Hannah’s Beau Read online

  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 w
eeks 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.