The River Nymph Read online

  SHIRL HENKE

  in collaboration with

  Jim Henke

  THE RIVER NYMPH

  LEISURE BOOKS NEW YORK CITY

  In memory of

  Daniel Anthony Reynard,

  Beloved nephew,

  And one of the best poker players ever.

  Betting It All

  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 betting the clothes on his back.

  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. 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.”

  First Author’s Note

  This is the first time my husband Jim and I have collaborated on a book. We sincerely hope it will be the beginning of many more. Not that it was always fun. We had many disagreements over plot twists, dialogue, even the motivations of the major characters, but we managed not to kill each other (as several of my author friends were sure would happen) before completing the manuscript!

  Jim first came to me with the idea for The River Nymph well over three years ago. I was under contract for two political thrillers using a pseudonym and had no time to write it. Considering that he had not only done a complete plot outline, but roughed out the first scene, I urged him to try his hand as a fiction writer. The opening was outrageously funny, original and had great potential. In his other life as a university professor, Jim has published three scholarly books and dozens of articles. In fact, he’s even written numerous humorous pieces about me and my books for Romantic Times and other magazines in our genre.

  Grudgingly, he agreed to give writing his story a shot. He completed three chapters and gave them to me for editing. I really thought they were good, but fiction is far different from non-fiction…So, when I finished marking up the pages and handed them back to him, he glanced at a few and said, “You wrote more on these than I did.” I reminded him of how much editors had written on my early “masterpieces,” but he put the chapters in a drawer and we both forgot about them.

  Then, about a year ago, Alicia Condon and I discussed returning to my western historical roots. She urged me to send her several proposals. That’s when I recalled Clint, Delilah and how she won not only his riverboat but quite literally, the shirt off his back. I included The River Nymph and two other proposals, mentioning that it would be a collaboration with Jim. She read the opening and loved it, as well as the idea of promoting us as a husband-wife writing team.

  The rest, as is said, is history….

  Shirl

  Second Author’s Note

  Once again, Shirl has exercised her selective memory: “disagreements over plot twists, dialogue” etc.? That never happened. I learned long ago that disagreeing with a redheaded German is like debating with a mule. The mule might understand what you want, but it’s going to go ahead and do what it wants anyway. I do admit to trying to strangle her when she butchered one of my carefully wrought scenes, but that was useless as well. She bit my wrist and hit me with a skillet.

  Oh yes, one other thing: when she was gathering proposals to send to Alicia, the material for the Nymph was not among them. When I objected, she said, “Oh, Alicia wouldn’t care for that.” You will soon be reading the proof of her error. Still, she wouldn’t relent, until I threatened to boil one of our new kittens, that black devil that climbs on my shoulder and bites me on the ear. You owe this book to that little ear-chewing monster. If you don’t like the work, blame Inky. If you like it, thank me.

  Now, that is the real story…you can trust me.

  Jim

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Betting It All

  Authors’ Notes

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Critics Praise

  Bestselling Authors Praise

  Other Leisure Books By Shirl Henke

  Copyright

  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. Pu
lling 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 ought a 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 mouth in’ 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. Un clenching 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-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 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…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 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 wit
h 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.