Hannah's Beau. Renee Ryan

sat motionless under Reverend O’Toole’s grim stare. Who did this preacher think he was to judge her, to heap her in guilt for a lifestyle someone else had chosen?

      “You can’t possibly believe every actress turns to…” She wound her hands tightly together in her lap. “Prostitution.”

      “Most do. Especially those without family support.”

      At his toneless response, bitter disappointment built inside her. In all things that mattered, Beauregard O’Toole was just like her father. Quick to judge. Unwilling to see past the exterior of a person to the heart that lay underneath.

      “The point is this,” he continued, his voice flat and emotionless and nothing like the rich baritone of earlier. “Once your looks are gone, there will be few options left to you.”

      My looks? Few options? The gall of the man!

      He’d judged her before knowing all the facts. Her future plans were solid and well thought-out. The real estate in which she’d invested had already made her five times the money she’d earned on the stage. In a few years, she could retire a wealthy woman, free to offer her time and money to abandoned women and children in need.

      She steeled herself as she’d done in her father’s presence and ignored the hollow, shaking feeling of loneliness that took hold of her. “How can you talk like this? What about your mother and sister? They are actresses as well.”

      “They have family who love them, who accept them and will provide for them no matter what.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Can you say the same, Miss Southerland?”

      She gave him a noncommittal sniff and focused her gaze on the plant behind him. As she absently counted the leaves, instant fear tripped along her spine. How could she face her father with this defeat? She’d failed to protect Rachel, again. And Thomas Southerland would never forgive her for it. Never.

      But Hannah couldn’t turn back now. She would not continue accepting blame for Rachel’s bad choices. The time had come for Hannah to confront her father armed with the facts.

      It would be up to him to decide if she spoke the truth.

      Hannah fixed her gaze on Reverend O’Toole. She would confront her father with or without this man’s help, with or without Rachel by her side. Hannah would break the cycle of sin in her life at last.

      She had three weeks before Rachel’s wedding. Three weeks to redeem them both. Three short weeks.

      Yet here she sat with a man who saw her in the same ugly spotlight as her father did. Beauregard O’Toole had let her down, to be sure, but Hannah would not hold a grudge against the man. The fault lay mostly with her. She’d been a fool to build him up in her mind. She had wrongfully put her hope in him, a mere man, and not the Lord.

      That was one mistake she would never make again.

      Disappointed with them both, Hannah stood.

      The reverend unfolded his large frame and rose, as well.

      “I was mistaken in asking for your help,” she said. “I thank you for your time.”

      “Wait.” He took a step to his right, effectively barring her exit. Although he stood close enough for her to smell the scent of lime on him, a deceptive calmness filled the moment.

      But when he still didn’t speak or move aside, Hannah’s heartbeat picked up speed. Surely, he wasn’t trying to trap her, to use his size to intimidate her?

      Just as real panic began gnawing at her, he took a step back. She started to push around him, but he stopped her with a gentle touch to her arm.

      “Don’t leave,” he said, surprising her with his mild tone. “I fear we’ve become sidetracked from the real issue here. Please, sit back down and we will discuss the next move together.”

      Hannah was tired. She was frustrated. But she was also out of options. With a reluctant sigh, she lowered herself back into the chair she’d occupied earlier.

      Reverend O’Toole settled in his seat, as well. “You were right to come to me, Miss Southerland.” He cleared his throat. “I have contacts all over the territory, in areas most wouldn’t dream of going.”

      Hannah closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips to the bridge of her nose. Was he offering his help after all?

      Did she still want his assistance knowing he’d already judged her and found her wanting? Should she risk the humiliation of spending hours, perhaps days, with a man who considered her one step away from prostitution?

      She lowered her hands and slowly opened her eyes. “I don’t believe I want your help.” Her tone came out a little too spiteful, a little too high-pitched, and she regretted her rash words as soon as they left her mouth.

      Where else could she go? Who else would assist a woman traveling alone, one who knew nothing of the surrounding territory? Certainly, no one with honorable intentions.

      Feeling incredibly vulnerable, Hannah flattened a palm against her stomach. The twisting inside warned her she had little time left. But then she remembered what Patience O’Toole had always told her. “If you’re unsure what to do, allow God to take the lead.”

      How do I do that, Lord?

      As the silence between them continued, Reverend O’Toole rubbed a hand across his mouth and nodded as though he’d come to an important conclusion. “When we first met, outside the…That is, when we met on Market Street, I was on a special errand for Jane Goodwin, one I am afraid cannot be neglected much longer.”

      His odd change of subject took Hannah aback. Was this his way of dismissing her? Unexpected panic threaded through her. “I don’t see how that is relevant to—”

      “I want you to accompany me to Charity House. If after our errand you decide you want to continue your search for your sister, you won’t go alone. I won’t allow it.”

      “You won’t allow it?”

      His arrogance stunned her into silence.

      She opened her mouth to speak. Closed it. Opened it again. But still no words came forth. Her fingers brushed across the letter folded neatly in her pocket. Was the compassionate man she’d found on the pages a complete fabrication?

      As though reading her mind, regret flashed in Reverend O’Toole’s eyes and his expression softened. “Forgive me, Miss Southerland, I spoke abruptly. What I meant to say is that this concerns my brother as well as your sister. I have a responsibility as much as you do to see matters restored.”

      Of course he had a stake in the outcome of this debacle. And yet…why did she sense his offer of assistance was more personal than he was admitting? He claimed he knew her father. Was there more of a connection than he was letting on?

      A slow breath escaped from her lungs and she pressed farther back into her chair. What was keeping her from trusting Reverend O’Toole? Why couldn’t she simply accept his assistance and proceed to the next step in finding Rachel?

      All right, yes. She admitted that she’d come here hoping to find something special in this man, the admired son of her beloved mentor and friend. She’d hoped to find something more in him than she’d found in other men, something she hadn’t been able to define.

      But, again, Hannah reminded herself this wasn’t about her. With nowhere else to turn, she needed Reverend O’Toole’s help. She would trust God to take care of the rest.

      The plans of the Lord stand firm forever, the purposes of His heart through all generations.

      Yes. She would trust the Lord to guide her path.

      “Thank you for your offer, Reverend O’Toole. I would very much like to accompany you on your errand.” She pulled herself to her feet. “Please, direct the way.”

      Beau followed Miss Southerland’s lead and stood, as well. But as his gaze captured