THE RIVER NYMPH

January 2008
Leisure Books
ISBN 978-0843960112

What happens when a beautiful lady gambler faces off against a professional card shark with more aces up his sleeve than the Missouri River has snags? A steamboat trades hands, the loser forfeits his clothes, and all hell breaks loose on the levee. But events only get wilder as the two rivals, now reluctant partners, travel upriver. Delilah Raymond soon learns that Clint Daniels is more than he appears. As the polished con man reverts to an earlier identity—Lightning Hand, the lethal Sioux warrior—the ghosts of his past threaten to tear apart their tempestuous union. Will the River Nymph take him too far for redemption, or could Delilah be his ace in the hole?

Reviews

"Readers will obtain a feel for nineteenth century Life on the Mississippi with this vivid historical romance. The lead couple is a fascinating duet who gambles on cards, cargo, and love. Though the bad guys contain no redeeming quality, the fun story line is fast-paced from the moment Delilah stuns the cardsharp and never slows down as he risks his life to help her dream come true." -- Harriet Klausner, Genre Go Round Reviews

"Been hankering for a wonderful Western romance? Shirl Henke (with help from her husband Jim) delivers nonstop action, adventure and sexual tension aboard THE RIVER NYMPH.  A cast of colorful characters, constant give-and-take between the hero and heroine, and a lush blending of history and humor make THE RIVER NYMPH an enjoyable read from the first scene to the last. I'm looking forward to Shirl's next one!" -- Charlotte Hubbard, Rose's Bookhouse

"Like Mark Twain, Henke loves the mighty Mississippi. Through colorful descriptions readers are treated to a wild river ride with an unlikely pair of lovers whose romance adds spark to a leisurely paced, classic-style western." -- Kathe Robin, RT BookClub

"THE RIVER NYMPH paints a colorful picture of the St. Louis waterfront and the era of the steamboat trade up and down the two mighty rivers. It also touches on the Indian wars at the time the Sioux were being herded onto reservations. The novel becomes more suspenseful as The River Nymph meets troubles, both natural and manmade. As Delilah shows a caring side to her nature and softens toward Clint, she's much more likable.

A suggestion: don't skip over the two authors' notes just before the title page. They tell how Shirl Henke and her husband Jim came to work together on THE RIVER NYMPH." -- Jane Bowers, Romance Reviews Today

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Excerpt

Chapter One

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, as he sat across from her in the made-over salon aboard his stern-wheeler, 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 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 ten-thousand-dollar 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 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 whiskey 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 mustache 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 breadth 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, slid 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’s 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. “Seventeen hundred 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-thousanddollar 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 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 tracks, 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 Clinton Daniels’s 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 waive the ten-thousand table stake restriction so you may call my bet ...ifyou 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 whiskey glass halfway 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, a gun.

And this female had just insulted him.

Clint tipped back his chair and stared at the woman as if 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 was 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 drawl.

Delilah twisted the simple wedding band. “Yes. I lost my husband during the war. ’Sixty-four.”

“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 vellum. After glancing at 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 stickler 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’s 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 devoid of any emotion; certainly they did not reveal the anger or sense of defeat she had hoped to glimpse. After a moment, he merely smiled that smile that did not reach his 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 a thousand dollars 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 rifled 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 laid 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 ofher 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?” he asked.

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

“Unnatural bitch!”

“I never seen anything so goddamned vicious in my life.”

“Poor bastard was lucky to get outta here with a full set of balls.”

“Damn, not even Red Riley would do something this nasty!”

“Bullshit! That wasn’t our deal.”

Big Red Riley wasted little time meeting with Delilah and Horace to conclude the arrangement he had made with them the week before. The morning after the card game, he was seated at the large poker table in the salon of The River Nymph, glaring at his co-conspirators. Hell, I built this damned gambling hall!

As his face turned puce with rage, Delilah thought that it clashed horribly with his bright red hair. The nickname “Big” was either a sop to the man’s inflated ego or an allusion to his undeniable power on the St. Louis riverfront. It certainly had not the remotest connection to his size. The scrawny little creature was at least two inches shorter than her own five feet seven. Adding to the “charm” of his weasely, narrow face was a boil on his oversized nose, an ugly thing that looked ready to erupt. She fervently hoped it would not do so before he could be removed from the premises.

“Please, Mr. Riley, be rational,” Delilah cajoled softly, pushing the large stack of currency across the table. “You must admit—”

“I ain’t admitting nothin’. Look, after losing this boat to that goddamned card hawk Daniels, I don’t intend to lose it a second time, least of all ta a female!” He punctuated the declaration with a thump of his fist on the oak table in front of him. “I looked high ’n low for somebody like you ta lure that bastard into a game. Get the Nymph back. My sources said you was top shelf. Never been this far west before. Nobody’d recognize you. I paid to bring you here, and by God, I offered you the sweetest deal any ringer could ask for—”

“Mr. Riley—”

“Mr. Riley, my ass! I put up the ten thousand dollars for your stake. Alls you had ta do was sucker Daniels into putting up the Nymph, win the game and give me back my stake money and the boat deed. You got lots of cash winnings for yourself.”

Delilah’s impatience with the little man’s pigheadedness was reflected in her voice. “As of this moment we have a new arrangement. The sum in front of you is exactly thirty-five thousand dollars, your ten-thousand-dollar stake, plus a twenty-five-thousand-dollar profit. Take it!”

“You double-dealing bitch!” Riley had not even seen the old man move, but he was keenly aware of the muzzle of Horace’s .45-caliber Colt pocket revolver jammed into his right nostril.

The old man’s voice was surprisingly deep and strong. “Sir, you have a mouth as filthy as the floor of a stockyard. I grow tired of subjecting my niece to it. An English friend of mine is of the opinion that shooting an Irishman in the head is as feckless as shooting an elephant in the rump. While the target is large, the area of vulnerability is so minuscule that it is difficult to injure the beast. Would you care to put his theory to the test?”

Riley very cautiously shook his head, no mean feat with a gun barrel stuffed up one sinus cavity.

“Then,” continued Horace, “I can count on your exercising a modicum of civility?” Although the king of the St. Louis levee was as uncertain of the meaning of modicum as he had been of minuscule, it seemed wise to agree.

“Now,” Horace continued, “before you pocket your money, you will sign this note indicating that your loan of ten thousand dollars has been returned, along with twenty-five thousand dollars interest. All dealings between you and Mrs. Raymond are concluded.”

Red looked at the paper, unable to swallow his rage. “I didn’t ask you to sign nothin’,” he said petulantly.

“No,” Horace agreed, “but then, you are intellectually deficient. Be a good fellow and sign, Mr. Riley.”

“Yeah, I’ll sign, but this don’t change shit, old man. I converted the Nymph into the classiest floating gamblin’ hell and cathouse on the levee and I’m gonna get her back.”

Delilah climbed to the wheelhouse, watching her uncle escort Riley down the gangplank and off The River Nymph, then turned her attention south along the cobblestone levee. As far as she could see there were steamboats, scores of them, so many that their tall black smokestacks formed what appeared to be a forest of denuded tree trunks. Not a particularly appealing vista. Although it was almost noon on a weekday, the levee was not especially busy.

She drew her cloak more tightly about herself. It was only February. She knew that in another few weeks the last traces of ice would be gone. The levee would start to swarm with freight wagons and hand carts, furiously loading the boats for their summer runs on the Mississippi and the Missouri. Then the scene would compare with a large litter of greedy piglets vying for their mama’s teats.

“St. Louis, the Sow of the West!” Delilah laughed. She was still young, and now she was finally free. She and Uncle Horace were the owners of a fine steamboat and had, counting their own savings, a bit over twenty-five thousand dollars in capital. As of this morning they were in the freight business—no more corpse-eyed cardsharps, no more smirking simpletons intent on her breasts rather than her hands.

She took a deep breath, and even in the chill air she could smell that peculiar blend of decay and fecundity that was the river. That was life. She slapped the Nymph’s wheel. “Damn all of them to hell, I will keep you.”

***

Clint Daniels pushed his half-eaten breakfast away and poured another cup of coffee. He opened the humidor on his desk and absently selected a cigar, clipped the tip, lit up and leaned back in the big leather chair. He rolled the smoke around in his mouth, then blew a large blue-white cloud toward the ceiling, watching cat-green eyes and burnished hair materialize in the haze. Suddenly it registered on him that he was smoking, something he made it a rule never to do until after supper.

“Damn.” He put the cigar in the large brass ashtray and slid it across the desk next to his empty breakfast plate.

There was a soft knock at the door, but before he could respond, Banjo came bursting in. Clint sighed. Banjo could not seem to grasp the concept that knocking on a door did not automatically confer upon the knocker the right to enter. Daniels had tried to explain the idea of waiting for a response, but to no avail. A man might as well try to convince a loyal hound not to drag home dead things.

“Well, you pegged it, boss. Big Red had hisself a visit with the widda this mornin’.” Banjo grinned, revealing several missing teeth.

“On the Nymph?” Clint asked his pear-shaped informant.

“Yup, but get this: that feller with the widda tossed his ass off the boat. Old Red’s face was redder ’n his hair. Rat Turner was waitin’ at the end of the gangplank fer his boss. He started to reach fer his gun, but the old guy—just as cool as ya please—shook his head and grinned like a skull. Pointin’ a gun at Red. Shit, the old feller looked like one of them stiffs up at Hackameyer’s funeral parlor. ’Nough ta give ya the creeps. Hell, Rat turned into a statue. Bet he was drizzlin’ down his laig.”

“From what the boys picked up this morning, I figured she was some sort of ringer Riley had imported, but if you’re right, the lady may have reshaped the deal.” Daniels grinned.

“Sharp, shrewd, vicious, bottom-dealing, beautiful little bitch,” Clint murmured to himself. “Red wanted to get back the boat, but it would appear the widow, with an assist from her dear uncle Horace, has decided to keep it. Why, I wonder? And just what will his majesty, the king of the St. Louis levee, do to avenge himself on our delectable double-crosser? This should prove very interesting.” A smile spread across his face.

Banjo grunted, “That little bastard’s mean ’nough to burn the Nymph to the waterline outa spite. I’ll put the boys to watchin’ real careful. I know you want her.”

“Make no mistake about that, Banjo. I want her...and I intend to have her.”

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