searched for her voice, knowing how disappointed he would be when she told him. “I’m Callie James, your cousin Peg’s oldest girl. Colleen couldn’t come because she’s getting married. She gave me the ticket you sent, instead.” There, it was out. Let him make of it what he would. If he didn’t want her, couldn’t help her, then let him send her back, and pray God he did.
Owen Gallagher tipped his cap back, revealing a high forehead and thin, tight blond curls. Hands on hips, he looked up and down the length of her, his features tightening, with disapproval. Callie spoke up. “I’m young and I’m strong, and I can give a good day’s work!” She realized that if Peggy and the family were to survive, she must make her way here in America.
Owen Gallagher continued to look her up and down. He was thinking he had bought himself a pig in a poke. What good was this child to him? Thirteen, if she was a day, and her hair was an abomination. Men like to run their fingers through a woman’s hair. True, her hair was thick and glossy and tumbled around her head in wicked little curls, but she’d been shorn like a sheep in springtime. For sure, this little lamb wouldn’t get him a return on his investment of a ticket from Ireland. She looked as though a good wind would blow her over, and he didn’t like the sound of the cough she tried to hide. On the other hand, she was the picture of an Irish lass: fair skin, pink cheeks, clear blue eyes fringed with long black lashes, and a pert little nose that pointed straight up to heaven. There were men who had appetites for the very young—the younger and smaller the more they paid. No, all wasn’t lost, Gallagher told himself, suddenly pleased. Especially considering that this little one had no one to depend upon but himself. She’d be putty in his hands. The older, more independent Colleen might have taken it into her head that she didn’t need nor want cousin Owen’s protection.
Thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets, he walked around Callie, appraising her carefully. She squirmed beneath his inspection. She didn’t like cousin Owen; he was as slick as a greased pig at the fair.
“How old are ya? How much do you weigh?”
“What’s it to you, sir?” The title of respect was said with sarcasm. “You paid for my ticket and here I am.” No, she didn’t like cousin Owen, and though there were no snakes in Ireland, she’d seen pictures of them in the Bible, their black reptilian eyes staring out from the page, the soul behind them hidden from view. Owen Gallagher had such eyes.
“A sharp tongue won’t serve you here, girlie. Be nice and polite,” he admonished, a hard edge in his voice raising the hackles on the back of Callie’s neck.
Something in Callie shrank from this man who was supposed to be her protector. As she had since she was a wee child, to save herself the shame and embarrassment of showing weakness, Callie stared at him levelly, pursing her full lips and tilting her chin upwards, steeling herself, holding back her fear.
“Feisty little thing, ain’t cha?” Gallagher sneered. “Don’t be getting hoity-toity with me, Miss. The way I sees it, you owe me the price of a ticket from Ireland to New York. You cheated me by showin’ up instead of Colleen, and the law won’t look too kindly on that, I can tell you.” He leaned so close to her that she could smell the liquor on his breath. “And don’t be thinkin’ I won’t go to the law just because you’re family. A deal’s a deal, and the honest business man is treated fairly here in America.” His words had the impact he intended. She shrank back against the wall; he could hear her breathing, sharp and erratic, but damn it all, she still had that look of defiance about her. Instinct told him this piece of fluff was going to make trouble. He should just forget the loss of her fare from Ireland and let her go her own way. After all, what was a few pounds to a man who always had the jingle of a coin in his pocket and still more hidden under the floorboards in his basement flat? But studying her more closely, he recognized a good deal of potential in this girl. She was young and small, and if he was any judge, her hips would be slim as a boy’s and her chest not much more developed. She would be a good one to add to his stable, allowing him to cater to some men’s specialized preferences.
Owen backed off a step or two, giving Callie breathing room. “Since you’re here, you can come along with me. But don’t forget, I won’t put up with any shenanigans.” It was a threat; it was a promise.
“I’m a hard worker; I’ll give a good day’s work for a day’s pay. I can read and write and do numbers—”
“Oh! A real educated Miss, I see. Well, you won’t get nowhere unless you know when to keep your mouth shut. What I have in mind for you don’t require no readin’ nor writin’. You might say I won’t mind you layin’ down on the job!” This struck Owen as hilariously funny, and he broke into raucous laughter. “All right, Miss James, is it? Get your things and come along. Is this all you have in the way of baggage?” He smiled at her. The attempt at friendliness was almost an obscenity, and Callie bristled.
“My trunks and hat boxes, not to mention the royal jewels, will be arriving on the Cunard line!” she drawled insolently. “Of course this is all I have. If I had more, do you think I’d be dependent on your good will?”
Quicker than a striking snake, cousin Owen had her by the arm, squeezing it unmercifully. “I told you to watch that sharp tongue of yours,” he warned, his soft, lilting tone in direct contrast to the threat in his eyes and the force on her arm. “Men . . . people don’t like to hear a young girl being fresh. I take back what I said about you being educated. You’re smart, all right, alley smart. Now pick up your things and come along.”
His release on her arm was as sudden as his grip, leaving her shaken and afraid, aware of his potential for violence and making her feel more alone than ever. She might be young and inexperienced, but she was no fool. Cousin Owen was not going to use her fairly. Callie raised her eyes heavenward. “Good Lord, what have You gotten me into? It’s clear my interests aren’t at the top of Your list.”
“Did you say somethin’?” Owen asked over his shoulder.
“I talk to myself sometimes,” Callie answered.
Owen rolled his eyes. A cuckoo in the bargain. He led the way out of the terminal into the harsh November wind. Callie, burdened by her blanket pokes, followed close behind. As he walked, Owen swung his brass-handled walking stick, moving along at a jaunty pace. The trousers of his suit were tight-fitting and strapped beneath the boots—hugging his bowed legs which probably were the reason for his unusual toe-out gait—as though he were squashing bugs under his heels.
They walked several blocks along the cobbled streets. Buildings and tenement houses rose up from the sidewalks to an astonishing four or five stories, their red brick facades decorated by slate lintels over the windows and doorways. Every house, it seemed, was fronted by a porch, or stoop as they called it in Dublin, and all were attached to one another just like the row houses back home. Home, Callie thought. This was home now.
Shops and eating houses and taverns spilled their sounds and smells onto the street; delivery carts and beer wagons clattered over the cobbles, their horses slat-ribbed and plodding. She heard the sounds of her own Ireland in the brogue and lilt of voices, and there were other sounds too: the harsh, guttural tones of Germans, the melodious language of black men and women, and even, to her surprise, a small yellow man dressed in black with a round hat perched on his head and a long black pigtail hanging down his back. He turned to look at her, his flat features breaking into a smile, his slanted eyes dancing with amusement.
“What kind of man is that?” Callie asked, tugging at Owen’s sleeve.
“Him? He’s a Chinee. You’ll see people from all over the world here. Eyetalians, Germans, Portugee, but thank yer stars it’s mostly the fine folk of Ireland you’ll find yourself with. Course,
