by Renee Ryan
“Do you have news of my brother?” Beau asked.
Before answering, Trey looked around the lobby, his gaze landing on a few people slowing their pace as they passed by. “Let’s continue this discussion in the privacy of my office.”
Beau fell into step behind the other two men as they wound their way through a labyrinth of marbled floors and paneled hallways. Taking a deep lungful of air, Beau breathed in the scent of important business, a spicy blend of leather, wood and tobacco.
Along the way, several men stopped their conversations to look at Marshal Scott. A unique mixture of awe and fear filled their eyes.
Rounding a final corner, Trey directed Beau across the threshold of a tiny room that contained one wooden chair, one functional desk and a thick layer of dust.
“I take it you don’t use this office very often,” Beau said, flashing a conspiratorial smile.
With one quick slash of his hand, Trey dismissed the small space. “Now that I have my own home, I complete most of my paperwork there.”
Beau didn’t blame the marshal for avoiding this austere room. The man had a beautiful wife, a lovable daughter and a baby on the way. It was no wonder he spent every free moment he could with his family.
Beau’s own dreams of the future slid unexpectedly into focus. The images came so abruptly, so unyieldingly, he had to gulp for air. Perhaps grief and the subsequent reminder of his own mortality increased his sense of urgency, but Beau wanted what Trey Scott and Marc Dupree had. He wanted a wife, a houseful of children and a home filled with Christ’s joy.
“Have a seat.” Trey motioned to the lone chair in the room.
Trudging forward with heavy feet, Beau took note of the thick grime on the indicated chair. “I’ll stand.”
Trey gave him a wry smile. “Probably for the best,” he said as he reached a hand toward Logan.
The deputy presented a small stack of papers Beau hadn’t noticed him carrying before now.
Trey adjusted the pile in his grip. “I’ll get straight to the point. We’ve received several telegraphs in response to our inquiries about your brother.” He riffled through the papers, paused, riffled some more. “Two came in from the Springs area, one from San Francisco, another from Laramie and, finally, one from our office in Cheyenne.”
Cheyenne?
At the mention of the booming frontier town, memories of lost hope and a failed relationship threatened to materialize in Beau’s mind. One he had purposely worked to forget. Squaring his shoulders, Beau shoved the reminder aside. If the Lord meant for him to return to Cheyenne after that last disastrous trip, then Beau would go out of obedience. Even if he didn’t relish the opportunity.
Heavenly Father, please, not that. Not Cheyenne.
Head still bent over the telegraphs, Trey continued. “Several actors have arrived in San Francisco this week, but none that meet the description of your brother.”
A relieved sigh passed through Beau. Tyler and Rachel hadn’t made it to the coast. Yet. At least not together. But if they’d separated and Rachel was traveling alone…
No, Beau didn’t want to think about the ugly possibilities of such a disaster.
“Two female dancers showed up in Colorado Springs three days ago, but both are much older than Miss Southerland’s sister.”
Beau grimaced. “That leaves Laramie and Cheyenne.”
“No arrivals in Laramie to date. However, Cheyenne is a different story.” Placing the bottom piece of paper on top of the stack, Trey slanted a quick look at Beau. “A famous Shakespearean actor arrived just under a week ago. The man was accompanied by a beautiful young woman. The descriptions of the two match your brother and Miss Southerland’s sister.”
The jolt of disappointment took Beau by surprise. There had been a small part of him—the part where blood and family loyalty resided—that had hoped Miss Southerland had been wrong about his brother.
Now there could be no doubt. But to have his younger brother land in Cheyenne of all places.
Beau’s breath tightened in his lungs, and he fought the urge to clench his hand into a fist.
Oh, Lord, I know Your plan is bigger than my understanding. I pray for Your guidance and Your steadfast courage to face her again.
“Are they still in Cheyenne?” he asked.
Trey’s gaze cut to Logan, and he nodded at the younger man.
Taking over the conversation, Logan reached to the pile of papers and sorted through the stack until he came to one in particular. “According to Marshal Montgomery, their room at a local hotel is paid through the end of the month,” Logan said.
“Room? As in singular?”
Logan fixed his gaze on the wall behind Beau’s left shoulder. “One room. Two guests. Registered as—” he looked back at the telegraph in his hand “—a Mr. and Mrs. Duke Orsino.”
Mr. and Mrs. Duke Orsino?
Annoyance, quick and hot, shot through Beau. Leave it to Tyler to pick an alias from the popular Shakespearean play Twelfth Night, where the main characters were twins separated by misfortune. It was as if his brother was hiding in plain sight and daring Beau to come after him.
Well, the gauntlet had been thrown.
And Beau had no problem accepting the arrogant challenge.
“I need to give Miss Southerland the news,” he said. “I suspect she will want to leave right away.”
But this time she would not travel alone.
Once Beau had assisted Megan through the initial stages of her grief, he would make arrangements for his and Miss Southerland’s journey to Cheyenne.
They would, of course, need a chaperone. And perhaps a guide. Or at least a written introduction to the marshal in Cheyenne.
With his mind organizing, calculating, Beau paced toward the lone, dingy window at the back of the room. Seeing none of the scenery beyond, he continued thinking through the particulars.
Trey’s voice interrupted Beau’s mental list-making. “Ordinarily I would offer to accompany you on the journey. But I’m in the middle of an important trial, and I can’t leave my wife now that she’s carrying our child.” His voice sounded slightly troubled yet very, very resolved.
Beau turned to look at Trey. Unasked questions hung in the room between them. Maintaining eye contact with the other man, Beau waited.
“I realize Miss Southerland will have questions,” Trey said in a toneless voice. “But I won’t be able to go to Charity House with you this morning.” He opened a watch linked to a fob on his vest. “Today’s proceedings begin in less than an hour.”
Logan shifted into view. “I’ll go in your stead, Marshal.”
Beau looked from one man to the other. The two appeared to be communicating without words, an important message passing between them.
When neither man broke the silence, Beau said, “Thank you, Deputy Mitchell. I would appreciate your assistance.”
Remaining silent, Logan unbuckled his gun belt and handed it to Trey, who then circled the desk and locked the weapons inside the bottom drawer.
Confused, Beau asked, “Why are you leaving your guns behind?”
Logan lifted a shoulder. “We never wear our weapons around the children at Charity House.”
Even with all the conflicting thoughts scrambling for attention in Beau’s head, one point drew into focus. The men and women of Charity House were beyond compare.
Hannah touched Megan’s shoulder. The teenager turned a questioning look to her. An old soul. Wise beyond her years. Those had been Hannah’s first thoughts when Laney had introduced her to the seventeen-year-old this morning. And they still held now. With thick, wheat-colored hair, green, intelligent eyes and clear, flawless skin, Jane Goodwin’s daughter was nothing so benign as pretty. Nothing so ordinary as beautiful.
She was spectacular.
“Did I do something wrong?” Megan asked when Hannah didn’t speak. Her eyes filled with worry, and she drew her bottom lip between her teeth.
“No, no,” Hannah assured her. “You
’re wonderful. All I need is for you to turn slightly to the left when you say that last line and place your chin a little higher in the air. Remember, Rahab is a courageous woman, one who is instrumental in the Israelites’ victory. She has no doubt Yahweh is the one, true God.”
“But she’s a prostitute.” Megan shifted from one foot to the other, her brows slammed together in a frown. “Why do you speak about her with such, I don’t know…reverence?”
Activity around them stopped and all eyes—all twelve curious pairs—turned and waited for Hannah’s response to the question. Knowing who their mothers were and what sort of life they’d chosen to lead, she knew her response would be important. Perhaps life-changing for these children.
Before speaking, Hannah offered up a quick prayer. Oh, Lord, please fill me with the right words.
“That’s the best part of the story,” she began in a light tone. “At least in terms of seeing God’s glory shine over man’s.”
“Huh?” one of the boys asked.
Hannah took a deep breath. She wanted to keep her explanation simple, yet profound. “If God had chosen a perfect woman to carry out His plan that day, then how could we know the Lord was in control all along?”
All twelve sets of eyes widened.
“How would we know to trust in God and not mere people? Understand?”
A few heads angled in confusion, while others bobbed up and down in agreement.
“You see—”
“What Miss Southerland is trying to say,” a familiar voice said from behind her, “is that by using Rahab as His instrument for rescuing the Israelites, God showed us that even the most unexpected people have a place in the Lord’s plan and, ultimately, His heart.”
Catching a wisp of limes and pine that was uncomfortably appealing, Hannah spun around and faced the reverend head-on. “Exactly,” she said, holding his gaze.
Leaning against the open doorway, he loomed large and masculine as always, but something in his off-kilter stance made her stop and study him more closely.
Hannah gasped at the unconscionable grief rimming his golden gaze. And for a split second, his wounded, grief-stricken eyes simply stared back at her.
Hannah gasped again. Glory. Glory.
Like many women, she was drawn to people who needed her. And she was always at her best when one of those people actually asked for her help.
Beauregard O’Toole, although he didn’t know it yet, needed her. Of course, the question still remained.
What was she going to do about it?
Chapter Ten
Beau tried to think brotherly thoughts. But once again the impact of Miss Southerland’s appeal overpowered his efforts. For one shocking moment, his future had a face. Panic surged so violently at the notion that he had to lean against the doorjamb to catch his balance.
Mentally, he forced himself to step back, to evaluate. To…think. Running a hand down his face, he organized his thoughts as best he could. One ultimate truth came into focus. Miss Southerland would never make a suitable wife for a preacher in a small, conservative community.
She was too flamboyant, too alluring, too…conspicuous. And with his own reputation already controversial enough, Beau needed an unassuming woman by his side.
Hannah Southerland was not that woman.
Yet, as she continued to stare at him with that sweet, understanding expression, Beau was struck by a wave of tenderness, and he had trouble remembering exactly why she could never fit into his life.
She was a friend of his parents’, after all. No doubt, his mother loved her. The two women were cut from the same mold, all the way down to their clear understanding of Scripture and outer beauty.
But Beau was a preacher in search of a conventional wife. She would definitely need to be plain, traditional, and would reflect the sense of stability so many of his superiors questioned in him.
A tug on Beau’s leg jerked him out of his disturbing thoughts. “Hey, Pastor Beau, are you here to help us with the play?”
Happy for the distraction, Beau angled his head to look at little Molly Scott grinning up at him. “Play?” Her words didn’t quite register. “What play?”
“The one Miss Hannah is helping us put on. It’s about Rahab. I get to be a merchant. Bobby and Mitch—” she pointed to the boys behind her “—are the spies.”
“I…see.” Which, of course, he didn’t. Not fully.
Beau shook his head in confusion.
Molly scooted to her left, leaned forward and waved frantically. “Hi, Deputy Mitchell. Are you here to help us, too?”
Caught in his own confusion, Beau had completely forgotten about the young deputy. Shuffling to his right, Beau moved out of the doorway and allowed Logan to step forward.
“Hey, kitten,” the other man said as he plucked at one of her braids. “Help with what?”
“The play,” a soft, feminine voice announced from the interior of the room.
Lifting his gaze, Logan instantly straightened and stood gaping at a pretty girl of about seventeen.
The young beauty seemed equally enthralled with the deputy. There was something familiar about her. But before Beau could make the connection in his mind, Miss Southerland cleared her throat.
“We’re putting on a play about the Israelites’ defeat of Jericho,” she said.
She extended her hand to Logan, smiling as though she had a private joke all her own when he completely ignored her.
Shoving her hand forward again, she wiggled her fingers. “I’m Hannah Southerland, and you are…”
“I…uh…I’m…” Logan blinked, blinked again, shook his head and very, very slowly turned his attention to Miss Southerland. “Deputy U.S. Marshal Logan Mitchell, Miss…uh…South-land?”
His voice held the absent note of someone merely going through the motions of the introduction. Beau held back a grin as Logan ignored her outstretched hand and returned his attention to the girl.
The little beauty fluttered her lashes in a gesture surprisingly without guile.
Logan swallowed, audibly sighed.
The battle was won and lost in that moment. And Logan Mitchell was a goner.
Grinning at the smitten pair, Miss Southerland made an exaggerated effort of looking from Logan to the girl and then over to Beau. With an ironic tilt of her chin, she fluttered her lashes in an gesture identical to Megan’s.
The humor was there in her eyes, but Beau found himself feeling as stunned as the young deputy looked.
Molly tugged on his hand again. “So, are you joining us or not?”
Beau forced his mind back to the conversation. He wasn’t usually so daft. “You’re turning Bible stories into plays. I think that’s…” Beau paused, searching for the right word. “Brilliant.”
Clearly pleased with his approval, Miss Southerland sent him a quick, lovely smile.
Sensing he was a goner himself, Beau felt his stomach lurch.
“Everyone gets a chance to help,” she continued with her explanation. “Either as actors or set designers or costume mistresses.” Her eyes went serious as she offered her hand to the young girl still trapped inside Logan’s gaze. “And Megan here is going to play our heroine, Rahab.”
Megan. Beau’s mind focused to pinpoint clarity. Of course the girl looked familiar. She was Jane Goodwin’s daughter. And now that he looked, now that he really looked, the resemblance was uncanny.
His pulse thundered loudly in his head, and for a moment he was transported back in time to when the magnificent Jane Goodwin was in her prime. The hope that the generational cycle of sin would be broken in this younger, fresher version came abrupt and violent.
And he was here to break her heart.
But not yet. He couldn’t do it just yet.
Beau shifted his gaze to Miss Southerland. “I need a private word with you.”
Logan’s brows knitted together, but before he could speak, Beau said, “I won’t need you for this conversation, Deputy, but I ask that you stick around
in case I need you to fill in details I might have forgotten.”
Logan nodded. “Of course.” He turned his attention back to Megan. “Would you care to take a walk with me?” he asked.
His softly uttered words were in direct conflict with the intense expression in his gaze.
Looking both mystified and pleased, Megan’s eyes widened. “Do you suppose it would be all right, Miss Southerland?”
“Of course, but take Molly with you. And stay close to the house.” She paused to give Logan a meaningful look. “I’m sure you understand my meaning, Deputy.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Logan said, his face a study of obedience and propriety. “I certainly do.”
In spite of the other man’s promise, Beau could feel the anticipation in Logan as he offered his hand to Megan. But as the young adults left, with Molly chattering away by their side, Beau couldn’t help but smile in relief. Miss Southerland had known exactly what she was about when she’d sent the pair off with Molly, who was, unbeknownst to the child, doubling as a very attentive chaperone.
Well, well, well. The unconventional, flamboyant actress had a conservative streak.
And as he nursed the surprising thought, Beau was beginning to suspect he had no idea who Hannah Southerland truly was under all that fluff and lace. The woman confused him, to be sure. The sensation was a lot like standing in quicksand.
Hannah waited until Megan, Molly and Deputy Mitchell left the house before breaking eye contact with the pastor. She didn’t especially like the intense look the man had been giving her since he’d arrived, studying her as though he was trying to see past her exterior and straight into her heart. She should feel glad, happy that at last he was trying to see her for who she was, not what she looked like on the outside.
But what if he looked deep enough to see beyond her good intentions, deep down to her core, where she feared there was nothing of worth?
