by Sandra Jones
She played right into his hands.
The River Rogues, Book 1
Possessing uncanny people-reading skills like her mama, Philadelphia “Dell” Samuels has spent thirteen years in her aunt’s rustic Ozarks home, telling fortunes over playing cards and trying to pass as white. But the treacherous Mississippi River childhood her mama dragged her away from finally catches up to her on a steamboat captained by her old friend Rory Campbell.
Known to his crew as the Devil’s Henchman, Rory is a gambler in need of a miracle. Following the cold trail of his boss’s wife and bastard daughter, Dell, Rory has only one goal in mind: saving his crew from the boss’s cruelty by ruining him. The only one who can defeat the Monster of the Mississippi is the man trained to take his place. Rory’s convinced he can lure his boss into a high-stakes game against a rival, and with Dell’s people-reading skills, the monster will lose everything.
Under Rory’s tutelage and protection, Dell agrees to the tortured captain’s plan. Passion and peril quickly bring them together as lovers. But when Rory’s plan goes awry, the lives of the innocent depend on Dell’s ability to read the situation correctly—and hopefully save them all.
Warning: There’s not enough moonshine on the Mississippi to keep this fortuneteller from saving The Devil’s Henchman, a high-stakes gambler—and her childhood friend—from his boss’s cruel attentions. Touches upon issues of child abuse, revenge, and redemption.
Her Wicked Captain
Sandra Jones
Dedication
For Scott and the boys, with all my heart.
“One hour of life, crowded to the full with glorious action,
and filled with noble risks,
is worth whole years of those mean observances of paltry decorum—”
—Sir Walter Scott
Prologue
Mississippi River, Missouri, 1850s
The only thing worse than dying from a gunshot to the stomach was being the one carrying the pistols.
For that reason, Rory Campbell felt a flicker of envy for the man as he dropped. When the smoke cleared, Harold Best’s toes were pointed skyward, the open wound above his navel pumped ichor down his side to soak the sand of Bloody Island, while a pair of startled ducks complained overhead. The gambler should’ve known he was dead before he ever stepped foot on the Mississippi sandbar.
Best’s wife screamed the moment he went down. His lawyer, the second, broke his shocked spell and hurried, along with the lady, to the man’s side.
The breeze tugging Rory’s hair helped to revive him. He glanced down at the embossed case clenched tight in his arms and remembered his role in the grisly affair. “You’re the second. You must tend the first!” He’d received those instructions six years ago in his first duel a l’outrance, right after Quintus Moreaux smacked his head with the butt of his Colt. Now twenty-seven, Rory’s chest felt hollow, his spirit weary, but he knew the procedures. Snapping into action, he went to aid his boss.
Garbed in a black vest and breeches, Moreaux’s tall form made a dapper silhouette against the peach sunrise over the river. With the still-smoking gun in his left hand, he rolled down his white shirtsleeve and smiled slightly while the witnesses were preoccupied with the fallen man twenty paces away.
Rory took the gun from Moreaux so he could finish adjusting his clothes. Then after cleaning the weapon, he opened the box and set it in its satin nest.
“Now we see who’s really best,” Moreaux chuckled. Rory often suspected killing made his boss somewhat drunk and giddy. That was just one reason he hated him.
There were worse reasons. If he had a choice, he would be far from here, but he had none. Too many other lives depended on him.
“You know, you’ve been my second several times now, Rory.” The gambler’s cold eyes were on him now. Dark circles testified to the fact the bastard had stayed up late the night before at the card table, as usual—the only things marring his distinguished face. “It’s past time you earned a name for yourself. Otherwise my opponents will think you’re weak. The next duel, you will take my place and defend my honor.”
To remind Moreaux he was the one who cheated at faro would cause him to lash out at someone else—and the thought that a member of the crew would be beaten because of him made Rory shudder with revulsion.
He held his tongue. Carrying the pistols was one thing, but could he kill a man for Quintus Moreaux, Monster of the Mississippi? He’d often thought being Moreaux’s protégé and steamboat captain were the lowest levels he could sink to, but he guessed he’d been wrong. When Rory ran out of diversions for his boss, Moreaux turned to diversions of his own making—usually starting with Rory’s crew, his roustabouts.
The price was more than Rory was willing to pay.
If you dance with the Devil…
The flat of Moreaux’s hand came from nowhere, connecting with his cheek. “Christ! Wake up and fetch my other pistol from that damned corpse.”
His smarting blows no longer sent Rory flying as they had when he was a youth. Now standing an inch taller than Moreaux with arms and legs of iron from years working on the docks, Rory took the hit without shame, yet he couldn’t stop the hazy curtain falling before his eyes.
In the darkness of his mind, cold dread replaced the morning warmth, and for an instant, he feared he was home on the paddlewheeler again, waiting for the terrors that claimed him in the night. When his vision slowly cleared, fury chased away his momentary bewilderment. Days like these, he could easily imagine killing the source of all the suffering. In one selfish act, he could take one of the pistols, jab it into Moreaux’s ribs and squeeze the trigger. Yet then the boats and everything would go back to the bank, the crew losing their jobs and homes—suffering of a different brand.
Worse, he would have blood on his hands, giving the boss what he wanted.
Gritting his teeth, he closed the box, tucked it under his arm, and hurried across the so-called field of honor.
The lawyer backed away when he saw Rory coming, a grim expression on his face. Mrs. Best held her husband’s hand as she wept against the poor man’s shoulder.
Rory avoided the wife’s petticoats and knelt in the sand to take the gun from Best’s fingers, but they were still curled tight around the trigger. His gaze flew to the man’s face and discovered his eyes open, alive and watching him through tears.
“My apologies,” Rory mumbled low, hoping Moreaux wouldn’t overhear. He knew the Christian prayer, having heard it nearly a dozen times, but considered himself too lost to repeat the words with any effect.
Best’s fingers refused to budge when he pried at them. “Hurts. Hurts. It’s so cold-d-d.” His bloodied teeth chattered, making talk difficult.
Mrs. Best sobbed louder and Rory’s stomach twisted so tight he would’ve vomited if he’d eaten anything that morning. Experience had taught him better. Damn lawyer! He should know to carry the proper equipment to a duel.
“I have laudanum,” Rory whispered, and opened the case, revealing the false bottom where he kept six bottles of the painkilling dosages. The man might live a day, maybe two, since he’d survived the blast, but he wouldn’t have enough blood left to last longer.
Keeping his back to his employer, Rory popped the rubber stopper on the vile and brought the liquid to the dying man’s lips. If Moreaux saw he carried such to his duels, he would make him regret it, as he considered medicines cowardly.
The woman thanked him, and the man’s grip loosened on the pistol. When Rory had the weapon stowed and the gold latch fastene
d, he moved to get up, wanting to be away from the tears, the blood and the stench of innards, but the man spoke again, softly calling for his attention.
“Give me more. I want to die quickly.” Red sprayed between his lips with each word. “Please! In exchange for more, I’ll tell you something your boss wants to know. I—I knew Moreaux’s wife, Eleanor.”
“What about her?” Rory frowned, confused. Missing for the last thirteen years, Eleanor Moreaux was one of the few people he knew who’d ever beaten the man. Men who uttered the name of the gambler’s unfaithful wife usually died at his hand. ’Course Best was all but in the grave already.
“Harold,” the lady moaned. “No!”
Blood drizzled from the corner of his mouth. “She and her bastard daughter. I know where they went.”
Chapter One
Ozark Mountains, Arkansas
Philadelphia hadn’t touched a drop of whiskey the day the steamboat ran aground, but she’d have to be drunk to imagine such a boat beached in the middle of the river. At twenty years old, she’d never seen a more extraordinary vessel pass Posey Hollow, their remote Ozarks outpost.
She worked for her Uncle Reuben, carrying corn between the house and the whiskey still perched high on the bank of the White River for their visitor, a regular customer. Tossing the last bag of grain on the stack, she glared at her uncle. He could hit her again if he wanted, but she was gonna go see that stranded boat. Maybe the idiot pilot had heard of the famous Philadelphia Samuels and would like her to read his fortune. Perhaps then she could add an extra dollar to her hiding place.
Another forty, and she’d be on the next stagecoach to Illinois and sweet freedom.
Reuben mopped his brow with a stained cloth and shoved it in the front pocket of his overalls. “Go ahead, then. You’re no good to me when you’re like this.” Hitching her dirty skirt in sweaty hands, she snaked past the jumbled equipment: the copper turnip, barrels of mash and wooden boxes. “Just git back here by supper, you hear, Philadelphia? Ephraim’s comin’ to see you as much as for his whiskey.”
Her stomach turned queer. Witnessing the paddle wheeler’s accident had likely started her nausea. Moments ago, they’d been tidying for the lecherous old widower’s visit when the strangest sound coming from the river brought the family out to investigate.
Chick chick chick chick.
The steady sputter grew louder, more persistent, and the scent of burning coal drifted past. Then came the low whirr of a steam whistle. She hadn’t heard such a mournful sound since those blurry childhood days on the Mississippi when her mama was alive.
The vessel chugged into view between the trees. Steam roiled from twin black smokestacks of a small steamboat, like the snarling nostrils of a white dragon churning through the water. With the late autumn drought, the boat sped straight for disaster with the shallows up ahead around the river’s bend. Then the crunch of rocks grinding against the wood hull echoed through the valley, bouncing off the stone bluffs for miles. The whistle sang one last plaintive note before it sighed itself to sleep.
Before the wake had settled, Reuben had called the family back to work. Nothing interested him except making whiskey and money.
Her younger cousins had a head start to see the boat since they’d been relieved of chores before her, and she ran in their dust along the dirt road. At least the steamboat was still there. Distant shouts from townsfolk on the riverbank answered hails for help from the crew of the remarkable vessel.
She bolted into the crowd collecting on the grassy slope, but had to stop to loosen the bonnet string strangling her neck.
“Dell!” Her cousin Sarah, two years younger than she, called out with the nickname she’d always used. She wove through the curious onlookers.
Dell pulled her calico bonnet on tight over her wavy black hair. Sarah might be kin, but their looks were far from the same. Whenever people saw them together, Dell worried she wouldn’t pass for white. Only her family knew about her natural father, and she hoped to keep it that way.
“Have you ever seen anything like it?” Sarah stopped beside Dell and her wide blue eyes focused on the unlucky vessel. Her wheat-colored braids, bound up in loops over her ears, flopped like hound dog ears when she turned.
Dell pinched her lips together to keep from laughing at her hair. The family could barely afford to keep clothed in patched britches and sackcloth dresses, so following the latest fashions seemed absurd to her.
“What is it?” Little Nathaniel ran up behind his sister, and failing to stop, ran smack into her backside.
Dell’s curiosity suddenly became apprehension as several men launched a keelboat from the banks, prepared to lend a helping hand to the boat’s unfortunate crew. Someone might have been injured. “That is a packet.” She put a hand to her forehead. Or was it? She had no idea where she’d learned the word.
She remembered little about her mama—blonde as a goddess, their two-day escape from Memphis, the fear in her expression, and a few things she’d said as Dell had huddled over her before she passed. “Stay away from them boats, Philadelphia. They ain’t nothin’ but trouble.”
“It’s too big.” Sarah smirked. “No wonder it got stuck. I could walk across the White River on a day like today.”
“It’s huge!” Nathaniel stared slack-jawed at the ship.
“It’s not that big.” Dell shrugged. “Only two decks. I’ve seen bigger. Boats like this are just for hauling cargo and mail up the tributaries.”
One of the rescuers climbed out of the keelboat and waded out to inspect the hull of the steamboat. The man seemed to be communicating with the others in the keelboat, one of whom waved his hat at the crew hanging over the side.
A few minutes later, the crew climbed over the rail one by one into the rescue boat.
She sat on the grass apart from the rest of the riverfolk. The other women her age cast ugly looks her way, talking to each other behind their hands. At the moment, she had no way of hiding the layer of sweat and dirt on her skin, but their censure went deeper than her outward appearance. Moonshiner. Card reader. Dirty orphan. With a tilt of her chin, she ignored the whispers drifting to her ears and watched the keelboat make three trips bringing the stranded men ashore as they waited to learn more about the newcomers. Posey Hollow rarely entertained travelers.
“Hey, isn’t that the preacher?” Nathaniel shielded the afternoon sun from his eyes as he looked out over the shimmering water.
The keelboat slid onto the muddy bank with its latest group of rescued travelers, ruddy men with ginger hair. A round man in a black suit waved to one of the men for help getting out of the boat. Dell recognized the Reverend Miller by his jerky movements and the hat he always wore when he walked through town, paying visits to the church members.
She climbed to her knees. “Your pa will kill us if we don’t get back in time to—”
“Philadelphia Samuels!”
Hell in a handbasket! Potential customers or not, the preacher was the last person Dell wanted to see. Not that she cared if he smelled whiskey mash on her clothes. Living with her Uncle Reuben, what else could a body expect her to smell like? She’d rather avoid him and his finger-pointing, holier-than-thou rants about her fortune telling.
Surely she’d made her point clear last time when she reminded him gluttony was a sin too. She had plenty to feel guilty about lately without his help.
On her feet, she swished around, gathering her skirt in her fists as she hurried over the weeds and rocks, ignoring the calls of her cousins.
“Miss Samuels?” The preacher yelled in his booming sermon voice. “Aren’t you interested in getting a closer look?”
She shook her head. “No thanks.” What on Earth did he hope to accomplish by asking her, of all people, on board? Relief seeped through her as she bustled away. Her mama’s warning had left her with more dread about boarding that boat than she’d
imagined.
The preacher huffed and puffed as he jogged behind her.
“Perhaps you’d like to come aboard with your cousins. I’ve been traveling on the vessel for the day myself, just come from visiting the church at Batesville, and the young captain is very cordial to those who are curious.”
“Dell!” Sarah gasped.
“Oh, please!” Nathaniel caught her hand and squeezed.
Her skepticism subsided as she looked at the young ones, her heart turning soft. No one in the family—least of all the children—ever looked on her with anything but contempt, but this time she held the upper hand. She reluctantly gave in.
They would ignore her once they got their way, but she climbed into the keelboat anyway, settling in for the ride between the kids. She prayed she’d have a private audience with someone on board. Preferably someone who’d been drinking. Though she hadn’t brought her mama’s cards, she could find something else to suffice. Tea leaves, coffee grounds, the pattern of sunlight on water. Her aunt said she could convince a leopard he wore stripes.
The preacher sat across from them, smiling to himself as if he was counting the jewels in his heavenly crown. Dell could only guess at what he thought he’d accomplished by inviting her onto the packet. Probably hoped to ingratiate himself with her or her uncle, as if the whiskey-making Samuels family would show up at Sunday temple meeting simply out of thanks for his gesture.
Not likely.
“She’s not moved an inch. She’ll probably be here until the river rises again.” Daniel Sharpe, the local miller and their keelboat pilot, hollered to the remaining men on the steamboat’s deck.
Sarah jabbed her arm with a sharp elbow, and Dell found her staring at a black man.
“The hull’s intact.” He called out in response. “She’s not leaking. We’ll drop an anchor just to be safe.”
A roustabout. A hired man.
Dell returned Sarah’s jab with one of her own, drawing a squeak from her, but she gawked too. Slaves were scarce in the Ozarks and freedmen even more so.
