Hannah’s Beau

by Ryan, Renee

  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 b
linked 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.”