“Alannah is working at the moment.” Mrs. Christy’s tone turned firm in an obvious attempt to send the visitor on hisway. ’Twas kind of Mrs. Christy to be looking out for her. Alannah had never shared the details that had forced her into hiding. But Mrs. Christy was a right sharp woman, so she was, and had likely drawn her own conclusions.
Panic began to make a trail through Alannah. Her gaze darted around the room. Was there a place she could hide? In a closet? Behind a piece of furniture?
The sofa was too close to the wall, the piano was too out in the open, the chairs in front of the fireplace wouldn’t provide enough cover.
“I only need to speak with her for a few minutes,” the man persisted, his voice calm and kindly.
Shaw had been calm and kindly enough during their first encounter too. She’d only been in St. Louis a week back in March, had no employment, had nothing to do, and had wanted to explore—even though Torin had warned against going out of the tenement.
But the apartment and the entire tenement where he’d arranged for her to stay had been crowded and dirty and falling apart. She should have been grateful for a place at all when others were living in shacks in alleys or sleeping in hallways or even setting up tents along the river.
She’d tried to stay inside, tried to be content with her corner spot and one of her books. But her Tralee blood had pulsed with the need to see the sky and the river and anything that would remind her of home.
During her exploring, she hadn’t been able to view the sky through the permanent haze of coal smoke. The riverfront had been crowded with steamboats, and the Mississippi River had been muddy. So she’d walked the two miles to the glass factory where Torin worked. There the city wasless crowded, trees and grass and flowers grew in abundance, and she could see the sky clearly.
She hadn’t heeded Torin’s pleas not to come again. Instead, she’d walked the distance every afternoon, having located a park where she could read and pretend she was back in Ireland just for a short while. Then when the glass factory whistle signaled the end of the workday, she waited for Torin outside the factory, and he accompanied her back to her tenement.
It wasn’t until the end of the week of her routine that Shaw approached her, once at the park and then while she waited outside the factory the following day. Both times he’d made it clear he thought she was beautiful and was interested in her. And both times she’d tried to make it clear that she wasn’t interested in return.
When Shaw had stopped her again the next week, she’d ignored him, but he wasn’t the type of man to tolerate that. “Hey, beautiful.” He’d sauntered toward where she stood near the entrance of the glass factory. “It’s your lucky day.”
She pretended to keep reading. But when he stopped just inches from where she’d perched on the steps, she was left with no choice but to acknowledge him. He had a boxy head with light brown hair and was clean-shaven with a thin scar above his lips. As he peered down at her, his eyes were filled with only one thing—lust. She’d seen it enough to know.
“Sorry, mister. I don’t believe in luck.”
“Well you will now.” He chortled, and several of his big, burly friends laughed. “Lots of women want me and would marry me. But I’m gonna let you have the honor.”
Indignation stiffened her spine. She’d had proposals of marriage before, but none quite like this. “No, thank you—”
He reached for her, and his massive hand circled her upper arm. Before she knew what was happening, he jerked her to her feet and pressed his mouth to hers.
She was so taken aback that she stood frozen in place for a moment while his lips plied against hers. She felt nothing in response, not even an ounce of attraction.
At a roar, from the corner of her eyes she could see Torin exiting the factory. He was shouting curses and careening toward Shaw. His blue eyes that matched Alannah’s radiated with murder, his face was flushed with rage, and he already had both of his knives out.
With a strength she’d had to cultivate over the years, she wrenched herself free, raised a hand, and slapped Shaw across his cheek.
Shaw was no longer paying attention to her, however. Instead, he unsheathed a knife of his own, along with a revolver.
“No!” she screamed, grabbing on to Shaw’s arm.
He shoved her, and she stumbled away, far enough to see that the factory owner, Kiernan Shanahan, had exited and was glowering almost as much as Torin.
Several of Torin’s friends and fellow factory workers latched on to his body and held him back. At the same time, Shaw’s bodyguards jerked him backward too.
“You owe me,” Shaw shouted, as he wrestled to free himself from those restraining him.
“I paid off my debts,” Torin called.
“No one ever walks away from the Farrell gang.” Shaw’sexpression turned lethal. “Not unless they pay the right price.”
Torin had joined the Farrell gang when he’d first arrived in St. Louis last summer because Shaw had promised him employment, steady food, and safe housing. In a place so far away from home and family, Torin had been hungry and sick and vulnerable. He’d needed friends, and Shaw and his gang had made him feel wanted.
Too late he’d realized the Farrells were involved in crimes and illegal activities that had nothing to do with making a better life for anyone but themselves. Torin’s conscience hadn’t allowed him to be a part of their crimes any longer. Finally, he’d broken away from the Farrells and joined the Saints Alley gang instead.
He’d known that severing his connection with the Farrells would put him in danger—maybe eventually cost him his life—but he’d been willing to sacrifice to live more honorably.
“There is no right price.” Torin spat the words at Shaw.
