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.
She brushed her fingers across his letter again, only now realizing how much she craved the tolerance and compassion she’d read in the scrawled words.
For the first time in the last three hideous days, Hannah understood her sister’s motivation to run. But where Rachel was running away from her promises and commitments, Hannah wanted to run toward…something. Something kind. Something permanent and safe.
Is this what the woman at the well had felt, Jesus? This rush of hope that all would be different, perhaps bearable at last, after her encounter with You?
The thought left her feeling slightly off balance, but then she realized it didn’t matter how she felt. This meeting wasn’t about her. It was about ending a decade-old pattern of lies and deception.
Hannah squared her shoulders, tilted her chin up and silently vowed to put the past to rest at last.
Chapter Three
For an instant, maybe two, the grind of wagon wheels, bark of vendors and squeak of swinging doors tangled into one loud echo in Beau’s ears. Sadness over Jane, coupled with a terrible sense of helplessness, made his steps unnaturally slow. He wanted to be alone to think through the awful situation, to determine what to do about Jane’s daughter, but he knew he had to push aside the selfish feelings and focus.
“Miss,” he repeated. “May I help you?”
He could barely look at her. Her refined beauty stood in stark contrast to the seedy backdrop of Market Street, making him want a reprieve from all the painful emotions of the last few weeks. If only for a moment.
Beau gave his head a hard shake and stepped in her direction. By the time he’d closed the distance between them, he’d drawn a few conclusions about the woman in the blue velvet coat.
Wounded, was his first thought. Fragile. Tragically beautiful. He’d always been drawn to the poignant and injured, as evidenced by his unusual ministry. But something about this woman, with her large, exotic eyes and heart-shaped lips, put him on his guard. He’d seen many like her living in hopeless desperation in Mattie’s brothel. Who else in this town could afford the silk gloves and matching hat she wore to draw attention to herself?
The wind kicked up, whipping a strand of her pitch-black hair free from its pins. She shoved the lock back in place. There was such delicate grace and quiet dignity in that tiny gesture that Beau, exhausted from his efforts with Jane, felt something inside him snap.
On your guard, Beau. This one’s trouble.
Beau