Page 12 of Cloaked in Beauty

Philip started to shake his head, then paused, the man’s bragging about never forgetting a face nudging him in the gut. It was a long shot, but he reached into the lining pocket of his coat and pulled out the hinged frame that held the daguerreotype.

He unfolded the frame and held it out for Johnson to inspect. “You ever seen the woman before? Her daughter hired me to find her. She’s much older now. Around sixty. Graying hair. Plumper figure.” Or at least that was how Mrs. Radcliffe had described her appearance from fifteen years ago.

Johnson moved over to the office window and angled the photograph toward the light. “There’s something familiar about her. Give me a minute. It’ll come to me. I never—”

“Forget a face.” Philip finished for him, a grin in his voice. “I know. That’s why I asked.”

Johnson’s gaze roved over the beams in the ceiling. His mouth moved silently as if he were scouring the pages of a mail-order catalog in his brain, searching for a match.

The quiet thump of horseshoes on hard-packed dirt moved Philip’s attention from Johnson to the stableboy leading Steele to the front of the livery.

“Here’s yer horse, mister.”

Philip stepped out to meet the lad and flipped him a coin. “Thanks.”

The kid grabbed it out of the air, a smile stretching across his face as he handed over the reins.

A clap echoed from the office. “I got it!” The booming voice caused Steele to toss his head, but Philip patted his neck, and the animal settled.

Johnson strode through the doorway, tapping the glass on the frame in triumph. “Iris Hood. I knew I’d seen that face before. She bought a horse from me about seven or eight years ago. Real particular she was, too. Wanted a gentle mount that would be good for a novice rider yet one that was young enough to have some spirit. Sold her a three-year-old black filly with a sweet disposition. Perfect for a young lady. I’d been plannin’ to take that filly to auction and sell to the highest bidder, but Miz Hood offered top dollar. No sense draggin’ the horse to market if I had a buyer willing to pay my askin’ price here at home.”

Philip’s pulse kicked into a trot as he reached for the frame. His first real lead!

“Does she live around these parts?”

Johnson shrugged. “Don’t think so. Leastwise, I don’t recall ever seein’ her after that day.”

Still, he had a name, very likely the alias Flora had been living under since she left Houston. He could search with more than just an outdated photograph now.

“Sorry I couldn’t help more.”

Philip regarded the man before him, almost expecting to see a halo glowing above his dusty work hat. “You helped a great deal. Thank you.”

He tucked the daguerreotype into his coat pocket, shook Johnson’s hand, then climbed into the saddle with a prayer of gratitude in his heart—not only for a man with a memory for faces but for the Lord who led him to this livery.

Continue directing my steps, he prayed as he nudged Steele into a trot and headed west to Law’s Chapel. Twenty minutes later, he dismounted in front of a small brick church that boasted a white steeple. A black buggy parked on the side of the building gave Philip hope that he might find someone inside.

He knocked on the dark wood door, then tried the handle. It opened easily. “Hello?” Philip stepped inside, raising a hand to remove his hat as he did so. “Anybody here?”

The shutters on the windows stood open, letting the morning sunlight dance across the polished shine on the dark wood of the pews and floorboards.

“Parson?” The click of Philip’s boots echoed loudly in the empty sanctuary as he walked down the aisle.

Walls painted white drew his attention upward, where a large cross hung on the wall behind the pulpit. A movement outside the window to his left grabbed his attention, and he turned. A man in a wide-brimmed hat worked among the tombstones in the adjacent cemetery, hoeing weeds from around the gravesites.

Philip hurried outside, slapping his hat back on his head as he made his way to the graveyard.

When he neared the man, he called out to alert him of his presence. “Excuse me, sir? I’m looking for the parson.”

The man stopped his work and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his forehead before he responded. When he met Philip’s gaze, though, a smile of welcome spread across his face. “You found him. What can I do for you, young man?”

The preacher looked to be middle-aged—not many lines in his face but a few streaks of gray in his beard.

“I was wondering if you might know of any circuit-riding preachers in these parts.”

“Young Arlo Carlson took over my route five years ago when I accepted the position of full-time minister here at Law’s Chapel. He won’t be back in town for another two weeks, though, I’m afraid. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Maybe so.” Especially if he used to ride the circuit himself. Philip pulled the daguerreotype from his pocket, unfolded the frame, and handed the likeness to the minister. “I’m looking for this woman. Her daughter is seeking a reunion and hired me to locate her. I have reason to believe that she lives somewhere in this area. You might know her as Iris Hood.”