Hannah had the strangest notion that the answer to her heart’s secret hope was near.

She took a step forward. Then the doors swung open and out walked the man she’d come to find. Why hadn’t she prepared better for this first glimpse of the rebel preacher? Hannah stared as the tall, powerful figure stalked across the street. His dark blond mane hung a little too long and she was enthralled by his bold, chiseled features.

He suddenly turned his head and their stares connected. Locked.

Hannah couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

She quickly tore her gaze away. She had to remember why she’d come all this way to find this particular man.

“Reverend O’Toole?” Hannah called out. “May I have a word with you?”

“Do I know you, miss? What can I do for you?”

“I’ve come from Chicago to enlist your help. I must find your brother Tyler, before it is too late.”

RENEE RYAN

grew up in a small Florida beach town. To entertain herself during countless hours of “laying-out” she read all the classics. It wasn’t until the summer between her sophomore and junior years at Florida State University that she read her first romance novel. Hooked from page one, she spent hours consuming one book after another while working on the best (and last!) tan of her life.

Two years later, armed with a degree in economics and religion, she explored various career opportunities, including stints at a Florida theme park, a modeling agency and a cosmetic conglomerate. She moved on to teach high school economics, American government and Latin while coaching award-winning cheerleading teams. Several years later, with an eclectic cast of characters swimming around in her head, she began seriously pursuing a writing career. She lives with her husband, two children and one ornery cat in Georgia.

Renee Ryan
Hannah’s Beau

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Wherefore receive ye one another, as Christ

also received us to the glory of God.

—Romans 15:7

To my fabulous editor, Melissa Endlich.

Your suggestions, support and overall guidance

were invaluable in the process of writing this book.

Thank you for taking a chance on me.

You are, quite simply, the best!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

The Grand Opera House, Chicago, Illinois, 1883

Shakespeare’s delightful comedy Twelfth Night progressed toward its dramatic conclusion as planned. Lies were exposed with the perfect blend of surprise, satisfaction and charm. Truths unfolded at a precise, believable pace.

Usually, Hannah Southerland loved the challenge of translating every nuance and plot twist found on paper into a memorable performance onstage. But as tonight’s final act drew to a close she found herself wondering if art didn’t imitate life a bit too closely, at least in her case.

Mistaken identity? Twins separated by misfortune? A woman in disguise from her true nature?

Uncanny, really. Peculiar.

Eerie.

With nothing left to do but take her bows, Hannah stood poised in the shadows, watching the last moments of the play. The only sign of her growing unease came in the rhythmic tick-tick of her pulse and the slight shake of her hands. Otherwise, she held herself rock still, letting the sound of actors reciting their lines, and the rustle of patrons shifting in their seats, echo in her ears and pulse through her blood.

These moments, when fantasy blurred into reality, were why she’d first pursued the stage five years ago. She’d craved the escape. Needed it as much as breath itself. In the end, she had found a new home with a large family to love her as her own had never been able to do.

Unwanted memories slid into her mind, playing out as strangely real as the last moments of the play. She’d been so afraid that dark, wintry night when her father had banished her from his home. All because she had played a well-rehearsed role, one she would never take on again.

In the ensuing years since her exile, Hannah had discovered a more powerful force than fear. Faith.

Now, if only her twin sister could find the same peace in Christ that she had.

With that thought, Hannah leaned slightly forward, her eyes searching for the woman positioned off the opposite end of the stage. There she stood, a mirror image of Hannah, yet profoundly different. It was the look in her eyes that set Rachel apart from Hannah, the startling combination of purity and audacity that had turned the heads of many unsuspecting men.

Rachel’s presence at the theater tonight evoked a myriad of emotions—happiness that Rachel had left her fiancé barely a month before the wedding for the sole purpose of reconnecting with her estranged sister. Disappointment that Hannah’s father had chosen not to come with Rachel. Hannah had hoped that after five years the venerable Reverend Thomas Southerland could find it in his heart to forgive her.

As Hannah had forgiven Rachel.

If, during her sister’s brief stay, Hannah could teach Rachel about true accountability, maybe, maybe, Hannah could move on with her life. Without the guilt. Without the burden.

Without the shame.

Her hands started to shake harder, threatening her outward calm. A deep, driving urge to run away washed through her. Instead of giving in to the cowardice, Hannah threaded her fingers together and clutched her palms tightly against one another. In this mood she could feel the edgy nerves of her fellow actors, the underlying desperation to deliver the perfect performance.

Unable to bear their emotions along with her own unsettled ones, she shifted her gaze toward the audience. Flickering light illuminated the theater, casting a golden glow over tonight’s patrons.

Hannah squinted deep into the shadows until her gaze focused. Countless faces stared at the stage with the kind of rapt attention that widened the eyes and slackened the jaw.

As expensive and wealthy went, the affluent men and women viewing tonight’s closing performance had no rivals. Except, perhaps, in London. And like those patrons of the British theater, they fully accepted the illusion of true love found in the midst of deception.

Hannah took a deep breath and turned her attention back to the stage.

At last, the actor playing the clown recited his final line and made his exit. A hushed pause filled the theater. Like waking from a lovely dream, eyes slowly blinked and then…

The applause thundered, passing through shadow, to light, to empty stage.

The curtain began its slow descent, but not before the audience played its own part in the production and surged to its feet. The sound of their approval rumbled past the velvet folds as the soft thud of the thick, heavy material landed on the stage floor.

Chaos instantly erupted behind the delicate veil between audience and actor.

“Places, everyone,” yelled the director. He turned to Hannah and motioned her forward.

Hannah wove her way through the labyrinth of rushing humanity, gliding toward her spot in the center of the troupe. She pushed back an unexpected flash of trepidation—one she hadn’t felt since that terrible night of her banishment—and moved with the liquid grace born from tedious hours of practice, practice, practice. Each step required concentration, control and commitment. The kind that set Hannah apart from her other, more talented contemporaries.

Once in place, Hannah allowed the soft buzz of excited chatter to drift around her as she waited for her fellow players to join her. She rubbed her tongue across her teeth, a nervous gesture left over from childhood, before turning her head to seek out her sister once more.

Rachel stood watching the commotion with the wide-eyed innocence that had led her to be termed the “good” twin. But as with the play just performed, the outward impression was pure illusion.

Hannah was suddenly jostled by the actor on her left, jerking her attention back to the drawn curtain. Her hair swung out with the swift gesture, curved under her chin, then settled.

With a flick of her wrist, Hannah shifted the ebony mass of curls behind her back. Thoughts of her sister were not so easily set aside. However, right now, Hannah needed to concentrate on the other, equally disturbing emotions warring inside her.

Lord, fill me with a humble heart.

How easy it would be to fall for the adoration displayed inside the deafening applause seeping through the velvet barrier. To believe the praise was for her alone. To give in to the temptation of accepting glory for a gift that was merely on loan to her from her heavenly Father.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Hannah pressed her lips together. Her mentor, Patience O’Toole, had taught her how to focus on being a light in the dark world of theater—a modern-day Babylon that required the resolve of Daniel and the courage of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego to keep selfish ambition at bay.

How she missed the grounding influence of Patience and her flamboyant husband, Reginald. The surrogate parents who, with the perfect blend of Christian grace and earthly truth, had helped boost Hannah’s broken confidence and heal her battered heart.

With a shake of her head, Hannah forced her mind on the present and smiled at her astonishingly handsome costar as he swept into view.

Golden, spectacular, larger than life, Tyler O’Toole—Patience and Reginald’s youngest son—never missed an opportunity to make an entrance. Although likable and charming, Tyler had his own agenda in life. Three priorities ruled his actions. Amusement. Pleasure. And, lest she forget, merriment. Unlike the rest of his siblings, Tyler would always be a selfish boy at heart.

“You were breathtaking tonight, my dear.” His voice was as dramatic as the rest of him, a husky baritone that carried to the last row in any theater.

Prepared to offer her own congratulations, Hannah looked up at his chiseled, beautiful face. He was the brother she’d never had, the one member of the troupe—other than his mother and father—who had worked tirelessly with Hannah to perfect her stage presence. In spite of his many faults, and there were many, Hannah couldn’t help but admire the man. Tyler O’Toole was a brilliant performer.

Tonight had been no exception.

But before she could compliment his performance, he reached for her hand, bent at the waist and dropped a kiss onto her knuckles. The gesture was pure Tyler Bartholomew O’Toole, sincerity wrapped inside an insincere, theatrical flourish.

He rose slowly, deliberately, and then sent her a suave, half smile that seemed to say, But, truly, wasn’t I equally brilliant?

Hannah lifted a single eyebrow. “Tyler, you—” She broke off, realizing she’d already lost his wavering attention.

Against her better judgment, she followed his gaze with her own—across the stage, past the rest of the hurrying cast, straight to the spot where her twin sister stood a little off to one side.

Rachel stared back at Tyler, giving him the serene, artful smile that had brought several men to their knees. Standing separate from the cast and crew, with a single beam of light casting a soft glow around her, Rachel looked like a beautiful, mysterious siren calling to any man willing to fall for her fantasy.

Tyler’s answering sigh came out pitiful, a tiny bit miserable and yet, somehow…calculating. In the next moment he unleashed his own secret weapon, the careless wink that had been practiced and perfected over the years. And had left its own destructive wake along the way.

Hannah stared at the two in disbelief, a knot of anxiety tightening her stomach.

Different man. Same sister.

One perfect disaster in the making.

And somehow, some way, Hannah would be the one to bear the consequences. Just like last time. Just like every time.

She should have realized when she’d introduced the two yesterday she’d been putting an open flame to a haystack.

No. No, no, no. Hannah had spent too many years taking the blame for her twin sister’s indiscretions, and too many months watching Tyler break women’s hearts, to hold her tongue now. “Tyler, stay away from my sister. Neither of you has any idea what sort of trouble you’re flirting with.”

Her words came out flat, hard and—unfortunately for them all—fell on unhearing ears.

“Stay away from that gorgeous, stunning creature? You demand the impossible, Hannah darling,” Tyler said. “Rachel’s smiles slay me, and her voice is sweeter than any angel’s.”

Clearly oblivious to the tension growing between their two leads, the other actors continued scrambling into place.

“Don’t, Tyler.” Pressure built in Hannah’s chest, stealing her breath and drying out her throat. “Just…don’t.”

“Why, my dear girl, you sound quite discouraging. One might start to think you disapprove.”

A familiar, albeit unwanted, affection broke past Hannah’s annoyance. Tyler had the kind of droll humor that reared at the most inappropriate of times and invariably took the sting out of an uncomfortable situation. It was hard to dislike a man who was as fully aware of his faults as his talents. Even if he used both to his full advantage whenever the occasion suited him.

Well, tonight, where too many lives might be harmed, Hannah could not—would not—allow a budding flirtation to turn into something more destructive. “Tyler, you must listen and take heed. She’s—”

A groan from the rigging stopped Hannah in midsentence and had both Tyler and her turning toward the curtain to fulfill their final duty of the night.

Conversation among the rest of the cast halted, as well.

A few more seconds of rope grinding to metal and the curtain began to rise. The audience leaned forward, eager to get a better look at the actors. With every inch of the curtain’s ascent, their palms pounded wildly together, again and again and again. Louder and louder and louder.

Hannah slid a glance at Tyler. With a sly grin lifting the corners of his lips, he reached out and twined his fingers through hers. Together they raised their joined hands in the air then bent into a well-rehearsed bow.

Rising first, Hannah shot a quick slash of teeth at Tyler, and then leaned forward again. They repeated the process until the applause died to a mere spattering.

As the curtain made its final descent on the Chicago production of Shakespeare’s delicious comedy, Hannah feared a tragedy far worse than any fictional tale was already in the making.

With another warning perched on her lips, Hannah turned to Tyler, but she only caught the wild flourish of coattails as he spun in the direction where Rachel stood.

“Tyler, wait. She’s—”

He dismissed her with a careless flick of his wrist.

Hannah lifted onto her toes to see past the other actors. “Rachel,” she called out. “You can’t. You’re—”

But her sister shifted to her left, literally turning her deaf ear in Hannah’s direction. It was an old trick of Rachel’s, a hard kick aimed straight at Hannah’s guilt, an open defiance that did not bode well for a reasonable end to the escalating situation.

Nevertheless, Hannah set out after Rachel and Tyler. The two quickly disappeared behind a side curtain. The backstage area was already filled with commotion, making it difficult for Hannah to see precisely which direction they had taken.

After several long minutes of searching, Hannah thought she saw two shadowy figures leave the building, but prayed her riotous imagination had taken over her logic.

There was one dreadful hope left.

Shifting direction, Hannah turned toward Tyler’s dressing room. She’d only taken two steps when one of the crew materialized in her path. “Hannah, your sister told me to give you this after tonight’s production.”

He pressed a piece of paper against her palm, then turned back to assist the stage manager in breaking down the set.

Hannah squinted toward the backstage door then looked down at the small, folded parchment in her hand. A foreboding filled her, and a hard knot formed in the pit of her stomach.

She unfolded the note with trembling fingers. Her sister’s looping script flowed through a single sentence.

Be happy for us.

“Oh, please, please, not again.”

Chapter Two

Denver, Colorado

Three days later

Harsh, irregular breaths wafted through the tiny room. The acrid smell of death filled the air. Both occupants sat wrapped in their own state of despair, each struggling for answers to unbearable questions. One had lost her will to live. The other had come to bring a final, eternal hope.

With the burden of his mission weighing heavy on his heart, Reverend Horatio Beauregard O’Toole swallowed his own sense of helplessness and looked at the haggard woman battling for each breath. There was little left of the vibrant creature Beau had met when he was but a boy. The gifted lead actress who had inspired a generation of aspiring young girls was now a broken shell of her former greatness.

She had no more faith. No more purpose.

No more hope.

Beau could barely reconcile this beaten woman with the one who had played some of the greatest heroines onstage with such confidence and verve. Once her crowning glory, now her hair hung in blond, dirty strings. Her skin pulled taut across her thin face, while her eyes had sunk deep in their sockets. She was a mere apparition of the beautiful woman the public had adored with near obsession.

Beau dropped his chin to his chest and released a defeated sigh. No. He would not give up on the woman his mother had once called friend.

He lifted a skinny, limp hand into his, closed his fingers over the pale, graying skin. “Miss Jane, all is not lost.”

She gave him a ragged, quivering sigh.

With his own answering sigh, he released her hand and brought a glass of water to her cracked lips. He lifted her shoulders with one hand and helped her navigate the glass with the other. “You may still survive if you turn from this life forever. We could leave for Colorado Springs this afternoon.”

Jane took a slow, choking sip and then leaned back. “No.” A slow, harsh breath wheezed out of her. “It’s too late.”

The words had barely slid off her tongue when she broke into a fit of coughs.

Beau pressed a white cloth against her mouth, afraid each cough wrenching through her fragile body would tear her flesh from the bone. After the bout ceased, Beau pulled back the cloth now filled with the red stain of blood.

Blood from her damaged lungs.

Another moment passed in utter silence.

Beau’s heart pounded so hard with anguish for her, for what she’d become, he thought he might choke from it. Now that the stage was no longer a viable prospect, Jane Goodwin had chosen to earn her money in the most hideous way imaginable. It hurt to see how far she’d fallen.

A shudder racked through him. If only she would accept God’s grace and Beau’s charity.

“Dear, sweet Beau.” Jane turned her head and blinked her dazed, drugged eyes up at him. “My sins are too many to wash clean now. Why else would I be here?”

She waved her hand in a gesture that seemed to say, Look where we are.

The heartsick tone of her voice took him aback. Beau glanced around the tiny room decorated purposely for sin. In the bright light of day, beneath the expensive silk and satin, hung a shabbiness that spoke of the years of hard, ugly work that had acquired the worldly trappings. And yet the room had a sad, unkempt feel. Once brilliant, now forgotten.

Just like this woman.

Just like the rest who shared residence in this…house.

Too many for one man to help.

He closed his eyes, once again praying for wisdom. A small, still voice inside said, One at a time, Beau. Start with this one.

All right. Yes.

Beau asked God for the words to convince her to leave, but behind his confident demeanor he was soul-sick with the hollow feeling of defeat. “Miss Jane, please reconsider my offer. The sanatorium is only a day’s train ride away.”

He tried to capture her stare, but her gaze darted around, eventually locking on to his left shoulder. “I…No, it’s impossible.”

He reached out and cupped her hand in his, staring fiercely into her eyes. “All things are possible through Christ.”

“Not for my kind.” Her voice was uneven, shaky, the underlying disgust at herself no longer hidden behind false bravado.

She’d given up then, resigned herself to die thinking she’d turned so far away from God that she could never find her way back, had convinced herself she deserved this sort of hell on earth.

“God forgives all sins, even the seemingly unforgivable ones.” He spoke with the conviction of his heart. “You need only to ask.”

“You don’t understand.” Jane tugged her hand free, the sharp gesture at odds with her infirmity. She struggled to speak, her lips moving frantically while words seeped out in a soft wispy whoosh. “I have a daughter.”

Beau studied Jane’s vulnerable expression with mingled pity and horror. He hadn’t known. Hadn’t realized. But he should have. He’d seen it often enough. The unbearable chain of sin continuing from one generation to another. “She is here? Living in the brothel?”

“Megan is at Charity House. If I leave, if I don’t work, I cannot continue to pay her board.”

Charity House. Of course. Beau knew all about the special home where children born to women of ill repute were welcomed without question. Marc and Laney Dupree, the owners, never turned a child away. No matter the financial circumstances. Jane was worrying over something that would not be a problem, ever.

“But if you don’t leave, you will make your daughter an orphan. How is that any better?”

Another fit of coughing was her only response.

Beau shut his eyes for a moment. He must not quit on Jane. He must not. God had called him to minister to the ones with no more dignity, no identity, no…hope.

He knew firsthand what it meant to be an outcast, never fitting in the world around him. Although he adored his family, without their passion for acting, the constant years of traveling from stage to stage had left him feeling alone and separate from the rest of his siblings. Even in seminary his modern ideas of preaching and evangelizing had never truly meshed with the more traditional views of his professors.

He had yet to find his place in the world. Thus, he traveled from mining camp to saloon to brothel, ministering to the outcasts of this world. Outcasts such as women like Jane.

But soon, if the vote went his way, he would have his own church in Greeley, Colorado. It would be a place where he could put down roots and begin a normal family with a traditional wife by his side. Her soft, compassionate nature would temper his overly bold, often impudent personality. He hadn’t found her yet, but he would and then his days of traveling across the territory and ministering to the forgotten would come to an end.

Well, not completely.

All would be welcomed in his new congregation. No matter their past sins or current ones. His church would be a safe haven for the lost. For the—

The door flung open with a bang. In swept a whirlwind of angry female and bad attitude. “Beauregard O’Toole, you know your kind isn’t welcome in this establishment. To think. A minister, here, in my brothel.” Her voice was incredulous. “It’s just plain bad for business.”

Beau rose and turned to face the new occupant of the room. With her outrageously buxom figure, unnaturally blond hair and overly painted face, Mattie Silks looked far older than her reported twenty-nine years of age.

She took two steps into the room, and then relaxed into a pose that spoke as much of her profession as her vanity.

Notorious. Legendary. With her own unique flair for the dramatic. Even without formal training, she could hold her own against any stage actress Beau knew. His lips pulled into a wry grin. Clearly, the woman had missed her calling.

Nevertheless…

If there was one thing his childhood had taught him, it was how to appease a dramatic woman in a fit of theatrics.

“Now, Miss Silks.” He gave the surly madam a smile so filled with O’Toole charm that even his rogue brother, Tyler, would envy the result. “I am only here to visit my mother’s dear friend.”

“No.” She switched poses, thrusting out one hip and slamming her fist onto the other. “You are here to talk my best girls into leaving.”

Perhaps. But if Beau didn’t try, who would? The Bible had taught him to look past the outer wrapping of a person and see into their heart. Well, Beau had done that sort of looking in the past weeks he’d held vigil by Jane’s bedside. Not a single “girl” in Mattie Silks’s employ wanted to be in the notorious madam’s…well, employ. Not even one.

But without a concrete alternative, most had no other means of supporting themselves.

Beau considered the situation to be an opportunity straight from heaven. There were only two things humans could accomplish on earth that they would not be able to do in heaven: sin and evangelize. Beau truly believed God had brought him to this den of iniquity to be a light of hope. To plant a seed that might bring the lost back to Him.

One ill-tempered madam wasn’t going to run Beau off that easily. “I simply offer to listen, and give advice accordingly.”

“You mean preach.”

Love the sinner, hate the sin.

Even Mattie Silks deserved his best efforts. “Preach, give advice. Semantics, Miss Silks, nothing more.”

She gave him a hard look. “Thanks to you, two of my girls have already quit.”

Beau sighed. He’d hoped for more. Shaking away his feelings of powerlessness, he continued holding Mattie’s stare. “Only two?”

Her lips twitched before she pointed at him with a gnarled finger that revealed her true age. “You are an arrogant man.”

Beau couldn’t deny that one. He was, after all, an O’Toole. His natural arrogance was a character flaw he had to fight against daily. His professors at seminary had tried to break him because of it. His fellow students had shunned him. He’d been run out of countless churches. And even now, the Rocky Mountain Association of Churches still questioned his ability to shepherd the new congregation in Greeley. All because he was an arrogant son of…actors.

Beau dropped his gaze to Jane and watched her fight for each breath of air. “I won’t leave my mother’s friend in the midst of her distress.” He brushed a hand across her brow. “There is no changing my mind, Miss Silks. I am determined.”

Mattie’s eyes flashed. “And if I say otherwise?”

Beau couldn’t fault the woman for her territorial reaction. This wasn’t the first time he’d walked into a brothel since leaving seminary, only to be unceremoniously tossed out when the madam in charge discovered who he was. Or rather what he was.

Nothing like experiencing a little shunning of his own to help him better relate to his unusual flock. “You’d deny one of your girls a moment of peace in her final hours of life? Are you so cruel?”

Her gaze wavered, just a bit, revealing that Mattie Silks might have a heart beneath the tough businesswoman veneer. “You think she’s that ill?”

“Dr. Bartlett thinks she’s that ill.”

Mattie shifted from one foot to the other then peered slowly down at Jane, who had finally fallen into a labored sleep. For several long heartbeats the madam merely stared at the near-lifeless form dragging ragged breaths into its injured lungs.

“I saw her perform once. Years ago, here in Denver. Such a talent. Such a waste.” She shook her head and sighed. “You may stay, Reverend O’Toole. But I’m warning you. Keep yourself hidden.”

Beau blinked at the sudden capitulation. Mattie Silks, hardened madam, had gone from outraged employer to saddened friend in a heartbeat. Talk about dramatic range.

“I have no plans of leaving her side,” he said.

“Then we understand one another. Stay away from my other girls. You preach—” she spat out the word “—and out you go.”

Beau simply nodded.

Fanning herself with her hand, Mattie sighed again. “It’s scandalous, really. A preacher taking up residence in a parlor house.”

Beau gave her his best Sunday-school smile. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

Three days of unsuccessful searching had brought Hannah to Denver, Colorado, feeling defeated and frustrated. Rachel and Tyler had completely vanished. The sheer gravity of their selfishness, the reality of the ensuing scandal, had nagged at Hannah during the entire journey from Chicago to Colorado.

Hannah lowered her head and sighed. Why would Rachel run off with Tyler when she was engaged to a man who had adored her since childhood? Why would her sister throw away the guaranteed devotion of a good, Christian man for the wavering affection of a fickle actor?

Well, this time Rachel would face the consequences of her actions. Hannah would make sure of it.

Of course, she had to find her sister first.

With Patience and Reginald O’Toole performing in London, and the rest of their acting brood in New York, Hannah had one potential ally left, a man who might be able to help her right this terrible wrong.

Exhausted from her travels, but resolved nonetheless, Hannah checked the return address on the letter, folded the paper at the well-worn creases and shoved it into the pocket of her coat. For several moments longer, she allowed her gaze to sweep up and down the street, taking note of the houses and rushing populace, before her attention came to rest on the building directly in front of her.

If houses had gender, this one was surely female. Elegant, whimsical, the two-story building was made of rose-colored stone. The bold lines of the roof and sharp angles were softened by rounded windows and sweeping vines. On closer inspection the house looked a bit neglected; the twisting wisteria covered a few sags and wrinkles that made the building look like a woman refusing to accept her age.

A swift kick of mountain air hit Hannah in the face. She pulled her coat more securely around her middle and shoved her hands into her pockets. As her gloved fingers brushed against the letter, a fresh wave of guilt threatened her earlier resolve. At first, she’d been reluctant to read the correspondence addressed to Tyler from his brother, but after that initial hesitation she’d been too desperate not to open the letter.

Unfortunately, all Hannah had gleaned was the deep affection one brother felt for the other, and Reverend O’Toole’s last known address. Thus, here she stood outside one of the most notorious brothels in Colorado, shifting from foot to foot like a nervous schoolgirl and praying Reverend O’Toole was still here, ministering to his mother’s friend.

Buck up, Hannah, she told herself. God has protected you this far. Even with the gravity of the situation weighing on her heart, it was hard to marshal the courage to walk across the street and pass through those heavy double doors.

But really, how did one go about entering such an establishment in the light of day?

She took a deep, soothing breath and prayed for the nerve needed to continue her quest. Contrary to the cold, stale air, the sun hung high in the middle of the sky, bleaching the street with a blinding white light.

Oh, please, Lord, he’s my last hope now. Let him agree to help me.

If she found Rachel and dragged her home, would their father believe Hannah wasn’t to blame, after she had carried the burden of Rachel’s actions all these years? Ever since Hannah had refused to chase after Rachel when they’d fought over a neighbor boy, Hannah had faced the consequences of her selfishness. Rachel had lost her way in the woods that cold winter day. She’d caught a fever and ultimately had suffered permanent hearing loss in one ear. Out of guilt—the debilitating guilt of knowing she was to blame for Rachel’s disability—Hannah had accepted responsibility for her sister’s many transgressions.

The pattern had been set long ago, the roles so familiar, to the point where Rachel was now a master at using Hannah’s guilt against her.

Tears pushed at the backs of Hannah’s lids, bitter tears of frustration, of helplessness, of the sharp fear that she would once again bear the burden of shame because Rachel would not atone for her own sins.

Of course, no amount of feeling sorry for herself was going to bring her sister back. Squinting past the sunlight, Hannah was filled with the strangest notion that the answer to her heart’s secret hope—one so personal she hadn’t known it existed—was near. She took a step forward. And another one. On the third, she froze as the doors swung open and out walked the man she’d come to find.

Every rational thought receded at the sight of him. Why hadn’t she prepared better for this first glimpse of the rebel preacher?

Hannah stared, riveted, as the tall, powerful figure stalked across the street. The bright daylight set off his sun-bronzed skin. His dark blond mane hung a little too long, artfully shaggy. She held her breath, enthralled by the bold, patrician face, the familiar square jaw and chiseled features that declared he was, indeed, an O’Toole.

So similar to Tyler, but even from this distance Hannah could see the lack of slyness in the eyes that defined his scoundrel brother. Oh, there was boldness there, confidence, too, but also…sadness.

Oddly attuned to him, this virtual stranger, Hannah could feel the barely controlled emotion in each step he took, as if he were about to burst from keeping some unknown pain inside too long. With his head tilted down and his eyes looking straight ahead, his face was a study in fierce sorrow.

She knew that feeling well. Had lived with it for years, ever since her mother had died and she’d taken on the burden of caring for her more fragile sister.

He turned his head and their stares connected. Locked.

Hannah couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Everything Tyler O’Toole pretended to be was real in this man, his brother.

She quickly tore her gaze away from those haunted silver eyes and prayed for the bravery to approach him for his assistance. She had to remember why she’d taken a hiatus, why she’d come all this way to find this particular man.

“Reverend O’Toole?” Hannah called out. Her heart picked up speed, nearly stealing her breath, but she’d come too far to turn into a coward now. “May I have a word with you, please?”

He stopped and cocked his head. A strange expression crossed his face, a mixture of astonishment and wonder, much like a theatergoer suddenly surprised he’d enjoyed a moment in a play he hadn’t been eager to attend.

He blinked, and the look was gone.

“Do I know you, miss?” His voice was the same smooth baritone of his brother, but held a softer, more compassionate timbre. A tone that reflected the patience needed to minister to the downtrodden, the people no one else would accept.

She brushed her fingers across his letter again, only now realizing how much she craved the tolerance and compassion she’d read in the scrawled words.

For the first time in the last three hideous days, Hannah understood her sister’s motivation to run. But where Rachel was running away from her promises and commitments, Hannah wanted to run toward…something. Something kind. Something permanent and safe.

Is this what the woman at the well had felt, Jesus? This rush of hope that all would be different, perhaps bearable at last, after her encounter with You?

The thought left her feeling slightly off balance, but then she realized it didn’t matter how she felt. This meeting wasn’t about her. It was about ending a decade-old pattern of lies and deception.

Hannah squared her shoulders, tilted her chin up and silently vowed to put the past to rest at last.

Chapter Three

For an instant, maybe two, the grind of wagon wheels, bark of vendors and squeak of swinging doors tangled into one loud echo in Beau’s ears. Sadness over Jane, coupled with a terrible sense of helplessness, made his steps unnaturally slow. He wanted to be alone to think through the awful situation, to determine what to do about Jane’s daughter, but he knew he had to push aside the selfish feelings and focus.

“Miss,” he repeated. “May I help you?”

He could barely look at her. Her refined beauty stood in stark contrast to the seedy backdrop of Market Street, making him want a reprieve from all the painful emotions of the last few weeks. If only for a moment.

Beau gave his head a hard shake and stepped in her direction. By the time he’d closed the distance between them, he’d drawn a few conclusions about the woman in the blue velvet coat.

Wounded, was his first thought. Fragile. Tragically beautiful. He’d always been drawn to the poignant and injured, as evidenced by his unusual ministry. But something about this woman, with her large, exotic eyes and heart-shaped lips, put him on his guard. He’d seen many like her living in hopeless desperation in Mattie’s brothel. Who else in this town could afford the silk gloves and matching hat she wore to draw attention to herself?

The wind kicked up, whipping a strand of her pitch-black hair free from its pins. She shoved the lock back in place. There was such delicate grace and quiet dignity in that tiny gesture that Beau, exhausted from his efforts with Jane, felt something inside him snap.

On your guard, Beau. This one’s trouble.

Beau couldn’t shake the notion that no matter how young this woman was now, no matter how outwardly beautiful, she would end up just like Jane and the others in Mattie’s employ.

I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you. At the reminder from the Gospel of John, Beau knew he owed this woman his full attention and an open mind. Nevertheless, her mysterious allure somehow added to his earlier sense of defeat.

He swallowed. Blinked. Swallowed again.

“Reverend O’Toole, are you ill?”

At the warm pitch of her voice, his confusion vanished, and the sound of horse hooves hitting gravel separated once more from the shouts of vendors yelling over one another.

“No. Yes,” he said. His stomach twisted at the hard note he heard in his own voice, and he struggled to soften his tone. “That is, no, I’m not ill. And, yes, I am Reverend O’Toole.”

She sketched a small nod then glanced into his eyes again. He saw relief there. Determination. And something else. Fear? Desperation? “I’ve come from Chicago to find you.”

Chicago? By herself? Without a chaperone? Beau could no longer hear the activity around him. He flicked his gaze behind her, searching the area to see if his suspicions were correct. Baffled, he shifted his eyes back to her face. “You came here alone?”

She clasped her hands in front of her, frowned, and then lifted her chin. “I’m on a desperate errand that could not wait to find an appropriate companion.” She swallowed, locked her gaze to a spot on his shoulder. “I’m a friend of your parents’.”

“Are my parents…” Beau’s heart tightened and began to throb in his chest. A riot of emotions slashed through him—worry, fear, dread—too many to sort through. “Has something happened to them?”

Her eyes widened at his question. “No.” She reached out to touch him and genuine kindness replaced her earlier agitation. “Indeed, they are quite well.”

“Good.” He gave her one solid nod. “Good.” But his heart was still rattling in his chest. He took a slow, deep breath. “Then why are you searching for me?”

A shadow of some dark emotion tightened her features. Guilt? Shame? A mixture of both?

Beau felt something equally dark inside him come to life. He couldn’t help but think of Jane again. The famous actress had once been beautiful, as well. She’d been a friend of his parents’, too. And yet, that hadn’t shielded her from making poor decisions.

“What made you travel so far, alone?” He knew his voice was too sharp, nothing like the way he spoke to Jane and the rest of the women in Mattie’s brothel. But surely no errand was worth this delicate woman embarking on such a dangerous journey by herself.

“I must find your brother Tyler.” Her eyes went turbulent and she drew her lower lip between her teeth. “Before it is too late.”

That wasn’t the whole truth. Beau knew it with the same instincts that kept him from falling for every lie he heard from the less reputable in his flock.

But, still, it was only an instinct. And she’d said she was a friend of his parents’. Calling on the patience he’d used with Jane, Beau commanded this woman’s gaze with his. He saw a deep pain there, much like the look in the eyes of the women he’d met in Mattie’s parlor house.

Despite knowing she couldn’t possibly be one of them, not with her obvious connections to his parents, why could he not stop comparing them? Was it the way she dressed with the sort of expensive, flamboyant clothing that captured his attention?

“Please. You must help me find Tyler,” she said. “It is a matter of grave importance.”

Moved by the distress in her eyes, the somber tone in her voice, his breath turned cold in his lungs and ugly possibilities assaulted him. He touched her sleeve. But her arm seemed very fragile, too fragile for handling, and he let go gently. “Tell me what sort of trouble my brother has put you in? Miss…”

“Southerland. Hannah Southerland. But I think you’ve misunderstood me. That is—” she sighed and folded her hands in front of her “—I am not in trouble. It’s my sister.”

Southerland? Beau knew that name well. But the odds were too great that there could be a connection between this woman and the imposing reverend. Thomas Southerland was many things, including a respected member of the Rocky Mountain Association of Churches. He was also a man who openly questioned Beau’s dedication to Christ because of Beau’s penchant for ministering to hard drinkers, gamblers, prostitutes and the like. Although the age of the two would make a father/daughter relationship possible, Beau could not imagine a situation where the man would allow his own girl to travel alone.

Besides, this woman was too delicate to be related to the stern, hard-faced reverend. Except…there was something about Miss Southerland that was familiar to him. A look, a fierce determination, perhaps?

“Miss Southerland, my mind has been occupied all morning with pressing concerns of my own. I’m afraid I’m not following you.”

Her answering sigh was filled with impatience—at him—at herself—at them both? “I’m not making myself clear.”

She blew out a miserable breath, and he realized her cheeks were growing red from the frigid air.

Where were his manners? Had he been so long out of polite society he’d forgotten the basics?

“Let’s find another place to talk. Out of the wind and cold,” he offered.

She nodded, but in the next instant she was jostled by a passing man. Beau reached out to steady her, quickly releasing her when she cast an odd look at his hand on her arm.

“I am staying at the Palace Hotel, several blocks in that direction.” She pointed behind her. “There is a respectable restaurant on the ground floor.”

“The Palace Hotel it is.”

Beau fell into step beside her. A dull drumming started at the base of his skull. His brother, her sister…

The news couldn’t be good. But he held his tongue as they crossed the street and continued forward. Two blocks later, as they entered Denver’s business district, the seedier buildings of Market Street morphed into more respectable brick and granite structures.

Beau quickly noted how Miss Southerland drew sidelong looks and murmurs from some of the men they passed along the five-block trek. Did she not see their interested stares? The speculation in their eyes? Hoping to shield her from the predators, Beau shifted her slightly behind him as they walked.

Best not to take any chances.

Once they turned onto 16th Street, the Palace Hotel loomed large and impressive before them. The nine-story building was one of a kind in the West, viewed as the best in town for both its elegance and service. Built exclusively from red granite and sandstone, the hotel was fashionable, eye-catching and well-dressed. Beau hadn’t seen so handsome a building since he’d left New York seven years ago to pursue his education.

Upon entering the large structure, Beau took note of the opulent decor of rich fabrics and expensive mahogany paneling as they crossed the marbled lobby.

In no mood to sit through the ordering of food and subsequent false pleasantries as they waited to be served, he stopped walking. “Perhaps we should conduct our business here.” He indicated two chairs in the corner of the room.

They would be out of the common traffic area but still visible enough to be considered decent. Potted plants in priceless urns lined the perimeter of the room. Several were grouped around the two chairs he’d pointed out and created an alcove of sorts.

Once she was settled, Beau began the conversation with complete honesty. “Miss Southerland. I must confess my imagination has been running wild. Tell me what has happened.”

She placed her hands gently in her lap. Once again, Beau was struck by her refined movements. There was nothing hard about this woman, which was at odds with her boldness in coming in search of him.

“I don’t know quite where to start,” she said in a very low, very quiet voice. What sort of woman could look so fragile and yet travel hundreds of miles alone? She had a strange blend of polished confidence and naiveté about her that didn’t mesh with his first impression of a woman seeking attention.

His interest was stirred, but his plan for the future did not include a beautiful woman who drew attention to herself by merely existing.

With that thought, Beau shut down any personal feelings and looked deep into her eyes again. He saw a vulnerability that she tried to cloak as tightly as she’d cinched the velvet coat around her tiny waist.

The woman stirred his compassion. Yes, that was it. His compassion.

Nothing more.

“Perhaps you should start at the beginning?” he said in a gentle tone.

“Yes. Of course. The beginning.” She nodded, sat up straighter and squared her shoulders. “I suppose I should first tell you how I know your brother.”

He offered an encouraging smile.

“Until three days ago, I was on tour with the same company as Tyler.”

Beau’s heart sank at her words. She was an actress, just like Jane. Although in light of her connection to his parents he should have expected this. A cold, unreasonable anger began to stir inside him, outdistanced by a sense of dread. He held his odd fury in check. Barely. He had no doubt that audiences adored this woman—how could they not?—but he also knew the public had once adored Jane, as well.

A fresh image of the broken woman he’d left in Mattie’s brothel shot through his mind. No longer able to fill theaters with her talent and youth, she’d turned to a life of prostitution.

And now this woman, this actress sitting before him, with her youth and beauty and painful vulnerability, could easily end up in the same predicament as Jane.

Alone. Dying. Destitute.

The temper he rarely acknowledged swirled up so fast, so unexpectedly, his throat ached from having to swallow back the emotion.

Lord, show mercy to this woman. Guide her path.

“Go on,” he said in a remarkably calm voice.

She ran her tongue across her teeth and nodded. The words spilled out of her in a rush, her voice halting and emotionless as she told the story of Tyler running off with her sister.

With each detail Beau gripped his chair harder and harder, trying to ignore the shock and anger that rose within him as the sordid events unfolded before him. Amazingly, Beau remained silent throughout Hannah’s incredible tale.

As she came to the end of her story, she tapped her fingers quickly against her thigh in a rapid staccato. “I pray I’m not too late. The last time anyone saw them was three days ago.”

Needing a moment to process all the information, Beau punched out an angry breath and batted away a fern leaf dangling close to his head.

Too many thoughts collided inside his brain, making it pound from trying to sort through the particulars. Tyler had often been thoughtless, but he had never gone so far before. This time, Beau’s rash, selfish brother had done the unthinkable. And now a young woman’s reputation was all but ruined.

The pain their parents would feel when they discovered Tyler’s indiscretion would destroy them. Patience and Reginald O’Toole were good, honest, moral people. They had created a brood of four boys and one girl. Each member of his beautiful family, other than Beau, had made a life for themselves in the theater in some form or another. All had continued to honor God as their parents had taught them. Except, apparently, Tyler.

“There’s more.” Hannah’s words broke through Beau’s thoughts and jerked his attention back to her.

The pattern on her dress blurred before him, and Beau found he had to lower his gaze to her shaking hands to gain control over his own emotions. “Go on.”

“Rachel isn’t free to run off like this. She’s engaged to be married. Her fiancé is my father’s protégé, of sorts. Although each will handle my sister’s recklessness differently, neither will take this news well. My father, especially, is not a man prone to forgiving selfish acts of any kind.”

Beau gave his head a hard shake, but dread consumed him. He breathed in the scent of expensive perfume and fresh soil from the potted plants. One thought stood out over the rest.

He had to ask the question. Had to know. “Is your father Thomas Southerland? Reverend Thomas Southerland?”

Her mouth dropped open. “You have heard of him?”

“I met him when I was in seminary.” And to say they hadn’t seen eye to eye was a gross understatement.

Worse, the good reverend now held Beau’s future in his hands. His voice was strong among the other members of the Association. With a few well-chosen words, Reverend Southerland could decide Beau’s future in Greeley, Colorado. Although the man didn’t trust Beau’s modern views, he had been coming around.

What would the reverend think when he found out what Beau’s brother had done, with the man’s own daughter no less?

Beau couldn’t let it matter. Trust in Him at all times, O people; pour out your hearts to Him.

The Scripture gave him hope, and he lowered his head to pray. Lord, tell me what to do. Give me wisdom to—

Hannah’s voice broke through his prayer. “If you’ve met my father, then you understand why I must find Rachel. If I can get to her before she…before they…Well, the point is—” Hannah closed her eyes and swallowed, looking as though she had to gather her courage for the rest. “Rachel must accept the consequences of her actions.”

Beau sensed there was more to the story, a personal element Miss Southerland wasn’t going to reveal to him just yet.

It would be wise to focus on the particulars. “Why do you think they’ve come west?”

“They were last seen boarding a train headed this way.” Her words came out steady, suspiciously controlled. “With your mother and father in London and the rest of your siblings in New York, you are my only hope.”

He opened his mouth to speak but clamped it shut as a couple strolled by, their heads bent toward one another in an intimate gesture that spoke of familiarity. Partners. Beau ignored the odd spasm in his throat at the sight and said, “How did you know where to find me?”

She gave him a sheepish grin and pulled a letter from her coat pocket that had his handwriting on it. “I apologize, but I read your latest letter to your brother. I was desperate. I had hoped to find out…something.” She lifted her shoulders in a helpless gesture.

Before he could comment, she added, “Rachel’s fiancé will be devastated at the news of her disappearance with Tyler. But, as you can imagine, it is my father who will find the whole scandalous affair unacceptable. He warned Rachel to stay away from me. I’m afraid he’ll blame me for this.”

Beau had a terrible, gut-jerking sensation at her words. “Does your father not approve of you? Of your career?”

She looked away from him, but not before he saw the same sad, vulnerable light in her eyes that he’d witnessed earlier. “No. He does not.”

“Well, then. That’s one thing your father and I would agree on.”

Her face drained of color, the pale skin standing out in bold contrast to the dark slash of her eyebrows. “What…What did you say?”

Beau moved his shoulder, a gesture that communicated his own frustration. “Don’t you realize what can happen to you?”

“To…me?” Her angry gaze slammed into him like a punch.

All right, yes. He knew he was speaking too boldly, but he had to make his point now that he’d begun. “Jane Goodwin, one of the premiere actresses of her day, and once a dear friend of my mother’s, is dying of a terminal illness in a brothel.”

Beau ignored the shock in her eyes and pressed on. “Is that the legacy you want?”

Chapter Four

Hannah sat motionless under Reverend O’Toole’s grim stare. Who did this preacher think he was to judge her, to heap her in guilt for a lifestyle someone else had chosen?

“You can’t possibly believe every actress turns to…” She wound her hands tightly together in her lap. “Prostitution.”

“Most do. Especially those without family support.”

At his toneless response, bitter disappointment built inside her. In all things that mattered, Beauregard O’Toole was just like her father. Quick to judge. Unwilling to see past the exterior of a person to the heart that lay underneath.

“The point is this,” he continued, his voice flat and emotionless and nothing like the rich baritone of earlier. “Once your looks are gone, there will be few options left to you.”

My looks? Few options? The gall of the man!

He’d judged her before knowing all the facts. Her future plans were solid and well thought-out. The real estate in which she’d invested had already made her five times the money she’d earned on the stage. In a few years, she could retire a wealthy woman, free to offer her time and money to abandoned women and children in need.

She steeled herself as she’d done in her father’s presence and ignored the hollow, shaking feeling of loneliness that took hold of her. “How can you talk like this? What about your mother and sister? They are actresses as well.”

“They have family who love them, who accept them and will provide for them no matter what.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Can you say the same, Miss Southerland?”

She gave him a noncommittal sniff and focused her gaze on the plant behind him. As she absently counted the leaves, instant fear tripped along her spine. How could she face her father with this defeat? She’d failed to protect Rachel, again. And Thomas Southerland would never forgive her for it. Never.

But Hannah couldn’t turn back now. She would not continue accepting blame for Rachel’s bad choices. The time had come for Hannah to confront her father armed with the facts.

It would be up to him to decide if she spoke the truth.

Hannah fixed her gaze on Reverend O’Toole. She would confront her father with or without this man’s help, with or without Rachel by her side. Hannah would break the cycle of sin in her life at last.

She had three weeks before Rachel’s wedding. Three weeks to redeem them both. Three short weeks.

Yet here she sat with a man who saw her in the same ugly spotlight as her father did. Beauregard O’Toole had let her down, to be sure, but Hannah would not hold a grudge against the man. The fault lay mostly with her. She’d been a fool to build him up in her mind. She had wrongfully put her hope in him, a mere man, and not the Lord.

That was one mistake she would never make again.

Disappointed with them both, Hannah stood.

The reverend unfolded his large frame and rose, as well.

“I was mistaken in asking for your help,” she said. “I thank you for your time.”

“Wait.” He took a step to his right, effectively barring her exit. Although he stood close enough for her to smell the scent of lime on him, a deceptive calmness filled the moment.

But when he still didn’t speak or move aside, Hannah’s heartbeat picked up speed. Surely, he wasn’t trying to trap her, to use his size to intimidate her?

Just as real panic began gnawing at her, he took a step back. She started to push around him, but he stopped her with a gentle touch to her arm.

“Don’t leave,” he said, surprising her with his mild tone. “I fear we’ve become sidetracked from the real issue here. Please, sit back down and we will discuss the next move together.”

Hannah was tired. She was frustrated. But she was also out of options. With a reluctant sigh, she lowered herself back into the chair she’d occupied earlier.

Reverend O’Toole settled in his seat, as well. “You were right to come to me, Miss Southerland.” He cleared his throat. “I have contacts all over the territory, in areas most wouldn’t dream of going.”

Hannah closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips to the bridge of her nose. Was he offering his help after all?

Did she still want his assistance knowing he’d already judged her and found her wanting? Should she risk the humiliation of spending hours, perhaps days, with a man who considered her one step away from prostitution?

She lowered her hands and slowly opened her eyes. “I don’t believe I want your help.” Her tone came out a little too spiteful, a little too high-pitched, and she regretted her rash words as soon as they left her mouth.

Where else could she go? Who else would assist a woman traveling alone, one who knew nothing of the surrounding territory? Certainly, no one with honorable intentions.

Feeling incredibly vulnerable, Hannah flattened a palm against her stomach. The twisting inside warned her she had little time left. But then she remembered what Patience O’Toole had always told her. “If you’re unsure what to do, allow God to take the lead.”

How do I do that, Lord?

As the silence between them continued, Reverend O’Toole rubbed a hand across his mouth and nodded as though he’d come to an important conclusion. “When we first met, outside the…That is, when we met on Market Street, I was on a special errand for Jane Goodwin, one I am afraid cannot be neglected much longer.”

His odd change of subject took Hannah aback. Was this his way of dismissing her? Unexpected panic threaded through her. “I don’t see how that is relevant to—”

“I want you to accompany me to Charity House. If after our errand you decide you want to continue your search for your sister, you won’t go alone. I won’t allow it.”

“You won’t allow it?”

His arrogance stunned her into silence.

She opened her mouth to speak. Closed it. Opened it again. But still no words came forth. Her fingers brushed across the letter folded neatly in her pocket. Was the compassionate man she’d found on the pages a complete fabrication?

As though reading her mind, regret flashed in Reverend O’Toole’s eyes and his expression softened. “Forgive me, Miss Southerland, I spoke abruptly. What I meant to say is that this concerns my brother as well as your sister. I have a responsibility as much as you do to see matters restored.”

Of course he had a stake in the outcome of this debacle. And yet…why did she sense his offer of assistance was more personal than he was admitting? He claimed he knew her father. Was there more of a connection than he was letting on?

A slow breath escaped from her lungs and she pressed farther back into her chair. What was keeping her from trusting Reverend O’Toole? Why couldn’t she simply accept his assistance and proceed to the next step in finding Rachel?

All right, yes. She admitted that she’d come here hoping to find something special in this man, the admired son of her beloved mentor and friend. She’d hoped to find something more in him than she’d found in other men, something she hadn’t been able to define.

But, again, Hannah reminded herself this wasn’t about her. With nowhere else to turn, she needed Reverend O’Toole’s help. She would trust God to take care of the rest.

The plans of the Lord stand firm forever, the purposes of His heart through all generations.

Yes. She would trust the Lord to guide her path.

“Thank you for your offer, Reverend O’Toole. I would very much like to accompany you on your errand.” She pulled herself to her feet. “Please, direct the way.”

Beau followed Miss Southerland’s lead and stood, as well. But as his gaze captured her closed-lipped expression, something dark in him shifted and realigned itself. What had previously been anger and frustration now gave way to guilt.

Feeling like a fiend, he knotted his hand into a fist at his side, sucked in a harsh breath and then relaxed his fingers. Because of his own arrogance, Miss Southerland was wary of him.

Understandable, under the circumstances.

“Follow me,” he said, accepting that he would get very little warmth from her now.

He’d unfairly judged Miss Southerland because of the hours he’d spent with Jane Goodwin. Setting aside his own prejudice now, he studied the woman walking beside him with fresh eyes. Her clothes were elegant and fashionable, her carriage graceful and refined. She was everything clean, unblemished…pure. No one in their right mind would mistake this woman for a prostitute.

Except, of course, a preacher too caught up in his own grief and frustration to see the truth standing before him.

Beau was reminded of a verse from the book of James. The tongue is also a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body.

He’d spoken from the bias of his own circumstances, not with the compassion of a minister. What sort of preacher did that make him?

Lord, forgive me my bold, outspoken words. Help me to make amends to this woman properly in a way that will bring You glory and her peace.

The moment they exited the hotel, cool mountain air slapped him in the face and shimmied under his collar. Beau immediately steered Miss Southerland back inside. “Wait in here, out of the wind, while I find us suitable transportation.”

As he turned to go, he shot a quick glance at her over his shoulder. She stood gazing at him with a quiet, clear-eyed look that held far too much worry in it.

A muscle locked in his jaw, and he let out another quick hiss of air. Why hadn’t he focused on easing her concern for her sister, instead of allowing his own worries to influence his behavior?

Returning to the curbside, Beau blew into his cupped palms and silently reviewed the harsh words he’d used with Miss Southerland.

His delivery had been insensitive, to be sure, but he didn’t believe he’d been wrong in warning the actress of the life she could find herself leading if she didn’t take care. She might be pure and innocent. Today. But she was only a few bad choices away from becoming another Jane. And then men would flock to her for all the wrong reasons.

Everything in Beau rebelled at the notion. The responding growl that came from his throat sounded almost primitive.

Men could become blind idiots, often treacherous, around the sort of devastating beauty Miss Southerland possessed. Although she believed otherwise, she wasn’t safe traveling by herself in this part of the country.

Beau shouldn’t have left her alone in the hotel.

Far too impatient to wait for a carriage to pass by, Beau informed the doorman of his transportation needs and went inside to retrieve Miss Southerland.

She stood along the edge of the lobby, hidden slightly in the shadows. As before on Market Street, he found himself no longer able to walk, to breathe, to…move. He simply stared at her like an idiot. The impact of her beauty hit Beau like a punch thrown straight to his heart.

Separate from the other patrons, Miss Southerland looked incredibly sad. And with her arms crossed over her waist, her eyes blinking rapidly to stave off tears, she captured the image of a tragic heroine. Beau had the sudden urge to wrap her in his arms, to protect her against the ugliness he knew was in the world.

If Miss Southerland’s sister was half as beautiful and delicate as she was herself, it was no wonder Tyler had snatched her up and run away as fast as he could. Tyler was selfish, to be sure, but the man wasn’t stupid.

No. That line of thinking was senseless and dangerous.

Beau could not start feeling compassion for his brother or the heinous act the man had committed. A stop at Charity House would restore his own priorities and remind Beau of the dangers both Miss Southerland and her sister faced if either ended up alone in this harsh land.

Lord, not that. Use me as Your instrument to prevent such a tragedy.

With his mission in mind, he forced his feet to move. “Ready?” he asked.

She nodded, the wary expression in her eyes cutting him straight to the bone.

Had he betrayed this woman’s trust before he’d earned it?

Perhaps the damage wasn’t permanent. Through Christ all things were possible. Yes. Yes. All was not lost.

His steps were lighter as he led her through the hotel’s front door. Once outside, a burning cigar stump arced in the air and landed near Miss Southerland’s feet with a thud. Beau took her elbow and circled her in a wide berth to avoid the glowing ember. Still holding her arm, he offered his other hand to assist her into the waiting carriage the doorman had summoned for them.

She looked at his outstretched palm as though she didn’t want any further physical contact with him. He waited as a myriad of emotions ignited in her eyes. Finally, she relented with a soft sigh and placed her hand in his.

Palm pressed to palm, Beau liked how her warmth passed through her gloves and straight into him. With an odd sense of reluctance, he released her, gave the driver the address of their destination and climbed into the carriage, as well.

He settled on the bench opposite her. In the ensuing silence, he took the opportunity to study his surroundings. The blue upholstery had seen better days. It was faded in places, frayed at the edges and missing several buttons. The air hung thick and heavy, carrying a musty, unpleasant odor.

At least the wooden floor was clean.

Once the carriage began moving, Beau could no longer remain silent. “I apologize for the harsh tone I used earlier. I have no excuse. My mind was on other concerns, but that doesn’t mean I had the right to judge you so quickly.”

She waved her hand in dismissal. “It’s forgotten.” But her guarded eyes and distant tone told him otherwise.

Accepting momentary defeat, Beau shifted the conversation to the reason Miss Southerland had sought his assistance in the first place. “Charity House has a school connected to it. The headmistress’s husband is a U.S. Marshal.”

“Do you think this man will help us?” she asked, her voice filled with a weariness Beau had missed until now.

Stunned at his own lack of insight, Beau took note of the purple circles under her eyes, the lines of fatigue surrounding her mouth. “When did you say Tyler and your sister left Chicago?”

She blinked at him, but kept her lips tightly clamped together.

He softened his tone and touched her gloved hand. “How long ago, Miss Southerland?”

“Three days,” she said, pushing out of his reach.

“How much sleep have you had since then?”

Sighing, she turned her head to look out the carriage window. “I’ve had enough.”

“Miss Southerland—”

“I’m fine. Truly.” She returned her gaze to his. “Tell me about this U.S. Marshal you mentioned.”

Beau let her switch the topic—for now—and called to mind the last time he had been in Denver. Trey Scott had helped him find a miner who’d run out on his wife and five children. Clearly an advocate for abandoned women and their families, the lawman had been ruthless in his search.

“He’s a good man,” Beau said with sincerity. “He’ll do all he can to locate your sister, or, barring that, he’ll find someone who can.”

“Thank you.”

Relief glittered in her eyes. Still, she sat with her shoulders stiff and unmoving.

Time, he told himself. In time she would learn to trust him, perhaps even forgive him.

Uncomfortable on the bench that was far too small for his large frame, Beau shifted and rearranged his legs. “While we have a moment, I should tell you about Charity House so as to avoid any confusion once we arrive.”

She nodded slowly, her eyes searching his as though she wasn’t sure why his voice had changed but had decided to hold on to her curiosity while he explained himself.

What sort of woman had that kind of controlled patience?

“Charity House,” he began, “is an orphanage—”

“Orphanage?” Her eyes lit up, and she tilted her head forward. “How many children are housed there?”

“Forty.”

“So many.” She relaxed her head against the cushions and blinked up at the ceiling. Her eyes took on a faraway expression, as though she was calculating what forty orphans would look like.

“I should warn you,” he said, pulling at a loose thread in the upholstery. “When I say orphanage, I don’t mean it in the strictest sense.”

She cocked her head at him. “I don’t understand.”

He tugged on the string, the gesture releasing three more strands. “It’s a baby farm.”

She lifted a shoulder and shook her head in obvious confusion.

Releasing the thread entwined in his fingers, he boldly pressed on. “A baby farm is a home for prostitutes’ illegitimate children.”

Her eyes widened. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“The children aren’t accepted in other, more traditional homes because of their mothers’ profession. They can’t live in the brothels, so Marc and Laney Dupree take them in without question.” Beau kept his voice even, but the passion he felt for the orphanage sounded in his tone despite his efforts. “If not for Charity House, most of the children would have nowhere else to go. The cycle of sin and crime would continue in their lives.”

“How—” Tears filled her eyes, skimming along her dark lashes like tiny ice crystals. They disappeared with a single swipe of her wrist. “Marvelous.”

Beau hadn’t expected such a positive, heartfelt response from her.

Why not? he wondered. Why had he expected her to show immediate prejudice?

Because you were so quick to judge, yourself. You saw her from your own failings, not hers.

“Yes.” Beau swallowed. “It is marvelous.”

They shared a small smile between them, but then her forehead scrunched into a scowl, effectively dousing the moment with a dose of reality. “Didn’t you say you were going there on an errand for Jane Goodwin?”

“Yes, to pay the board for her daughter.”

Surprising him once again, Miss Southerland looked at him with glowing respect, as though he’d transformed into something good and noble right before her eyes. “How very kind of you.”

Unnerved by the change in her, he rolled his shoulders. “It’s what I do.”

“I know.”

She really smiled at him then. It was nothing more than an attractive lifting of the corners of her mouth that revealed straight, white teeth, but the gesture carried a spectacular wallop.

Beau had thought her beautiful before, but now…

He had to cough to release the breath lodged in his throat.

He should start anew with this woman, here and now. He should find a way to earn back her trust, in degrees if not all at once. He should do a lot of things that involved words and a healthy dose of groveling on his part.

Instead, he repositioned his weight on the bench and released his own grin.

Her smile widened in response. And for the first time in years, a sense of utter peace settled over him.

Words, Beau decided, were highly overrated.

Chapter Five

Hannah sank back against the seat cushion and studied the pastor from beneath her lowered lashes. His eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled. She hadn’t expected that. Although she should have.

There was something familiar about this man’s masculine good looks, a charming vibrancy that was one hundred percent O’Toole. And yet the tilt of his head, the slash of his cheekbones, the bewildering sorrow in his eyes were all profoundly his own.

Hannah released a slow sigh. After the last three days, she should be immune to any man with the last name O’Toole. She certainly didn’t want to be attracted to the one sitting across from her. Anger and distrust were much more manageable emotions, certainly easier to define.

But he’d thrown her off balance with his passionate description of Charity House and the home’s special mission.

The carriage bumped, jostling her forward then back again. Another bump. Another jostle, and Hannah had to place her palms on either side of her to prevent an unfortunate incident—oh, say, like diving headfirst to the floor.

As she struggled, Reverend O’Toole’s smile dipped into a frown. “Can I assist you?”

She made a noncommittal sound in her throat.

He lifted a hand toward her.

“No.” She glided smoothly out of his reach. “I’m steady now.”

“We’re nearly there,” he said in a soft, understanding voice.

Oh. Perfect. Now his tone and manner held the compassion she’d hoped to find in him earlier.

At the genuine show of concern in his gaze, she had to work to catch her breath. His silver eyes held such depth, such consideration. He was worried. About her. Which made him infinitely more likable.

The cad.

The carriage suddenly felt too small, too confining.

Hannah reached for her collar. Cleared her throat. Forced a smile. Cleared her throat again. “It’s hot in here.”

His teeth flashed white, and the crinkles deepened around his eyes. “It is.”

Careful, Hannah, she warned herself. He’s far too charming when he smiles.

She had to keep her mind on the task she’d set before her. Not on the beautiful gray eyes of a rebel preacher who unfairly judged her one moment and showed genuine contrition the next.

A surge of impatience had her tapping her fingers against the seat cushion. Time was running out. The longer Rachel and Tyler remained hidden, the harder it would be to uncover their location.

Hannah reached up and fiddled with the top button of her coat again. As much as she wanted to rush to the next town, she had to trust this small interruption in her search was part of God’s plan. Just as Jesus had stopped unexpectedly to heal the bleeding woman on his way to save Jarius’s daughter, this detour had to mean something important, something significant Hannah didn’t yet understand.

Hadn’t good already come from this slight change in plans? An introduction to a U.S. Marshal was imminent. Certainly, seeking the expertise of a trained lawman was better than chasing around the territory with no real direction.

Not to mention, they were headed to an orphanage for abandoned children. Go where God leads…

The carriage slowed and stopped with a shudder, jarring her out of her thoughts.

“We’re here,” he said unnecessarily.

Hannah craned her neck to look out the window, but the reverend’s shuffling of legs and arms captured her attention before she could focus on the scenery. He was so tall. She hadn’t realized how confining the carriage must have been for him.

Rearranging his position one last time, he stooped forward and exited the carriage. Hannah clutched the seat tighter as the bench tilted from the sudden shift of weight.

Continuing the role of gentleman, the reverend reached back into the cabin to offer his assistance once again. Hannah stared at the outstretched palm, unsure whether to accept his help a second time or not. Even through her gloves, something strange had happened when their hands met.

Her reaction worried her, of course, but not enough to be rude. Bracing for the jolt, she slowly placed her hand in his. The expected tingle started in her fingertips and moved swiftly up her arm. In an effort to be free of the disturbing sensation, she scrambled out of the carriage and nearly pushed the wall of man and muscle away from her.

He looked at her strangely, dropped his gaze to his now-empty hand and sighed.

With a theatrical flourish reminiscent of his brother, he motioned to the home standing behind him. “I give you Charity House,” he said, adding a shallow bow and a flick of his wrist to emphasize his point.

Hannah blinked at the massive structure. “This is an orphanage?”

“Spectacular, isn’t it?”

She blinked again.

Despite the grubby clouds that rapidly swallowed the pristine sky above, the house, with its clinging vines, stylish brick and soft angles, captured her imagination and made her think of fairy tales…rescued damsels in distress…happily ever afters…

“It’s quite lovely,” she said at last.

Unable to say anything more, she craned her neck and looked to her left and then to her right. It was evident that they stood in the middle of an exclusive neighborhood. Modern gas lamps sat atop poles at every street corner. Large, brick homes similar to Charity House in their grandeur marched shoulder to shoulder in elegant formation along the lane.

Caught between surprise and puzzlement, Hannah slid a glance at the man looming large and silent beside her. He stood patiently, his hands linked behind his back.

She turned her attention back to the orphanage. The sheer glamour of the home—or rather mansion—took her breath away.

Dragging cold air into her lungs, she said, “I’ve never seen an orphanage quite like this.”

And she’d seen plenty in the last few years. The buildings were usually sterile and functional, never as inviting as this one was.

She focused on the sound of laughter and good-natured shrieks coming from somewhere in the near distance. The joyful noise of children hard at play made her ache with an unexpected sense of homesickness. It was an odd sensation that was part confusion, part longing, and she felt her shoulders stiffen in response.

“Marc and Laney have spared no expense,” the reverend said. “Each child in his or her own way has suffered a great deal in their short lives. At Charity House they receive a little beauty in their previously barren worlds.”

Hannah noted the manicured lawn scattered with blooming autumn plants. “It’s wonderful.”

“It is.”

A sudden thought occurred to her. “The neighbors don’t mind living this close to an orphanage?”

“Most tolerate it.”

It was an acceptable answer, but something dark flashed in his eyes and made her press the issue. “What about the others?”

“As you can imagine, some don’t approve. They file complaints occasionally, but don’t worry.” His voice took on a convicted edge. “The Lord’s hand is on Charity House. The orphanage is here to stay.”

“Praise God.”

He gave her a heartening smile. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“Is the inside as grand?” she asked.

“You’ll find out soon enough. Here come Marc and Laney now.” He tipped his head toward the front door.

Hannah turned her attention back to the house in time to see a young couple negotiating the front steps together. Both were as beautiful as their home.

The dark-haired, clean-shaven man was dressed in what Hannah would have thought more appropriate for a successful banker. He wore a gold and black brocade vest and a matching tie, while a shiny watch fob hooked to a middle button dangled toward a small pocket. The entire ensemble looked both expensive and elegant.

The woman was dressed more casually, in a simple blue dress with a white lace collar. Her mahogany hair was pulled into a fashionable bun and she walked with an inherent grace any actress would envy.

The couple held hands, as though they were newly married, madly in love, or both. Other than Patience and Reginald O’Toole, Hannah had never seen two people so finely attuned with one another.

A gnawing ache twisted in Hannah’s stomach. Would she ever find that sort of connection with a man? Or was she destined to be alone, to serve other abandoned women and children without the benefit of a husband by her side?

Only God knew for sure.

As they drew closer, Hannah studied their faces. Compassion and strength of character were evident in their smiles and sparkling eyes. Eventually, the couple separated and the woman pushed slightly ahead.

“Pastor Beau, what a pleasant surprise.” Beaming, she gripped both of the reverend’s hands and squeezed. “We didn’t expect you until Sunday.”

He lifted one of her hands to his lips then released her. “The pleasure is mine.”

“Beau.” The man slapped him on the back in a friendly gesture. “It’s always good to see you, no matter the day of the week.”

“Marc and Laney Dupree, I would like to introduce Hannah Southerland.” He turned and gestured to her. “She’s a friend of my…parents’.”

Marc nodded at her. The accompanying smile was so genuine and guileless Hannah found herself smiling back.

Laney, however, clearly wanted none of the distant politeness required of first meetings. She boldly yanked Hannah into a tight hug. “Any friend of our favorite pastor is certainly welcome in our home.”

At the genuine warmth in Laney’s words and the open acceptance in her embrace, Hannah’s stomach curled inside itself. Feeling more than a little desperate, she clung to the other woman with a fierceness she hadn’t known she possessed. Fear, frustration and terrifying hope braided together in a ball of awkward longing. Hannah hadn’t realized how alone she’d felt these last three days as she’d searched for Rachel and Tyler with no leads, no help and no advice.

As though sensing her mood, Laney patted her on the back and whispered in a voice only Hannah could hear, “You’re safe with us.”

Unable to respond, Hannah simply gripped the other woman tighter.

“Tell me, Beau,” Marc asked from behind her. “What brings you to our home, on a Wednesday no less?”

Feeling awkward, foolish even, Hannah stepped quickly out of Laney’s embrace. She was too emotional to speak, not that the question had been directed at her. But still…

She gave the reverend a pleading look.

His questioning gaze was so serious, so concerned, she lost the tiny thread of her control and tears pricked the backs of her eyelids. It took everything in her not to reach up and wipe at her lashes.

He touched her arm. “Are you all right?”

She nodded her head, a little too quickly, a little too intensely.

His eyes softened. He squeezed her hand a moment, and then turned back to Marc. “I have a delivery from one of Mattie’s girls. Miss Southerland was kind enough to accompany me.”

“I’m glad,” Marc said with a kind look directed at her.

“And while we’re here,” the reverend continued, “we thought you might have an idea where your brother-in-law is today.”

Marc and Laney shared a look. “You’re searching for Trey?” they asked in unison.

Beau nodded, but didn’t divulge any of the particulars.

“Well, you’re in luck. He’s actually here today,” Laney said. “Last I saw, he was out back playing baseball with some of the older children.”

Marc looked like he was going to add to the explanation, but he was interrupted by a high-pitched squeal of delight. “Pastor Beau! Pastor Beau!”

All four adults turned toward the gleeful sound. A little girl about seven years old skipped down the steps. Her sky-blue eyes sparkled with delight. Her broad smile showed off a missing front tooth, while two long black braids bounced from side to side with each step she took.

The adorable little girl was filthy from braids to bare feet and, quite frankly, the happiest child Hannah had ever seen.

Skidding to a halt mere inches short of running into the pastor, she asked, “Are you here to play with us today?”

Unfazed by the near collision, Pastor Beau stooped to her level and plucked at one of the messy braids. “Hello to you, too, Miss Molly Taylor Scott. What sort of game are you playing?”

Rocking back and forth on her heels, Molly performed a perfect little-girl swish with her shoulders. “Baseball, of course. My daddy’s pitching right now.”

Grinning, the reverend rose and placed his palm on her head in a gesture that spoke of genuine affection.

Man and child continued smiling at each other as though they shared some humorous secret.

Charmed by them both, Hannah just stood watching the two interact.

“Her daddy is the man you’re looking for,” Laney whispered.

Surprised at the news, she turned to Laney. “Molly isn’t one of the orphans?”

“Not anymore.”

Their voices must have carried, because Molly noticed Hannah then. With the typical attention span of a child, she deserted the pastor and bounced over to Hannah. “You’re very pretty.”

Completely captivated by the precocious child, Hannah lowered to her knees. “You are, too.”

Lifting her nose higher in the air, the little girl slapped her own shoulder. “My name’s Molly.”

“I’m Hannah.”

“Oh.” Big blue eyes widened. “Like Samuel’s mama.”

More surprises, Hannah thought. “You’ve heard of her?”

“Well, of course.” Molly let out a sound of impatience. “Pastor Beau told us about her last Sunday. She’s the one that prayed for a baby.”

“That’s right. I was named after her.”

Molly jammed two tiny fists on her hips and narrowed her eyes in pitch-perfect seven-year-old concentration. “You don’t look like anybody’s mama to me. You’re too fancy.”

“I’m not anybody’s mother. Yet.” Hannah smiled at the child, even as something a little sad quivered through her. “But one day I hope to be a lot of somebodies’ mother.”

Molly giggled. “Me, too. Someday.”

Hannah joined in the child’s laughter, feeling the tension ease out of her with the gesture.

Just then, a clap of thunder sounded in the distance.

Molly looked to the heavens, scrunched her face into a frown and marched back to Pastor Beau. “Well?” Her fists returned to her hips and her foot started tapping on the ground. “Are you playing or not?”

“Molly, honey,” Marc said in a practical voice. “I think you’re going to get rained on very shortly.”

The little girl’s face fell. “But—”

“Not to worry.” Hannah rose to her feet and tapped Molly on the shoulder to get her attention. “I know several games we can play inside.”

Molly’s eyes lit up. “You do?”

Hannah nodded, then looked at the approaching clouds. The breeze had grown still, and the sharp, pungent odor of rain pulsated in the air. “I’ll teach one of them to you later.”

“That sounds nice.”

But clearly, Molly Taylor Scott was made of very stern stuff. She wasn’t relenting without a fight. “Come on, Pastor Beau.” She grabbed his hand and tugged. “Before it rains.”

Beau lifted an eyebrow at Hannah as though seeking her permission. He looked so sweet standing there with the child’s hand gripped gently in his.

He’ll make a great father.

Now where did that thought come from?

“Go on,” she said, more than a little touched by the picture the two made. “We can talk to her father after the game.”

“I’ll make sure of it.”

“I know.” Her heart punched two solid thumps against her ribs. “Thank you for that.”

Opening his mouth to speak, the pastor shifted his weight toward Hannah, but Molly tugged on him again. “Let’s go.”

“I think I’ll join you,” Marc said. Pausing a moment, he angled his head toward Hannah. “It was nice to meet you, Miss Southerland.”

“You, too, Mr. Dupree.”

As Marc followed behind the other two, Laney let out a loud sigh. “Five years of marriage, and I never get tired of looking at that man.”

“Sounds like love to me.”

“That it is.”

The other woman’s face glowed as she spoke, and Hannah felt her earlier sense of yearning grow more powerful. Home. Safety. Permanence. Until now, Hannah hadn’t realized how much she craved all three. The years of traveling from stage to stage were obviously taking their toll. Hopefully one day she would find her own place in the world.

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