by Renee Ryan
If her own father could see past her facade and find something repulsive, how could this stranger not? If her own father found her wanting, wouldn’t this fellow preacher do so, as well? Because of her bold attitude and outspoken nature, Thomas Southerland had chosen to believe there was only sin below the colorful exterior. He’d chosen to believe Hannah was the bad daughter, and Rachel the good.
He’d never doubted, never sought facts or details. And he certainly never questioned the validity of Rachel’s stories, which had been filled with holes the size of the Royal Gorge.
Was there something lacking in Hannah that brought on his unfavorable judgment? Would Beauregard O’Toole see it, too, if he looked deeply enough?
No. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t allow this minister, a mere man, to have such power over her. And thus she would not.
Annoyed with herself, she took a deep breath and focused on the two boys she’d chosen to play the Israelite spies. “Bobby and Mitch, while I’m talking with Pastor Beau, you two go with Mary to work on some ideas for costumes.” She turned in a circle, taking in the other children in one quick glance. “The rest of you start thinking about what you want the sets to look like.”
With a smoothness that blanketed her nerves, she cocked her head and directed the pastor to follow her outside. Head held high, she didn’t dare speak until they were completely alone.
Under her lashes, though, she threw a quick glance at the pastor as he shut the door behind them and made his way along the side of the porch. Her heart did one long, slow dip against her ribs at what she saw. His guard had slipped. Much like the first time she’d met him, he held his shoulders stiff. And his eyes glittered with pain.
He looked so lonely, she thought, so hopeless.
And then she knew. He had bad news.
Oh, Lord, give me the courage to hear what he’s come to tell me.
She leaned against the railing and waited for him to speak. But when he lowered his head and shoved his hands into his pockets, she touched his arm. “Has something happened to Jane?”
It was the only thing that made sense, given his sorrow.
His head shot up. “How did you know?”
She rubbed his arm in the same way she would when she was trying to soothe a young child. “It’s in your eyes.” She dropped her hand. “Tell me what’s happened.”
“Jane Goodwin lost the fight. She died early this morning.”
Hannah’s stomach lurched. His tone was so flat, so unemotional.
“I’m sorry,” she said, knowing how inadequate her words sounded. “Was it a peaceful death?”
“Yes.” His gaze burned with anguish as he placed his hands on the railing in front of him and breathed in. “Megan will have to be told. Soon.”
Tears sprang to Hannah’s eyes. “The news will devastate her. Oh, Beau.” She placed her hand over his, only partly conscious of the fact that she had used his first name. “What will you say?”
Releasing another slow breath, he turned his palm to mold it against hers. “I have to trust the Holy Spirit will give me the words.”
Hannah stared down at their joined hands, stunned at how soothed she felt by the contact. The sensation didn’t last long. Sorrow rose up and tightened in her throat. Her heart wept for this godly man, for what he had to do. But most of all, her heart wept for Megan and her loss. “I want to be with you when you tell her.”
“I think that’s a good idea.”
He pulled his hand free of hers then. The loss of the warmth of his fingers hit her like a physical blow. She felt her eyes sting and a hot fist of guilt grabbed at her stomach. How could she be thinking about this man, and what he was beginning to mean to her, when Megan was the one she should be worrying about?
She could because she saw how hard this was for Beau, the part of pastoring that no man could train enough for.
“I’ll need to tell Laney and Marc, as well,” he said.
“We’ll tell them together, and we’ll tell them first. That will give Megan some time with the deputy.”
She turned to go back inside the house, but he stopped her with a hand to her shoulder. “Hannah.”
She lifted her gaze to meet his.
“I have news of your sister, as well,” he said.
The softly spoken words should have staggered her. But she felt nothing. Waiting for the expected relief to come, she stared at him. Resignation was the only emotion she could muster.
There was no more putting off the inevitable. Hannah would go after Rachel. It was time to end this contention between them, to settle the real issue underlying their estrangement. To move on with their lives, separate or together.
But then a frightening thought occurred to her. “Is she…safe?”
The fact that she hadn’t worried about her sister’s safety until now shamed her.
“Perfectly safe.” He gave her a wry look and slipped his hands back into his pockets. “They’re in Wyoming and will be there long enough for us to travel to them.”
Surprised at the confidence in his voice, Hannah lifted her eyebrows. “How do you know they’ll still be there?”
“Their hotel room is paid through the end of the month.”
She heard his emphasis on the singular, and yet couldn’t find it in her to be scandalized by the information. This was all so familiar. So typical. So much like the night of her own banishment five years ago.
“You don’t seem surprised,” he remarked.
Her heart stuttered. “I’m not.”
Clearly sensing there was more to her answer, he leaned back against the railing. “Do you want to tell me why?”
“No.” The word came out too harsh, too firm, and she wanted to mean it. Desperately.
Despite their rocky start, Hannah sensed Beauregard O’Toole would understand if she burdened him with the truth of that night. Torn between bravery and uncertainty, she lifted her hands, let out a weary sigh and gave in to cowardice.
“Now isn’t the time,” she said. “We must first focus on Megan.”
“Of course.”
His voice was kind, but his eyes told her that he badly wanted to push for more information. The fact that he restrained himself showed another layer of his patient nature.
And in that moment, she knew she would trust him with the facts of that horrific night. Just not quite yet.
Chapter Eleven
The mood in Marc’s study was one of somber acceptance, as though the people gathered around Jane’s daughter were used to hearing the devastating news of death. Head bent low, Megan sat in a mahogany armchair with her hands clasped tightly together in her lap.
Beau grimaced. The girl looked terribly young, terribly small. At least she didn’t have to bear this burden alone. Marc and Laney stood in front of her chair, their faces drawn in identical expressions of concern. Miss Southerland held vigil next to them while Logan Mitchell leaned over Megan’s lowered head.
The young deputy murmured soothing, unintelligible words to her. Beau wasn’t sure she was fully listening to him, but every once in a while she would nod her head at something he said.
Logan had surprised Beau by refusing to leave Megan’s side when Marc had asked her to join them in his study.
It was as if Logan had known.
Perhaps Megan had, as well, which explained why she’d all but begged the young deputy to accompany her.
Eventually, Logan’s words trailed off. He rose and exchanged a resigned glance with Beau.
“I’m sorry, Megan,” Beau said. “Dr. Shane did all he could.”
She lifted her chin to look at him. Her large, round eyes were drowning in sorrow, but they were bone-dry. “I’m sure he did.”
Her shoulders stooped forward and down went her head again.
Making a sound of distress in her throat, Laney pressed forward. “Oh, Megan, don’t worry. Your mother is at peace with the Lord now.”
Megan sighed. “Do you really think so?” she asked the room in
general, her voice a study in doubt.
Biting her bottom lip, Laney shot Beau a silent appeal. He had trained for situations such these, and yet he never felt adequate when the time came to ease another’s suffering. Death was always worse for the ones left behind. Beau stared at Megan’s pale profile and prayed.
Lord, Lord, give me the words to ease her pain.
Beau slid a glance to Hannah. She nodded in encouragement, as though she understood how hard this was for him. In that moment a verse from the gospel of John came to mind and Beau moved into the young girl’s line of vision.
“Megan,” he began, “Jesus warned that we will have troubles in this world. But He also told us to take heart. Christ has overcome death. Death is not the end. It is only the beginning. Your mother has a new body and a pain-free existence now.”
Beau stepped closer, but Logan moved more quickly, barring further approach with his entire body. Narrowed, wolflike eyes warned Beau to keep his distance. Beau tensed. If the lawman’s concern wasn’t so palpable and genuine, Beau would have answered the challenge. The kid was obviously confused in the face of Megan’s grief, making him forget Beau was a minister here to help. So, instead of joining in Logan’s ridiculous contest of wills, Beau nodded in acquiescence and took a step back.
“In spite of your mother’s…profession,” Beau continued from where he stood, “she knew who her Lord was and what He did for her on the Cross.”
As Megan held his stare, confusion flitted across her gaze. Her shoulders jerked, but still she searched Beau’s face.
He waited for her to look her fill.
At last, she caught her lip between her teeth and lowered her head to stare at her clasped hands again.
Before he could reach to her, Miss Southerland rushed ahead of him, nearly sideswiping Logan as she knelt in front of the girl.
“Megan, listen to me.” She took the girl’s hands in hers and pulled them close to her heart. “Your mother was a brilliant actress in her day. I will remember her fondly, as will many others.”
“You knew my mother?” Megan’s voice squeaked with the dry, raspy sound of grief not yet released.
Lowering their hands, Miss Southerland offered Megan a kind smile. “The first time I saw her perform was when I was about your age. I’d never seen such talent, such presence, on or off the stage. The audience adored her. I adored her.”
“Was she very beautiful?” The eagerness and raw vulnerability in the young woman’s expression pierced Beau’s heart. Clearly, Megan wanted to hear that her mother had once been more than the broken wretch she’d become in her last days of life.
Brushing a wisp of hair off the girl’s forehead, Miss Southerland’s smile brightened. “She was stunning, nearly as beautiful as you.”
Megan’s cheeks turned bright red. “Tell me more.”
“I’m not ashamed to say your mother is the reason I’m an actress now. I had the privilege of meeting her backstage that night. She was very kind. She told me I could do anything I set my mind to. Years later, when I had to make a life for myself out of nothing—”
She broke off, looked past Megan with a glazed expression in her eyes, but then she shook her head and continued. “That is…when I had to make a change in my life, I remembered how glorious Jane Goodwin had been, and I wanted to be just like her. I was proud to have known her.”
Miss Southerland rose then and opened her arms to Megan. Sucking in a huge gulp of air, Megan leaped into the offered embrace and collapsed into choking, heart-wrenching sobs.
Logan shuddered at the unbearable sound of Megan’s grief, his face a study in masculine panic. Yet he found the courage to place his hand on the young girl’s back and rub gently.
Megan sobbed louder. Logan’s face crumbled.
Sighing, Laney gently pushed the poor man aside, gave all the men in the room a meaningful look and then cocked her head toward the door.
Beau took the hint.
“Megan, we’ll leave you alone with Laney and Miss Southerland for now,” he said. “Come on, boys. Let’s give the women a chance to speak privately.”
To Beau’s surprise, especially after Logan had been so uncomfortable in the face of Megan’s grief, the young deputy moved his chin in a sharp gesture of denial. “I’m staying.”
“You can come back later,” Marc said in an unrelenting tone. “For now, come with us.”
Catching Beau’s eye, Marc made a motion with his hand toward Logan. Beau moved to the other side of the deputy. In unison, they gripped Logan’s arms and tugged.
Logan shrugged them off with ease.
Clearly at the end of his patience, Marc lurched forward, eyes gleaming, and caught Logan by the arm again. Beau moved in, as well. Together, they calmly escorted Logan out of the room. Sensing more distance was needed than a closed door, Beau silently directed Marc to keep pulling.
Once in the hallway, Logan complained and threatened and generally spoke ill of both men along the way.
They passed through the kitchen and down the porch steps without incident. However, the moment they hit the backyard, the deputy broke free. Swinging wildly, he attacked.
Beau ducked to his left.
Marc swiveled to his right.
The deputy stumbled forward, righted himself and shot forward again. “How dare you take me away from her like that? She needs me.”
Anger made the young man’s movements awkward.
Of one accord, Beau and Marc shifted again. This time, when Logan struck, each man gripped a shoulder. With momentum on their side, they swiftly pinned the young deputy against the side of the house.
Spitting and muttering under his breath, Logan’s muscles bunched, relaxed, bunched again.
Neither Marc nor Beau loosened their grip.
Logan fought harder.
“Calm yourself,” Marc said. “You can’t do anything to help her right now. And if you try to touch her again, even in the guise of helping her mourn, I’ll do more than dodge your punches. I’ll throw a few of my own.”
“It’s not like that.” Logan fairly spit out the words.
Beau and Marc shared a knowing look.
“It’s always like that,” Beau said for them both.
Struggling under their grip, Logan’s lip curled into a snarl. “I was just…She and I were…That is, she looked so…lost.”
“She’s too young for you,” Marc snapped.
Logan looked shocked, then seriously offended. “She’s seventeen.”
“And you’re twenty-two.” To drive home his point, Marc shoved Logan harder against the house, lifting him several inches higher on his side. “In my book, that’s too many years separating you.”
Breathing hard, Logan’s expression turned mutinous. “You’re eight years older than Laney.”
Beau tried not to smile. The deputy made a valid point.
“Granted,” Marc said in a surprisingly reasonable tone. “But at seventeen Megan is still too young for you. Or any man, for that matter. And if I see you sniffing around her again I’ll make sure you know exactly what I mean.”
“I get it.” Logan scowled. “But, just so you understand. There’ll come a day when you will no longer have a say. And I’ll be there. You can’t keep us apart forever.”
“Can’t I?”
Logan struggled in response. Working together, Beau and Marc tightened their hold and slammed him back against the house.
“This isn’t over,” Logan snarled.
Marc grinned. “It is from where I’m standing.”
“Yeah, well, you’re standing too close.”
As the verbal warfare heated up, Beau’s patience drained out of him. “That’s enough. Both of you.” Beau dragged Marc off the deputy and placed a hand on each man’s chest to keep them a good distance apart. “Now is not the time for this argument.”
Completely ignoring him, both men glared at one another.
“Think of Megan,” Beau said.
Both men slid a quick glance
at him, but then resumed glaring and snarling at each other.
“Marc.”
“What?”
“Go tell Mrs. Smythe to make Megan some tea.” When Marc just stood there, Beau turned to the other man. “Logan, come with me back to the courthouse. We have to make arrangements for our journey to Cheyenne.”
“Our journey?” Logan turned his head to Beau. Lines of confusion encircled his mouth. “What journey?”
Beau tamped down another wave of impatience and spoke as calmly as possible. “Miss Southerland and I will need help with the law in Cheyenne. Since Marshal Scott is in the middle of a trial, you’re our man.”
Logan continued to gape at him. “You can’t decide that on your own.”
“I just did.”
“But—”
“It’s settled. You know our case, the players and the various details. But most of all, you know the law in Cheyenne.”
Grinning now, Marc nodded his head enthusiastically. “Certainly makes sense to me. And, while you’re at it, feel free to stay as long as you like. You—”
“Marc.” Beau cut off the other man before he said—or did—something they would all regret. “Miss Southerland cannot travel alone with two men. Do you have any suggestions of a suitable chaperone to accompany her?”
“Let’s see.” Marc rubbed his jaw between his thumb and forefinger. After a thoughtful pause, his expression turned downright gleeful and he smiled. Or rather, bared his teeth. “Mavis.”
“Mavis Tierney?” Logan gasped the name, his eyes round with shock and horror. “That old woman hates me.”
Marc folded his arms across his chest. “You don’t say.”
“You have a mean streak, Dupree,” Logan ground out. “Bordering on cruel.”
“That I do.” Marc looked entirely too pleased with himself as he shoved his nose an inch short of Logan’s. “You’d be wise not to forget it.”
“How could I? You won’t let me.”
And so the verbal sparring began anew.
This time, Beau just shook his head at the pair. At least they weren’t throwing punches. Yet. And with the way his day was going so far, Beau considered that quite a victory.
Quite a victory indeed.
