Song of Erin

by BJ Hoff

  At the continued lack of response, he looked up to find the big fisherman still watching him with a poker-faced expression.

  “I’m aware that you think poorly of me,” Brady went on. “And rightly so. I’ve behaved in a—a despicable manner. But whether you realize it or not, Gabriel, your opinion matters to me. I had even thought we were friends once. I’d like to somehow regain your approval.”

  He could detect no sign of softening in the other, but he was determined to go on with this. “I just—wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.”

  Gabriel’s gaze, still void of emotion, flicked over him. “You owe me no apology. ’Twasn’t me you wronged.”

  The man’s coolness was beginning to wear on Brady, and he had to force himself not to show at least some irritation. “True enough. Nevertheless, I lost your respect, and I deeply regret it.” He paused, keeping his expression grave. “Well…that’s all I came to say, that I’m sorry. I’ll be going.”

  He actually turned to walk away before Gabriel could speak.

  “What is it you want from me, man?”

  Brady turned back, hopeful now. “If possible, your forgiveness. Nothing more.”

  Gabriel’s close scrutiny was unnerving, to say the least. “As I said, you did me no wrong.”

  Brady fumbled for the right response. He knew he could spoil it all by going overboard; Gabriel was no fool. On the other hand, he thought he had at least managed to crack the big fisherman’s defenses, and he was reluctant not to press the advantage.

  “Perhaps not directly. But the fact remains that you trusted me, and I abused that trust.” Brady paused for effect, even managed to make his voice catch a little as he went on. “Gabriel…I am ashamed of my actions with Terese. And while there’s no reason you should believe me just yet, I want you to know I’ve changed. I’ve—done some growing up.”

  He met Gabriel’s eyes with a look that he hoped was entirely open and without guile.

  If the big fisherman had been moved in any way by Brady’s speech, he gave no indication of it. The silence that hung between them was long and thick until, finally, Gabriel made a slight nod. “You have had your say, and you’ve been heard. I bear you no ill will.”

  It wasn’t all Brady had hoped for, but he would have to be satisfied with it for now. It was a start. He returned the nod and extended his hand. “That’s that, then. I’ll be on my way.”

  Gabriel hesitated long enough to make the moment awkward before accepting the handshake. Brady forced himself to leave without further delay, but he was keenly aware of the fisherman’s measuring gaze until he reached the end of the yard and turned for home.

  Gabriel watched him until he was out of sight.

  He was both puzzled and vaguely disturbed by Kane’s unexpected behavior. The young American’s words had seemed sincere enough, and he had not belabored the proffered apology. But had the regret been genuine? And why bring this sudden avowal of penitence to him? Why indeed?

  It was not up to him to judge Brady Kane, although Roweena had accused him of doing just that. In spite of his personal reservations about Kane, he could at least hope that the young rogue was truly contrite, that he did indeed regret his contemptible behavior and meant to change his ways. There was no reason not to believe him, after all, though his previous conduct might make it a bit of a struggle.

  Was it merely a disagreeable streak of cynicism in himself that made him suspicious of Kane’s remorse?

  There had been nothing concrete, nothing specific, in the American’s professed self-reproach to make Gabriel doubt him. And yet doubt him he did. Those dark eyes, always so deep, so difficult to read, had seemed more shuttered than usual today. Try as he would, Gabriel had been unable to take Kane at his word. Nor could he dismiss the sense of uneasiness that still lingered, long after the lad had disappeared from view.

  He knew that once he went back inside, the girls would expect an explanation as to what had transpired between himself and Kane. He made up his mind to offer only a cursory one. Unless and until he was satisfied that the American was indeed a changed man he would say nothing—absolutely nothing—that might serve to warm Roweena toward him even more. For whatever reason, he was uncomfortable with her believing that Brady Kane had undergone some sort of transformation.

  He would reserve his opinion until this surprising—and, to his way of thinking, still highly questionable—change had been proven.

  If it ever was.

  17

  ROGUES’ GATHERING

  One rogue knows another.

  IRISH SAYING

  GALWAY, WESTERN IRELAND

  Brady found the men he wanted with surprising ease. He’d been discreet; it took only a few careful questions of one of the local tavern owners and a brief show of money.

  By Monday night he found himself sitting down at a table in the Brown Sail, a pub he seldom frequented but knew of from its rough reputation. Across from him sat a duo who almost certainly had helped to establish that reputation.

  The one called Biller was small and whip thin, with a beak of a nose and narrow, pale eyes that never quite met Brady’s gaze. He seemed to be charged with energy. He was also openly hostile.

  The second man, while not exactly cordial, wasn’t as surly as his cohort. Oddly enough, however, Brady felt more uneasy around him than the other. Robuck was the only name he offered. He had red hair, thick and heavy, and he had obviously not seen a barber’s chair in recent weeks. His face, broad and flat featured, was nearly as florid as his hair. The man was solid and wide, a burly sort. In New York he would probably have been called a thug.

  Unlike his companion, Robuck had no problem looking Brady in the eye. In fact, his heavy-lidded gaze held such a mocking glint that Brady found himself looking away.

  Neither was the sort he’d want to pal around with, that much was certain. But for his purposes, they would suit. Besides, his dealings with the two would be short-lived.

  “There can be no mistakes. No rough stuff.” Brady kept his voice low but firm.

  “So you’ve said,” Robuck came back at him. “And why would we get rough? A wee girl, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. I just want to be sure you understand. You put a mark on her in any way, and you’ll never see the rest of the money. Not a cent of it.”

  Biller scowled even more darkly at that, but Robuck merely flicked Brady an amused look. “Ah, now, there’s no need to be getting riled, man. We heard you clear enough, and we’ll do the job just as you want it done. No questions asked. And no roughness. But I’m thinking, seeing as how the task would seem to require such careful handling and all, we might need a bit more in payment than you’re offering.”

  Brady flared. “I’m offering you plenty, and you know it.”

  Robuck’s sneer returned. “Well now, that might be so, mister. But you’re obviously a particular man, wanting things done just right. And quietly, as well. That sounds to me as if it’s a very important matter to you, this thing you’re asking of us. That being the case, then—another fifty. In your American money, of course.”

  Brady fumed, but they had him. He was paying not only for a hole-and-corner piece of work but for caution.

  He was also paying for their silence.

  “All right. Another fifty. But not until after the job’s done and I’m satisfied. Take it or leave it.”

  “Oh, we’ll take it,” Roebuck said casually. “Now—as to when you’ll be wanting the deed done?”

  Brady expelled a long breath and proceeded to tie up the deal.

  Gabriel knew it was too soon for word from Ulick, but each day he grew more impatient to hear if his old friend had learned anything about the American. Kane’s behavior—the sudden apology, the uncharacteristic self-effacement, and the alleged desire to set things right with Gabriel—puzzled him.

  There was something in the lad that made Gabriel almost wish that he had been wrong about him, that he could indeed trust this unexpected transformation. Y
et the fact was that he did not trust it, had in truth never trusted Brady Kane—and still didn’t. In spite of his suspicion—or perhaps because of it—he found himself increasingly curious about the American and each day now hoped for a visit or a message from Ulick.

  This day, however, was nearly over. There would be no news tonight. After listening for a moment for the sound of Roweena’s and Evie’s slumber behind the curtain and offering up, as he always did, a quiet prayer for them, he went to his own bed.

  He slept fitfully, waking often and abruptly, as if jolted from sleep by some unfamiliar sound or troubling dream. Once he heard an outcry from Roweena, followed by the predictable drowsy murmur from Eveleen. This was no unusual occurrence; since childhood Roweena had often cried out or even wept in her sleep. Always, the wee wane woke just enough to reassure her until they both fell off to sleep again.

  But no matter how many times Gabriel had heard those night cries, they pierced his heart. He ached to think that Roweena had endured something that years later still troubled her peace of mind, even in her sleep. And every time it happened, he never failed to wish that he could go to her, hold her, and comfort her until her haunted dreams disappeared.

  The thought that she might always suffer so filled him with an infinite sadness.

  The thought that he could never be close enough to her to console her made him sadder still.

  —BOOK TWO—

  Ashes and Lace

  PART TWO

  TOO CLOSE TO THE FLAME

  Take no part in the worthless deeds of evil and darkness.

  EPHESIANS 5:11, NLT

  18

  LOOKING PAST THE VEIL

  Pulse of my heart,

  What gloom is thine?

  FROM WALSH’S IRISH POPULAR SONGS

  NEW YORK CITY

  By Tuesday afternoon there had still been no news about Sheridan’s sister and the children. At that point, Jack decided to get the police involved.

  He sent word to Ed Boyle, a sergeant at the first precinct, including in his message any information that might help with a search. It could easily take days, Jack knew, if not longer, to turn up anything. If the city would ever stop dithering around and set up a harbor police patrol it could make all the difference in this kind of situation. As it was, he could only hope that the already overworked Boyle and a couple of his best men would be willing to look into the situation as a personal favor. Boyle owed him more than one, as it happened.

  In the meantime he was doing his best to keep Sheridan busy. Jack had sent the boy on a story right after lunch—a murder at one of the dime museums in the Bowery. Although that wasn’t exactly news in New York, Sheridan must have found enough to occupy him, since he hadn’t yet returned to the office.

  The lad was understandably downhearted. What should have been a happy reunion with the sister he hadn’t seen for years had turned into a nightmare.

  There was no way of knowing the girl’s whereabouts or the circumstances of her disappearance. Jack’s apprehension for Terese Sheridan and the orphaned tykes traveling with her deepened daily. The more time that passed with their not being found, the less likely it was that they would be found.

  There was also the reality that because the Sheridan girl and the two children were the first immigrants to be brought over under the Vanguard’s experimental resettlement program, it was vital to the project itself that everything go well. If the initial effort turned out to be a failure, it might well doom the entire venture.

  He gave a long sigh, pulled away from his desk, and stretched. Beyond impressing upon Ed Boyle the importance of finding the missing immigrants as quickly as possible, he couldn’t think of what else to do. For now, it was time to leave the office and pick up Samantha. They were scheduled to meet with Avery Foxworth and Maura Shanahan at the jail within the hour.

  With Sheridan off on assignment, Jack decided not to drive himself but to take a cab instead. It was another wretched day—would this miserable cold rain never end?—and he didn’t much take to the idea of driving when he could ride snug inside a cab with Samantha.

  He took time to check his appearance in the closet mirror, running a hand through his hair and frowning at the dark shadow of beard already in evidence. Well, there was no help for it now. It had been a hectic day, with no time for anything but work. In truth, Samantha had seen him looking worse by now, but he still wished he’d managed to spruce up a bit.

  Shrugging into his topcoat, he took the steps at a clip, whistling as he went. As always, the prospect of seeing Samantha had made him somewhat rattlebrained. He couldn’t remember when he’d felt such conflict in his emotions. One minute he was cross as a bear, the next as sappy as a schoolboy. He certainly hoped his foolishness didn’t stick out on him the way he felt it must. He never quite knew what was going to strike him next.

  If nothing else, love certainly made a man one great mass of contradictions.

  Perhaps she would have supper with him. Unless, of course, she happened to be in one of her “distant” moods, as he thought of those times when she seemed to withdraw from him for no apparent reason.

  Ah, well, perhaps he could change her mind with a bit of Irish charm.

  Though he wasn’t aware of that particular ploy ever working with her before.

  The meeting with Avery Foxworth, Jack’s attorney, and Maura Shanahan took place in the “visiting room” of the jail.

  In truth, the room was little more than a storage area, and a cold one at that. Samantha sat at a table beside Mrs. Shanahan, with Jack and Avery Foxworth directly across from them.

  Jack had asked Foxworth to handle the Shanahan case as a favor to Samantha, who had taken a personal interest in the woman. He knew Avery found Samantha’s involvement curious, her work among the immigrants notwithstanding. Few women of Samantha’s station would care one way or the other about a hapless Irish immigrant woman in trouble with the law.

  Maura Shanahan had shot her husband to death a few months past. According to her story, the man had abused her for years. On the day in question, he had allegedly beaten her with a gun, threatening to go after the children as well. Samantha was convinced that Mrs. Shanahan had simply snapped after years of horrific abuse and, in a state of terror, acted to defend herself and her children.

  Jack was inclined to agree and had brought Avery Foxworth in to defend the woman. As it happened, Avery had suggested to Jack that he might be able to make some sort of a deal with the prosecutor, given the history of abuse. Jack had opted to say nothing to Samantha about this just yet, however, for fear of raising her hopes in vain.

  The speculative looks his attorney had been giving Samantha since the start of the meeting clearly indicated that he was more than a little curious about her interest in the Shanahan woman’s predicament. As for himself, Jack thought he knew what lay behind Samantha’s determination to help Maura Shanahan.

  After some months of getting to know Samantha, becoming friends with her—and falling headlong in love with her—he had no doubt but that she’d been caught up in this particular case because of her own history. By her own guarded admission, her deceased husband, the highly esteemed clergyman Bronson Harte, had beaten her.

  Samantha never talked about her husband. But Jack was convinced it was Bronson Harte who was responsible for the pain that darkened those magnificent eyes and the closely guarded restraint she wore like a suit of armor. On the one occasion when he had confronted her about her marriage, she broke her silence only enough to confirm his suspicions. At the same time she made it perfectly clear there would be no further discussion of the subject.

  More than once, the perverse thought had struck Jack that perhaps it was just as well Harte was dead. Otherwise, he might have been tempted to add murder to his already lengthy list of sins.

  When he first admitted to himself that he was in love with Samantha, the idea had terrified him. He had loved only one other woman besides his mother and sister, and he had lost Martha to cancer a
fter only a few years.

  A succession of meaningless flings had followed—all brief, all unsatisfying. His lack of commitment had not been altogether deliberate. He had always found it next to impossible to trust anyone other than himself. The very idea of revealing his innermost heart to another human being evoked something akin to panic in him. Even Martha had accused him of being “shuttered,” of closing certain parts of himself off from her and others.

  After Martha’s death, he simply couldn’t seem to muster the interest in or the initiative for a new relationship. Instead he continued to drive himself harder and harder, reaching higher and higher, until eventually he knew no other way to live. For years now he had kept himself so busy there was little time for anything other than work. He had allowed no closeness, no intimacy, no real friendships with anyone, save Rufus.

  Rufus was fond of saying he had seen the best in Jack and couldn’t ignore it. But Jack thought the truth was that Rufus had seen the beast in him and did somehow ignore it.

  He valued his friendship with Rufus Carver beyond telling, but there had been no inclination to extend anything remotely like it to anyone else.

  Until Samantha. She had swept into his life with her quiet grace and haunted eyes before he knew what hit him, and he hadn’t been the same man since.

  He was mad for her. He wanted to take care of her, protect her, be with her. He wanted to lavish everything he had on her.

  He wanted to marry her.

  Jack flinched, then actually glanced around to make sure the others hadn’t noticed.

  He needn’t have worried. Samantha’s attention was concentrated on Avery Foxworth, who was outlining the legal options of the case. As for Avery, he couldn’t seem to drag his gaze away from Samantha, even as he spoke.

  A jolt of something primitive arced through Jack at a blistering speed. Shaken, he took a minute to recognize the feeling for what it was.