him a wide smile. “I’ll be ever so grateful if she’ll agree to become my teacher.”
Johnny’s wide shoulders relaxed visibly. “Between the two of us, I’m positive we can convince her.” He slowly turned about, leaned back against the ship’s railing, and said kindly, “You’ve told me so little about yourself, Nevada. Is there family somewhere who would—”
“No,” she interrupted, her gaze sweeping out over the eddying waters to the unbroken flatness of the riverbanks. There luxuriant palmettos and towering live oaks and silvery weeping willows rose from a dense profusion of tangled undergrowth. Partridgeberry vines and grounded wild iris and jewelweed sprang from the rich soggy soil.
“Papa was all the family I had, and now he’s gone.”
“Your mother?” Johnny prompted.
“Died having me.” Her lids slid low over cool blue eyes. “Papa brought me from Nevada when I was still a baby.” Her attention was suddenly caught by the sudden flight of a snowy egret flapping its wings loudly, its long bill catching the sunlight. “I’ve been on this river since then. It’s the only life I know. It’s my home, Johnny. I love it.” She paused, “I loved my papa.”
Touched, Johnny said, “Sounds like you had a wonderful childhood.”
“I most certainly did,” she murmured, and looking back into her past, she regaled Johnny with her happy, adventurous days on the Mississippi. She talked and talked, telling him of her papa’s keelboat, of the crew, of the nights she sang for them under the stars. Of her early but brief schooling in New Orleans. Of her papa’s fondness for liquor and women, of the night he was knifed to death.
Johnny listened quietly, and with each childlike admission, each poignant revelation, felt his sense of protectiveness grow toward the raven-haired girl. That she was the neglected daughter of a drunken riverman was evident. That she was not responsible for her fate was just as apparent. That she had no idea anyone would pity her was appealing.
That she most definitely needed someone to watch over her was glaringly obvious.
Finally Nevada stopped speaking, and for a time they stood there quietly, each lost in thought. It was Nevada who broke the silence.
“Now,” she said, tilting her head, smiling up at him, “you know all there is to know about me. It’s your turn, Johnny. Tell me about your home and family.”
His only reply was a negative shake of his handsome head and a fleeting expression that passed over his dark eyes and was gone. Then he smiled engagingly, and straightening, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his custom-cut trousers and said, “Enough reminiscing. Hurry down to your cabin and start dressing for dinner. Wear that apricot silk with all those fancy flounces.”
“Yes!” she said excitedly and promptly lifted her skirts and whirled about. “Will you help me with my hair?”
A faint smile played around the corners of his mouth. He took her elbow. “Don’t be absurd.”
“Papa used to brush my hair and help me pin it up.”
Johnny sighed heavily. “All right, I’ll try it this one time, since there’s no one else to do it.”
And so it was that a half hour later, Johnny, dressed in black evening clothes and white ruffled shirt, sat astride a blue velvet vanity bench in Nevada’s cabin. And she, in her fancy apricot silk gown, sat on the plush carpet before him. Running the silver-backed brush slowly, gently through her long dark hair, he allowed his big left hand to follow the brush’s path over the crown of her well-shaped head and down her back, where the thick tresses fell just short of her waist.
Her head thrown back, her eyes closed, Nevada said, “You’re even better at this than Papa was.”
“Ah, now, I doubt that,” Johnny replied and kept to himself the fact he’d probably had more practice than her papa.
Johnny had known lots of women, had made love to dozens, and had lived for short periods of time
Johnny’s wide shoulders relaxed visibly. “Between the two of us, I’m positive we can convince her.” He slowly turned about, leaned back against the ship’s railing, and said kindly, “You’ve told me so little about yourself, Nevada. Is there family somewhere who would—”
“No,” she interrupted, her gaze sweeping out over the eddying waters to the unbroken flatness of the riverbanks. There luxuriant palmettos and towering live oaks and silvery weeping willows rose from a dense profusion of tangled undergrowth. Partridgeberry vines and grounded wild iris and jewelweed sprang from the rich soggy soil.
“Papa was all the family I had, and now he’s gone.”
“Your mother?” Johnny prompted.
“Died having me.” Her lids slid low over cool blue eyes. “Papa brought me from Nevada when I was still a baby.” Her attention was suddenly caught by the sudden flight of a snowy egret flapping its wings loudly, its long bill catching the sunlight. “I’ve been on this river since then. It’s the only life I know. It’s my home, Johnny. I love it.” She paused, “I loved my papa.”
Touched, Johnny said, “Sounds like you had a wonderful childhood.”
“I most certainly did,” she murmured, and looking back into her past, she regaled Johnny with her happy, adventurous days on the Mississippi. She talked and talked, telling him of her papa’s keelboat, of the crew, of the nights she sang for them under the stars. Of her early but brief schooling in New Orleans. Of her papa’s fondness for liquor and women, of the night he was knifed to death.
Johnny listened quietly, and with each childlike admission, each poignant revelation, felt his sense of protectiveness grow toward the raven-haired girl. That she was the neglected daughter of a drunken riverman was evident. That she was not responsible for her fate was just as apparent. That she had no idea anyone would pity her was appealing.
That she most definitely needed someone to watch over her was glaringly obvious.
Finally Nevada stopped speaking, and for a time they stood there quietly, each lost in thought. It was Nevada who broke the silence.
“Now,” she said, tilting her head, smiling up at him, “you know all there is to know about me. It’s your turn, Johnny. Tell me about your home and family.”
His only reply was a negative shake of his handsome head and a fleeting expression that passed over his dark eyes and was gone. Then he smiled engagingly, and straightening, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his custom-cut trousers and said, “Enough reminiscing. Hurry down to your cabin and start dressing for dinner. Wear that apricot silk with all those fancy flounces.”
“Yes!” she said excitedly and promptly lifted her skirts and whirled about. “Will you help me with my hair?”
A faint smile played around the corners of his mouth. He took her elbow. “Don’t be absurd.”
“Papa used to brush my hair and help me pin it up.”
Johnny sighed heavily. “All right, I’ll try it this one time, since there’s no one else to do it.”
And so it was that a half hour later, Johnny, dressed in black evening clothes and white ruffled shirt, sat astride a blue velvet vanity bench in Nevada’s cabin. And she, in her fancy apricot silk gown, sat on the plush carpet before him. Running the silver-backed brush slowly, gently through her long dark hair, he allowed his big left hand to follow the brush’s path over the crown of her well-shaped head and down her back, where the thick tresses fell just short of her waist.
Her head thrown back, her eyes closed, Nevada said, “You’re even better at this than Papa was.”
“Ah, now, I doubt that,” Johnny replied and kept to himself the fact he’d probably had more practice than her papa.
Johnny had known lots of women, had made love to dozens, and had lived for short periods of time
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