Hannah’s Beau (3 page)

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.

F
or 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 some
thing 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 some
thing 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 reckless
ness 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.