Page 36 of Calling on the Matchmaker
That was the thing about Riley Rafferty. ... He didn’t mince words. His directness often took her by surprise, but she was finding that she liked being taken by surprise by him. And she liked his keen mind. He’d obviously figured out her scheming with Madigan and brilliantly schemed against her in return.
As she reached the arched entrance, the door opened wide, and warmth along with more light cascaded over her. And there stood Riley in the doorway, his smile and the stars in his eyes welcoming her. He was attired in a casual suit, but his hair was mussed, and a layer of stubble covered his jaw and chin.
She could admit she’d thought of him often since last evening’s visit, even though she’d tried not to. She’d replayed the way he’d spun her around, fitted his hands on her waist, and tugged her body against his. Just the memory of it made her stomach flutter and her toes curl.
Then his kiss ... the way his lips had captured her down to her very soul. And his words ...“I like youand think you’re beautiful.”
Though she’d tried to scheme for another way to make Riley run from a relationship with her, the thoughts of the kiss and the words had crowded in and kept her from coming up with another idea.
Even now, she scrambled to think of how to alienate him, which was difficult to do with his overpowering muscular frame only a foot away.
“You came.” His tone held a note of wonder.
“Is that okay?”
“I was hoping you would.”
“You were?” She glanced beyond him to the busy interior, some people sitting at desks, several manning a small printing press, still others standing before a giant map of St. Louis tacked to the wall.
Through the light of the lanterns, cigar smoke cast a lazy haze over the room. But the energy and excitement within was palpable.
Riley was taking in her gown—or at least what showed beneath her cloak—the lovely pale green evening attire her mam had insisted she don before going out. The gown wasn’t as fancy as the one she’d worn last night. But at the sight of another woman bustling about the office wearing a simple skirt and blouse, Finola guessed she was overdressed.
She held herself back. What was she doing here? Had she made a mistake in thinking she could do this?
Riley’s gaze lifted, and appreciation widened his eyes. “Youare just in time to join in the discussion about how to provide better medical care to the immigrants.” He waved her inside.
As she stepped tentatively through the door, the scents of tobacco and ink circled around her and drew her in, whispering of all the possible ways they could make changes for the better.
“Everyone,” Riley called over the hubbub. “I’d like to introduce you to Miss Shanahan. She’s here to help with my campaign.”
As the conversations around the room faded and all eyes focused on her, she held herself straight as a lady should.
For a moment, no one spoke.
A middle-aged priest, wearing his long black cassock, stepped away from the table. With spectacles low on a wide nose, he came forward and held out a hand to Finola.
She accepted the handshake, trying to draw strength from Riley’s presence beside her.
“Welcome, Miss Shanahan. I’m Father O’Kirwin. I’m Riley’s campaign manager.”
As Riley introduced her to several more people on his team, soon they were all seated around a large central table. With the start of the discussion about the medical needs of the immigrants, she was surprised when Riley drew her into the conversation, asking her to share her firsthand experiences with the people she helped.
Before long, she was immersed in the lively conversation regarding not only the health problems but also the contributing factors, including the crowded homes, lack of nutritious food, unsanitary conditions, and more. All throughout, she grew more and more impressed by Riley’s understanding of the issues, his passion for the people, and his vision to make changes.
“The schools are growing overcrowded too.” Father O’Kirwin pushed up his glasses and pointed to a spot on the map on the northern edge of the Irish district. “I propose Riley offers to build a new one here.”
Everyone nodded at another possible way to increase Riley’s popularity.
Finola agreed it was a good idea, but surely if Riley was mayor, he could do so much more than build a school for the Irish. He could also work to provide education for all people, including the Black folks, who’d been sorely discriminated against by the law that was passed only two years earlier that outlawed schools for them in Missouri. “May I add that Riley should also work at allowing for the reopening of the Black schools in St. Louis?”
Around the table, silence descended so thoroughly that the argument and vulgarity of a group of youth outside on the street punctuated the office. The lantern hanging above the table cast a glow over the expressions that were now wary.
Had she said something disagreeable? Surely Riley was an abolitionist and all those on his campaign were against slavery. As heroic as he was for the downtrodden, he hadn’t struck her as the type of man who would take the side of slavery, even though slavery was legal in Missouri.
She pivoted in her chair. Sitting beside her, Riley was staring at the sheet of notes in front of him.
A sick knot tied in her stomach. “Don’t tell me your campaign is pro-slavery.”
