The River Nymph by Shirl Henke

possibility that God had created female rage as a male purgative.
     Then Attorney Holland clamored down the stairs, interrupting Clint’s ruminations.
    “I understand you need some legal work done. Hell of a time, Clint.”
    “There are paper and pens in my office. You know where to find whatever you need,” Daniels replied, ignoring the lawyer’s
     ire. He gave the man too much business for it to last.
    In a quarter hour Bill Holland returned with two copies of a contract between Clinton Daniels and Delilah Mathers Raymond.
     After the copies had been signed and notarized, the attorney returned to unfinished business upstairs.
    Horace raised his glass in a perfunctory toast. Warily, his niece and Clint joined in. The two men arranged a business luncheon
     for the following afternoon. The older man wanted to get Delilah out of the immediate vicinity of the beauteous Miss Eva,
     who had spent a quarter hour at the bar slugging back shots before retiring upstairs, the remains of the bottlein hand. She
     was well on her way to inebriation, and he had always observed that women and alcohol were a most combustible commodity.
    As he and his niece were departing the Blasted Bud, Delilah murmured, “Don’t worry, Uncle Horace. I’ll strip him of his share
     of the Nymph just as easily as I stripped him of his clothes.”
    Horace whispered vehemently, “My dear, you must stop underestimating this man. You didn’t win that cut by chance. He cheated.
     As he was examining the cards, I saw him palm one. Well done, too. I almost didn’t catch it. I thought he had palmed an ace.
     I said nothing because I thought he would take his thousand and save you from acquiring the unfortunate reputation to which,
     alas, you now have fallen victim.”
    Delilah halted abruptly on the walk outside of the Bud. “You mean he deliberately palmed the deuce so he’d lose?”
    “Do you believe a man that skilled would filch a deuce instead of an ace by accident?” The moment he asked the rhetorical
     question, Horace realized he’d just made a major tactical blunder.
    Before he could stop her, Delilah spun on her heel and slammed through the door. Clint was still standing at the table, brandy
     glass in one hand, contract in the other. He looked up in surprise as his new partner made straight for him with purposeful
     strides. “Back so soon, Mrs. Raymond? What can I do—”
    She swung her reticule by its drawstring. It connected with the side of his face, making a satisfying thunk . “You sneaky, conniving…deceitful wretch!”
    The attack was so sudden that Clint could not even get out a curse. He simply stumbled backward, got his feet tangled with
     the chair legs, and landed flat on his back. Delilah stood motionless in front of her prostrate tormentor as he struggled
     to a sitting position, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears. “What the hell’s—”
    “I’ll give you hell, right enough!” She drew back one foot and tried to kick him in that hateful face. Unfortunately, thetoe
     of her slipper caught in her petticoat and snapped the rear hem of her narrow skirt against the heel of her other foot, sending
     both feet flying upward. She landed in a sitting position in front of Clint. Her spine felt like a compressed accordion.
    “Merciful God, woman, what’s in that bag? A hunk of brick?”
    In spite of her pain, Delilah noted with satisfaction that the upper left side of his face was beginning to swell. “A .41-caliber
     double-barreled Remington Derringer!”
    “A must for any lady of fashion.” Daniels touched his throbbing face, muttering, “I’m gratified you used it as a bludgeon
     rather than shooting me with it.”
    “Don’t tempt me, you…you…”
    “My brain’s too rattled for me to provide you with cuss words at the moment,” he muttered.
    “You deliberately lost that cut! You did it so I wouldn’t be able to get a crew.”
    He shrugged, then winced. “I had no idea you were going to