Hannah slept.
Mavis slept.
Beau, however, did not.
He had too much to consider, too much to organize in his mind. Now that he’d begun to get a good sense of who Hannah Southerland really was, on the inside, he only wanted to know more.
The woman was clearly the worst thing that had ever happened to him. For all intents and purposes, she was everything he shouldn’t want in his life. Everything he couldn’t want. Yet he did want her in his life. And now that he knew her better, knew himself better, there was no way he would be able to walk away from her. Not without leaving a part of himself behind.
Merely sitting in the same compartment with her felt too confining, too constricting, too...personal.
There was no question he had to fight this secret attraction. No matter how kind, compassionate and merciful of heart, she wasn’t the right woman for a man starting a church in the conservative Rocky Mountain Association, even if her own father led the largest congregation in the organization.
And it wasn’t for his sake, it was for hers. She wasn’t conventional enough. The people in Greeley could easily ostracize her, judge her, perhaps even look down on her merely for her profession on the stage. Beau could never put Hannah in that vile situation. She was too full of life, too full of joy to suffer a moment of that kind of prejudice. Prejudice that he himself had held.
Surely these feelings he had for her would pass. They had to pass, for both their sakes. Then he could resume his search for a nice docile wife. Until that time, Beau would simply keep his distance from the appealing actress.
Starting now.
His jaw tight and teeth clenched, he rose and went in search of Logan in the dining car.
The young lawman sat at a table in a back corner, looking woefully out of place among the fine white linens, sterling silver utensils and crystal water goblets. He had a full plate in front of him, heaped with all sorts of rare delicacies. But instead of eating, he stared unblinking at the untouched food.
“Are you planning to eat any of that?” Beau asked.
“At some point,” Logan said, keeping his head bent over his plate. With his fork, he drew a series of invisible geometric shapes on the tablecloth, repeating the same pattern over and over and over again.
Beau lowered himself into the seat opposite the deputy. “Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Want me to leave you to your brooding?”
Logan snapped his head up and give Beau one long, frustrated stare. “I’m not brooding, I’m just...” His voice trailed off.
“Thinking?” Beau supplied.
“Something like that.”
Knowing precisely what was troubling the young man, Beau went straight for the crux of the matter. “Megan will be there when you get back.”
Logan gave a nod, which might have been acknowledgment. “I hated leaving her,” he said as he shoved the plate of untouched food away from him. “She was so...quiet.”
“Her mother just died.”
“Yeah, well, I wish I could have helped her with—” He broke off and shrugged. “I don’t know. I wish I could have done something.”
In spite of the seriousness of the situation, one side of Beau’s mouth kicked up. “You’d risk Marc’s wrath?”
Logan’s face tightened into an angry knot. “He doesn’t scare me.”
“He should. Marc takes his guardianship very seriously,” Beau pointed out in the smooth, patient tone that marked his occupation far more than the words themselves did.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve faced down worse. One overdressed dandy isn’t going to put me off from something I know is meant to be.” The words came out strong, but Logan’s gaze showed hesitation. “What does he have against me, anyway?”
“Try to understand. It’s not personal, Logan. In his mind, Marc is protecting Megan, as any good guardian would.”
Logan made a noncommittal sound in his throat, but the uncertain look in his eyes was enough to make Beau lean forward and speak in earnest.
“You’re both young. There’s plenty of time to be together. You just have to believe it will all work out in the end.”
“In other words—” Logan blew out a disgusted snort and sneered “—trust in God’s plan. Is that what you’re saying, preacher man?”
“Yes.” Resting his weight on his elbows, Beau commanded the young man’s gaze with a hard one of his own. “That’s what I’m saying.”
“I’m supposed to do nothing? Just wait for everything to work out?”
Logan’s expression was mutinous, frustrated. And very, very angry. Beau registered all three, and then noted the panic underneath the emotions.
“Faith,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Real faith requires patience.”
“I thought the Bible said God helps those who help themselves?”
How many times had Beau heard that blatant misquoting of Scripture? “That’s not precisely what the Bible says.”
“No?”
“No. Have faith. Fear not. Trust God. Those are clear commands set out in the Bible. But for a man to forge ahead with his own purpose motivating his actions, and then to tell God to bless the outcome, well, that’s not Biblical. It’s dangerous. And selfish. And more often than not leads to destruction.”
Logan opened his mouth to argue, his eyes continuing to blaze with confusion and a good dose of youthful rebellion. Beau held the other man’s stare, knowing they’d come to a moment of truth for the deputy. At last, Logan clamped his lips into a hard, thin line and nodded. “You’d know better than me.”
Ignoring the belligerent tone, Beau pressed on. “If you and Megan are meant to be together, you will be together.”
And in that moment, Beau knew he should listen to his own advice, especially where Hannah Southerland was concerned.
Have faith. Fear not. Trust God.
It was time Beau started walking his talk.
“Even if we don’t understand the ‘why’ behind our circumstances,” he said, “we can always trust that God works them out for our own good.”
“Words, Reverend O’Toole, fancy words filled with nothing but rhetoric.”
“Not just words,” Beau said in a firm, unrelenting voice. “Truth.”
“Well, here’s some truth for you.” Logan nailed Beau with a hard warning in his glare. The look revealed the seasoned lawman inside the boyish face. “If I lose Megan, someone will pay.”
Gauging Logan’s frustration, Beau ignored the threat and switched the conversation to a less volatile topic. “Since we’re on the subject, what’s all the animosity between you and Mavis?”
Logan shoved at his hair and made a face. “We aren’t talking about Mavis.”
“We are now.”
“I say we don’t.”
“I say we do.”
Logan’s scowl deepened. “The woman hates me.”
“Want to tell me why?”
Logan lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know, maybe because I call her old woman.” Frowning, he slapped his palms on the table and pressed his weight forward. “But I don’t mean any disrespect. She just takes it wrong.”
Beau stared at the other man for a full ten seconds. The deputy couldn’t possibly be that dense. Trey Scott would never hire a stupid man to cover his back. “Let me see if I heard you correctly. You call Mavis old woman, and yet she takes it wrong.”
Logan sat back. His mild blue eyes flickered with a faraway expression. “I used to call my grandmother old woman. She fancied the nickname. And unlike a certain woman in our impromptu search party, Granny had a sense of humor.”
Beau nodded in understanding. Every family, even his own, had its set of codes and pet names and forms of speech that outsiders never quite understood, and often considered odd.
Given that fundamental truth, Logan hadn’t meant any disrespect when he’d called Mavis old woman. He’d been giving her a compliment. Of sorts.
Breaking the silence, Logan sighed. “Granny kind of looked like Mavis. Well, not really. Nobody looks quite like Mavis. But there’s something about the old woman that reminds me of Granny. It’s in the way her face scrunches up when she’s mad. And how she gets all ornery when you cross her. I kind of like the old bird. There, I said it. Happy now?”
“Have you ever told Mavis how you feel?” Beau asked. “Tried to apologize for the misunderstanding?”
“Are you insane?”
Beau smiled at Logan’s horrified expression. “Do I look or sound insane?”
“If I so much as hinted at an apology, Mavis would never let me live it down.”
“Would that be a bad thing?”
Logan looked like one of the Charity House orphans, full of belligerence and bad attitude. “I’d rather face Armageddon.”
Pride, Beau thought. It got a man every time.
Hannah unfolded her legs, maneuvered past the pile of luggage on the floor and tumbled into the empty aisle beyond. Righting herself with as much dignity as possible, she lifted her arms overhead and released a jaw-cracking yawn. Every muscle ached from hours of inactivity. But that would soon come to an end. According to the conductor, they were due to arrive in Cheyenne within the hour.
Instead of feeling joy that they were another step closer to Rachel, Hannah found herself dreading the confrontation all over again. The revelation of her own unresolved bitterness toward her sister was still too fresh, too strong, in her mind. How could she face her sister with so much anger still in her heart? How could she prevent herself from saying something they would all regret?
Perhaps with Beau by her side, everything would go smoothly.
Beau. Ah, Beau.
Just thinking how far they’d come since their disastrous introduction brought a smile to her lips.
There was no denying that the rebel preacher had disappointed her at their first meeting, proving he was nothing like the compassionate minister she’d dreamed of encountering when she’d read his letter to his brother. And yet, in the ensuing days, his behavior had been above reproach. He’d been accepting of the children of Charity House, an advocate for Jane, an instrument of hope for Megan and a rock for Hannah.
The truth was irrefutable. Hannah was starting to care for Beauregard O’Toole. In the way a woman cared for a man.
But what did that mean for her, for him, for the future? For—
Mavis snorted.
Grateful for the interruption, Hannah turned toward the sound. As she stared at her chaperone, a jolt of affection hitched Hannah’s breath. Mavis Tierney was quite a character. The woman snored louder than the train wheels churned. She squirmed and burrowed like a rodent. Most of the time, she chose to be surly, mean, and spoke her mind without thinking of the consequences.
And yet, Hannah adored her.
Mavis mumbled, snorted again but continued to clutch the smallest of her three satchels against her. Hannah bit back a smile. The older woman seemed overly attached to that canvas bag. In the realm of obsession. A fixation. A...
“Now hold on just a moment,” Hannah whispered to herself.
Using the soft steps earned from years of ballet training, Hannah edged closer to Mavis and narrowed her eyes at the woman’s white-knuckled grip.
Understanding dawned.
“You little sneak.”
With slow, measured moves, Hannah wrapped her fingers around the handle of the bag. Inch by careful inch, she tugged. To no avail. Mavis’s death grip was a force all its own, which only dug Hannah’s suspicions deeper.
Another yank, a quick snatch, and Hannah freed the bag from Mavis’s hold.
The woman didn’t stir.
“Thank you, Lord, for sound sleepers.”
Gliding through the railcar on her toes, Hannah moved to an isolated corner and turned her back to the rest of the occupants. Relatively alone, she rummaged through the contents of the satchel until she found what she was looking for.
“I knew it.”
She poked her hand into the bag, quickly palmed the objects in question and turned back around. Only to come face-to-face with an engaging preacher.
“Oh,” she said.
He smiled.
“I... Oh!”
He smiled some more. “You said that already.”
“I... I...” Her heart stopped beating altogether, held a full five seconds, gave a slow pitch and then picked up speed. “You gave me a fright.”
“I’m sorry.”
He didn’t look sorry in the least.
But he did look handsome. Confident. Charming.
Glory. When Beauregard O’Toole produced that particular smile, he had all the charisma and style of his rogue brother. With none of the cunning.
Hannah wondered if Beau knew how engaging he was, in that masculine sort of way that made a woman want to rest in his strength. She wondered if he knew his charm was utterly irresistible. She wondered if he knew his smile was a powerful weapon, one that should never be misused.
She wondered if he knew she was getting very adept at wondering.
“Stealing from a helpless old woman?” he asked.
Caught in the act, Hannah grasped the tobacco pouch tighter in her fist. Then slowly, very, very slowly, she nodded.
“I’m shocked at you, Miss Southerland.” His eyes crinkled at the edges.
Hannah caught his playful mood—at last—and returned his smile with one of her own. “I am what I am.”
A single eyebrow arched toward his hairline. “Have you no shame, my dear?”
“Absolutely—” her smile widened “—none.”
He leaned in closer and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, creating a world all their own in the crowded railway car. “Can I get in on this brazen robbery of yours?”
“Only if you promise to dispose of...” She made a grand gesture of peering around him and then lifting her palm a bit higher. “The contraband.”
“I’d consider it my personal duty.”
Hannah’s stomach performed a stunning flip, and then another, refusing to settle for even a moment. She didn’t quite know what to do with Reverend O’Toole in this lighthearted mood.
She decided to take his lead and respond with a bit of comedy of her own. “You are a man after my own heart.”
Unfortunately, her words escaped from her mouth in a far more serious tone than she’d intended. Mortified, she clamped her lips shut and waited.
She’d never been tongue-tied before. After all, she was Hannah Southerland. Esteemed actress in her own right. A woman who made a living donning roles and speaking words the greatest playwrights had penned. Yet this man, the son of one of her most valued and trusted friends, not only stole her breath, he stole the words right out of her mouth.
He must have noticed the change in her, because his eyes widened and then narrowed just enough to indicate his confusion. “Am I, Hannah?” he asked in an equally serious tone. “Am I a man after your own heart?”
Hard as she tried, she couldn’t force her lips to form around a response. She had no idea how to answer such a question when her own emotions were in such turmoil. “I... I don’t...” She swallowed. “I don’t know.”
“Then I have a bit of work to do,” he said. The solemn glint in his eyes told her he wasn’t teasing.
In that moment, she knew that she was in over her head with this man.
Nevertheless, she was an actress, a well-trained one at that.
Pretending they were still talking about the tobacco she’d confiscated, she jiggled the pouch in front of him and said, “You do indeed.”
His gray eyes swept across her face, measuring, gauging.
She remained in character, standing mute under his scrutiny with a playful glint in her eyes.
Still, he made no move to retrieve the tobacco. Just when the moment became uncomfortable, his smile relaxed. “Then I’d better get rid of that before our girl awakens.”
“Right,” Hannah said, thinking she was in the clear. But then he plucked the pouch from her palm, and his fingers brushed against hers. The instant warmth and comfort that braided through her should have surprised her. Especially after all they’d been through. Instead, she felt a sense of rightness.
A sense of homecoming.
The emotion scared her spitless and her pulse fluttered in response.
“Give me a five-minute head start, then go wake our little sneak.” His tone was very businesslike now, the minister firmly back in place.
Hannah knew she should be grateful for the return of Reverend O’Toole. Yet she couldn’t stop a sigh from slipping past her lips as he pivoted on his heel and left her to stare after his retreating back.
In her years on the stage, she’d met the most captivating, charismatic men of the world. She’d socialized with heads of state and crown princes. She’d had offers, some honorable, others dishonorable. And yet none had inspired her to consider anything more than friendship. Not one.
But now, when she needed to concentrate on her sister and then go forth with her own future plans, a rebel preacher with no place to call home had not only turned her head, he had captured her heart.
She placed a hand to her throat and breathed in slowly.
Hannah didn’t know what to do with all the emotions rushing through her. She needed discernment to guide her. She needed prayer, a lot of prayer. Because, when it came to her future, one thing was certain: Horatio Beauregard O’Toole had become an unexpected complication.