Page 41 of Calling on the Matchmaker
Even though a match was out of the question, he was, after all, a good man. And she didn’t have to shun him.
The miles of riverfront were crowded with countless more steamboats, some coming, others going, black plumes puffing from the tall smokestacks. Stevedores and deckhands milled about among the passengers who were disembarking and would soon go to hotels, boardinghouses, or squeeze into tenements with friends or family who’d arrived before them.
The wind slapped against her as if to reprimand her, but she pushed onward, picking up her pace until she turned onto Front Street. Inwardly, she tried to convince herself to turn around and go directly back home without this detour. But her feet propelled her forward.
As she stepped into the open door that was wide enough for a vehicle, the clanking of tools against metal drifted in the breeze, and she hesitated. What was she doing here? After her conversation with the Mother Superior, this was the last place she should be, giving Riley the idea that she was encouraging their relationship.
She’d make this stop quick—inquire after his well-being and then go on her way.
The workshop was spacious and filled with wagons in various stages of construction. Tall windows along the front and back of the shop provided plenty of natural light. Like the door, they were open, probably to allow ventilation for the dust and smoke that hung in the air.
And the heat. She could feel the increase in temperature even at the door. Against the back wall, a double forge burned brightly with a large vent tube hanging above it and a coal box dug into the ground near the water tank. In front of the forge, an anvil rested on a timber block, and a well-organized tool table seemed positioned for maximum benefit to all the workers.
The many workers. Who had ceased their hammering, sanding, sawing, and painting to stare at her.
She scanned their faces, searching for just one. But among the sweaty countenances, she didn’t see the man she needed. Aye, she needed him, and she didn’t want to think about that admission too closely.
A bulky man with hunched shoulders and glistening ebony skin stood at a worktable, a wheel in front of him, with only a few of the spokes inserted. He wiped his forehead with a bandana before he shifted and looked across the workshop. “Rafferty.”
She followed the man’s gaze to a bench underneath one of the rear windows. And there was Riley. He straddled the bench,holding a part of the wagon she couldn’t even begin to name, and he seemed to be screwing in metal rods.
He wore an off-white cotton shirt with both sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Faded red suspenders held up his trousers and stretched taut over his shoulders. He was hatless, his wavy blond hair disheveled, likely from the heat and the hard work. He didn’t appear to be harmed in any way from the gang fight.
He was focused intently on the task before him, his biceps bulging with the effort of twisting in the rods. Not even the call of his name drew him from his task, allowing her the chance to admire his profile. A layer of scruff covered his jaw and cheek, giving him a rugged look, one that was every bit as handsome as the clean-shaven gentleman he’d been the night he shared supper with her family.
Now, at the sight of him again, this man who’d kissed her and shaken the foundation of everything she thought she knew, she was overwhelmed with a load of feelings she couldn’t begin to name.
“Rafferty,” the man called again. “Your woman’s here.”
Your woman? As if she already belonged to Riley? She supposed in the minds of everyone else, she did already belong to Riley Rafferty. After all, Da and Riley had signed the bindings the night of their meeting at Oscar’s Pub. With Da’s solicitor presiding over the paperwork, they’d sealed the match with the legal agreements that spelled out her dowry.
Even so, she wasn’t sure she liked the term of beinghis woman. But it seemed to finally gain Riley’s attention. His head snapped up and swung toward the door. As his gaze landed upon her, he hopped up, his eyes finding hers.
Something about his expression, his warmth, openness, kindness, and compassion shot straight to her heart and brought swift tears to the surface.
His brow immediately wrinkled, and he started toward her with his long stride.
She hadn’t meant to show him her distress, had only wanted to ask him how he was doing before going on her way. But now that she was here and with him looking at her with such concern, the weight of all her burdens was almost too much to bear.
As he stopped in front of her, he gently took her arm, his eyes worried. “Finola, what’s wrong?”
“I’m fine.” She managed to get the words out.
“No, something’s amiss.”
She glanced around, and he did the same. The other workers were still idle and watching her interaction with Riley.
He began to tug her out the door. “Come on. We’ll go someplace private.” He led her outside, the bitter wind once again slapping at her, reminding her that she shouldn’t have come.
She’d have to set the boundaries again later. But for now, she wanted—needed—to tell him about Enya.
He rounded the building and directed her into an alley. From the bins of coal, stacks of wood on pallets, and crates of iron, she guessed they were at the back of the wagon shop. He reached for a closed door, opened it, and then pulled her inside after him.
Paint cans, buckets, handles, and more filled the floor-to-ceiling shelves of what appeared to be a supply closet.
He started to close the door but then left it open halfway—no doubt to allow for light since the closet didn’t have any windows. Then he gently grasped both of her upper arms. “Something happened.”
He wasn’t asking a question. Instead he was giving her the opportunity to tell him everything.
