Free The River Nymph by Shirl Henke Page A

complement of crew—a second pilot, two engineers, a mate and roustabouts. Now, what did Clint call
     them? Ah, yes, roosters was the quaint phrase, I believe,” Horace said with relish as he strode into the sitting room that he and Delilah shared aboard
     the Nymph.
    She looked up, annoyed in spite of the good news about the pilot and crew. Clint now, was it? Her uncle and that odious gambler
     had become practically inseparable in the past week. “Jacques Dubois. Sounds French,” she murmured absently as she skimmed
     an inventory of last-minute trade items from Mr. Krammer’s mercantile.
    Horace chuckled. “The gentleman was born in New Orleans. A French Creole, descended from a long line of Free Men of Color.
     One can imagine if he’s accepted up and down the Missouri in spite of his mixed race how good he must be.”
    Delilah’s head snapped up, the columns of figures in frontof her forgotten. “A Colored man who’d agree to work for a Johnny
     Reb like Clinton Daniels?” she asked suspiciously.
    Horace shook his head, well aware of the continued animosity his niece bore their partner. “As a matter of fact, Captain Dubois
     is a long-time friend of Clint’s. Just because the man may have fought for the South doesn’t mean he believes other races
     are inferior. Considering that his business partner, Mr. Brummell, also has African antecedents, I fail to understand why
     you would accuse him of such base prejudice.”
    But Horace understood that Delilah was not rational when it came to Clinton Daniels, a man he had come to consider a friend
     …a man he might even consider worthy of marrying his niece. Only a fool would not understand the sparks that flew every
     time the two of them came within fifty yards of each other.
    A pity the sparks always seemed to lead to a conflagration sufficient to burn down the entire St. Louis levee! Horace sighed and poured himself a healthy tot of whiskey.
    “If we have a crew lined up, how soon can we head upriver?” she asked, changing the subject.
    “Why don’t you ask Clint when we join him for dinner tonight at his establishment? He is presently discussing terms with the
     teamsters who will haul the freight from Mr. Kram-mer’s mercantile to the warehouse and, ultimately, to the steamer.”
    “You made a dinner engagement with Mr. Daniels without consulting me?” she asked more sharply than she’d intended, then immediately
     backtracked. “Well, I suppose it will be bearable—as long as that dreadful Eva isn’t cooking. She’d poison both of us, given
     the opportunity.”
    Horace wisely declined to comment on the beauteous Miss Eva.

    While her uncle was taking his afternoon nap, Delilah continued to pore over invoices and ledgers, then compare the amounts
     of goods with the cargo space aboard the boat. Finally, she rubbed her eyes, weary from the past weeks’ arduous preparations
     …and Clinton Daniels’s hovering presence. Every time she turned around, the man seemed to be looming over her shoulder.
     Calling her Deelie. She hated the schoolgirl name. Besides, it sounded Southern!
    A sharp rap sounded on the cabin door. Todd Spearman stood outside holding a note awkwardly, shuffling from foot to foot.
    “Please, come in, Todd,” she said, arising.
    He handed her the folded piece of paper, which had Clint’s name scrawled on the outside in a broad, looping script. “Er, a
     messenger just delivered this. Said to give it to Mr. Daniels. I tried to tell him he didn’t live here no more, but the feller
     said it was ’bout your upriver business. If’n you want, I’ll take it up to the Bud.” Knowing the circumstances under which
     Clint had lost the Nymph to his new employer, Todd was not comfortable giving her the missive but had no idea what to do without first asking permission.
    Delilah shook her head. “It’s all right, Todd. I’ll see that he receives it tonight.”
    When Todd departed, Delilah held the note, which seemed to burn her