Early the next morning, Beau strode across the grounds of the Arapahoe County Courthouse with a clipped, impatient pace. Marshal Scott had requested an urgent meeting at his office before the start of the day. Beau could only hope the lawman had good news.
Cold, dark clouds drifted overhead, casting a gray, depressing light over the morning sky. The manicured lawn and geometric angles of the sidewalks did nothing to soften the imposing architecture of the three-story courthouse. Made from solid stone and marble, the building brought to mind stability. The obvious statement being that no matter how corrupt any one individual became, the courthouse itself would remain steadfast and true.
Still locked inside his grief over Jane, Beau was too weighed down with sadness to notice the rest of his surroundings as he strode across the grounds.
As he continued toward the front steps, his mind shifted to Jane’s daughter. Megan would have to be told about her mother. It would not be an easy conversation.
Oh, Lord, You promise to be with us always, to the very end of the age. I pray you are with Megan today and always.
A roll of thunder rippled loud and menacing in the near distance. Beau darted up the marble steps and shoved inside the building. At the same moment the heavy brass door shuddered closed, another clap of thunder shook the air.
Beau circled his gaze around the wood-paneled lobby. Men and women of all ages milled about. With a resolute frown pulling his eyebrows lower, he searched the sea of faces and wondered how he would find Marshal Scott. Thankfully, his search was short-lived. On the other side of the cavernous room, Beau caught sight of Trey in deep conversation with a younger man. Both were dressed in solid black with a tin star pinned to their chests.
Picking up speed, Beau crossed in their direction. “Marshal Scott,” he called out.
Trey lifted his head. “Ah, Reverend O’Toole, we were just discussing your...case.” He gestured to the other man. “This is my deputy, Logan Mitchell.”
Beau nodded at the other man. Blond, lanky and with an open, honest expression in his eyes, Deputy Mitchell looked more like an inexperienced ranch hand than a lawman. But Beau had heard the rumors. A year ago, the young deputy had saved Trey’s life during a gunfight in Mattie’s brothel, of all places.
“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?