Meet Me at the Chapel
Page 1
One Magical Montana Summer
Circumstances took Casey Brand’s vacation plans with her sister and new niece on a slight detour. Now she’s staying in Brock McCallister’s garage apartment in exchange for her help with his daughter with autism. But she still has horses to ride, sunsets to savor and a handsome man to admire...who is proving more friendly than expected.
Getting divorced and dealing with custody issues has pretty much beaten Brock down. Yet how can he stay in a foul mood with Casey’s optimistic outlook right next door? Because of her, his daughter is communicating better, his home shining brighter. She’s even brought life back to the ranch’s old chapel. But is she ready to perform the same dramatic transformation with his tattered heart?
“It’d be a shame. You coming out all this way just to go home so soon.”
“I know,” Casey replied. “But I can’t impose on my sister for the summer—not now.”
“That’s right,” he agreed. Then added, “I have a loft apartment above the barn. It’s a little rough, but it’s livable.”
Casey looked at Brock and listened while he continued.
“The way you are with Hannah—it’s pretty impressive. And it got me thinking that we could help each other out. Hannah does fine with academics—she’s even strong in math and science. But it’s her...”
“Pragmatics,” she filled in for him.
He glanced at her again. “Exactly. How ’bout I let you use the loft for the summer in exchange for some private social-language support. How does that set with you?”
Casey stared at Brock’s profile. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah. Why? Do you think it’s a bad idea?”
“Heck no, I don’t think it’s a bad idea. I think it’s a pretty genius idea.”
* * *
The Brands of Montana: Wrangling their own happily-ever-afters
Dear Reader,
Thank you for choosing Meet Me at the Chapel. This is my seventh Special Edition book featuring the Brand family. Amazing! Brock McAllister and Casey Brand’s journey to finding lasting love was a joy to write. Casey is an independent special education teacher whose favorite companion is a micro-teacup poodle, Hercules, and Brock is a soon-to-be single-father ranch foreman fighting for custody of his daughter with autism. This is a friends-fall-in-love story filled with beautiful imagery, tender moments and, of course, romance!
In Meet Me at the Chapel, you will encounter old friends from previous Brand books. It just wouldn’t be a Brands of Montana book if Hank and Barbara Brand didn’t make an appearance. They have been in all seven Brand stories! I love writing about the Brand family because I have an opportunity to unearth my fond childhood memories of Montana and give them a new life in the pages of my books. What a blessing!
I invite you to visit my website, joannasimsromance.com, and while you’re there, be sure to sign up for Rendezvous Magazine for Brand family extras, news and swag. Part of the joy of writing is hearing from readers. If you write me, I will write you back! That’s a promise.
Happy Reading!
Joanna
Meet Me at the Chapel
Joanna Sims
Joanna Sims is proud to pen contemporary romance for Harlequin Special Edition. Joanna’s series, The Brands of Montana, features hardworking characters with hometown values. You are cordially invited to join the Brands of Montana as they wrangle their own happily-ever-afters. And, as always, Joanna welcomes you to visit her at her website: joannasimsromance.com.
Books by Joanna Sims
Harlequin Special Edition
The Brands of Montana
High Country Baby
High Country Christmas
A Match Made in Montana
Marry Me, Mackenzie!
The One He’s Been Looking For
A Baby for Christmas
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
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Dedicated to Aa and MM
Thank you for allowing me to use your proposal as inspiration. Congratulations on your engagement!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Excerpt from Always a Cowboy by Linda Lael Miller
Chapter One
“Recalculating.”
Casey Brand had been lost in thought until the portable GPS interrupted her daydream. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel of the moving truck, hands placed firmly at ten and two, before she glanced at the GPS screen.
“Recalculating.”
“No!” Casey argued with the machine. “We are not recalculating!”
“Recalculating.”
The map on the screen of the GPS had disappeared, replaced by a single word: searching. She hadn’t been to her uncle and aunt’s ranch since she was a teenager, so finding it by memory wasn’t a viable option. She needed the GPS to do its job. Casey took her eyes off the road for a second to tap the screen of the GPS.
“Darn it!” She was going to have to pull over.
Her trip from Chicago to Montana had been fraught with setbacks: violent thunderstorms, road construction, bad food, horrible menstrual cramps and a rental truck that struggled to maintain speed on every single hill. Not wanting to risk stopping on an incline, Casey punched the gas pedal several times to help the truck make the climb to the top of the hill.
“Come on, you stupid truck!” Casey rocked back and forth in her seat. “You can do it!”
Halfway to the top of the hill, the check-engine light flashed and then disappeared.
“Don’t you dare!” Casey ordered.
Three quarters of the way up the hill, the orange check-engine light appeared and, this time, it stayed.
Casey groaned in frustration. With every tedious mile, it felt like the universe was telling her that her trip was ill-fated. At the top of the hill, she turned on her blinker, carefully eased the truck onto the gravelly berm and shifted into Park.
“Recalculating.”
“Oh, just shut up,” Casey grumbled as she shut off the engine.
“You wait here,” she said to the teacup poodle watching her curiously from inside a dog carrier that was secured with a seat belt. “I’ll be right back.”
She pulled on the lever to pop the hood and jumped out of the cab. At the front of the truck, she was immediately hit with a strong, acrid smell coming from the engine. The hood of the truck was hot to the touch; Casey yanked her baseball cap off her head and used it to protect her fingers while she lifted up the hood.
“Holy cannoli!” Casey covered her face with the cap and backed away from the truck. A moment later, she ran back to the cab of the truck and grabbed the dog carrier, before she put distance between
herself and the rental.
A small electrical fire had melted several wires in the engine; it looked as if the fire had already put itself out, but she couldn’t risk driving the truck now. For the time being, she was stuck on a desolate road, with her sister’s worldly possessions in the back of the broken-down rental, a teacup poodle and angry black storm clouds forming overhead.
Casey pulled her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans to call her sister.
“Come on, Taylor...pick up the phone.”
When Taylor didn’t answer, she called again. She was on her third attempt when a fat raindrop landed on the bridge of her nose. She looked up at the black cloud that was now directly above her.
“Really?” she asked the cloud.
Her sister wasn’t answering, for whatever reason, so she needed to move on to plan B. She was about to dial her aunt Barbara’s cell number when she noticed a horse and rider galloping across a field on the opposite side of the road. She didn’t think, she reacted.
“Hey!” Casey ran across the road, waving her free arm wildly. “Hey!”
The rider didn’t seem to hear her or see her. At the edge of the road, Casey looked down at her beloved Jimmy Choo crushed leather Burke boots and then at the rider. There was mud and grass and rock between her and the rustic wooden fence that surrounded the wide, flat field. Her boots had only known city sidewalks and shopping malls. She didn’t want her beautiful boots to get dirty, but there wasn’t a choice—she had to get the rider’s attention. She ran, as softly as she could manage, through the mud and wet grass to the fence. She put the dog carrier on the ground so she could climb up onto the fence.
“Hey!” Casey yelled again and waved her hat in the air. “Help!”
This time, the rider, a cowboy by the look of him, saw her. He slowed his muscular black horse, assessed the situation and then changed direction.
“He sees us!” Casey told her canine companion. The closer the cowboy came, the more familiar he seemed. Casey stared harder at the man galloping toward her, sitting so confident and erect in the saddle.
“Wait a minute. I know you!”
* * *
Brock McAllister was galloping toward home, racing the rain clouds gathering to the west, when he spotted a woman perched on his fence, waving her arm to get his attention. Brock slowed his stallion and assessed the situation before he decided to change direction. As he came closer, he could see that the woman wasn’t as young as he had thought. She had a slight build, borderline thin, and appeared to be in her midthirties.
“Brock! It’s me—Casey,” the woman called out to him with another wave. “Casey Brand.”
The moment Casey added the last name “Brand” to the equation, Brock made the connection. He had worked on the Brand family’s ranch, Bent Tree, since he was a teenager, and had worked his way up to ranch foreman. Taylor, Casey’s older sister, was married to his stepbrother, Clint, and had just given him a niece. So he’d heard through the grapevine that Casey was coming to Montana to help her sister with the new baby, but he hadn’t given her much thought one way or the other until he found her climbing on his fence.
Lightning lit up the gray clouds hanging over the mountains in the distance and the once-sporadic raindrops were coming with more frequency. He only had a few short minutes to stay ahead of the storm. If Casey needed rescuing, it was going to have to be quick.
“You have perfect timing!” Casey gave him a relieved smile when he halted his horse next to the fence. “Would you believe it? The engine caught on fire!”
Given that information, Brock made a split-second decision that he couldn’t leave Casey behind in the rental while he went back to the farm to get his truck.
“We need to get out of the way of this storm.” Brock walked his horse in a small circle so he could get closer to the fence.
“Is there someone you can call to come get me? I tried my sister, but she didn’t answer.”
“You can’t stay here. We’re under a tornado watch.” Brock halted his horse and held out his gloved hand to Casey. “You need to come with me. Now!”
It seemed to him that his words hadn’t registered. She stared at him with a stunned expression, but didn’t budge.
“Come on!” Brock yelled at her, his large stallion prancing anxiously in place. “Give me your hand!”
The urgency in his voice, along with a clap of thunder, finally got her moving. But instead of giving him her hand, she gave him her dog carrier.
“Hold Hercules! I’ve got to get my wallet!”
Surprised, Brock reached out his hand to take the carrier before his brain had a chance to register that there was a miniature dog, the smallest dog he’d ever seen, inside of the designer bag.
“What the hell...?” Brock’s low baritone voice was caught on a gust of wind. While he waited for Casey’s return, Brock raised the carrier to eye level so he could get a better look at his new passenger. “What in the heck are you supposed to be?”
* * *
Casey ran on the treadmill regularly, so running the short distance to the truck and back was easy for her. She grabbed her wallet then locked the door. Brock’s stallion was chomping at the bit, refusing to stand still by the fence.
“Easy, Taj...” She heard Brock trying to calm the horse while he circled back to the fence. On her way to the truck, the first raindrops had landed on the top of her head and on the tip of her nose. By the time she’d climbed back to the top of the fence, it had begun to rain in earnest. Casey straddled the fence while Brock steadied the prancing, overly excited stallion that was tossing his head and biting at the bit.
“Come on!” Brock ordered. “Use the stirrup!”
Casey grabbed ahold of the damp material of the cowboy’s chambray shirt, slipped her left foot into the stirrup and swung her right leg over the horse’s rump. Casey tucked Hercules under one arm and held on tight to Brock with the other. The heavy sheets of rain were being pushed at an angle by the wind, strong enough and hard enough that the right side of her face felt as if it were being pelted by rock salt. She tried to shield Hercules as much as she could from the rain while she tried to protect her own face by tucking her head into Brock’s back.
Casey pressed her head into the cowboy’s back, and tightened her arms around his waist. In her youth, she had been an excellent rider; she knew how to sit and she knew how to balance her weight on the back of a horse. So, even though his stallion had an extra burden to carry, the impact on the horse would be minimal. Loud claps of thunder followed the lightning strikes by only a few seconds, signaling to Casey that the lightning was too close for comfort. Riding on horseback in a lightning storm was an invitation to be struck.
“Yah, Taj!” she heard Brock yell as he leaned forward and prodded the sure-footed stallion. The stallion leapt forward and kicked his speed into an even higher gear.
Casey squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated on following the movement of Brock’s body. All of her senses were being bombarded at once: the masculine scent of leather and sweat on Brock’s shirt mingled with the earthy, sweet scent of the rain, the feel of Brock’s thick thigh muscles pressed so tightly against her own, and the sound of the stallion’s hooves pounding the ground as it carried them across the flat, grassy plain. When she heard what sounded like hooves hitting gravel, she opened her eyes. From beneath the brim of her baseball cap, she saw part of a denim-blue house with a flat roof and a white trim through a canopy of trees.
On their way up the narrow gravel driveway, they passed a faded brown barn and older-model blue-and-yellow Ford tractor. Now in full view, Brock’s two-story house was square with two bay windows and kitty-corner steps leading up to covered porches on either side. Brock halted the stallion directly in front of the stairs, a maneuver Casey suspected he’d done many times before.
“Get inside. The door’s
unlocked!” Brock ordered. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Brock held the carrier while she dismounted; once she was safely on the ground, he handed Hercules to her. She ran up the steps, and kept on running until she reached the shelter of the covered porch by the front door. She wiped the water off her face as best she could, but her clothing and hair and boots were sopping wet and her skin was wet beneath the material of her jeans and shirt. She hesitated by the door, not wanting to drip water all over his floor. But she heard Brock yelling at her as he dismounted, telling her to get inside. Casey took one last look at the blackened sky filled with swirling gray clouds pouring rain before she followed his direction and opened the front door to the farmhouse.
The heavy door swung open and Casey crossed the threshold into Brock’s dark world. The house was old—she estimated by the look of the lead-stained glass windows abutting the front door that it had already celebrated its centennial birthday. But it had not celebrated in grand fashion. The curtains were made of a dark cherry brocade and were drawn shut to block out any light. Cornflower blue wallpaper dotted with small white flowers contrasted oddly with the forest green shag carpet. Casey knew from her sister that Brock was separated from his wife, Shannon. Brock and Shannon had been “an item” all through middle school and high school. Shannon had been a Miss Montana first runner-up and Casey could remember looking at her when she was a preteen and thinking that Shannon was the prettiest person she’d ever seen. They had married right after high school and the marriage had produced a daughter. But, according to Taylor, they were going through a messy divorce and custody battle and Shannon had been living in California with her new boyfriend.
Yes, Shannon was probably still a very beautiful woman—but she wasn’t a housekeeper. Everything in the house seemed dingy and tired—in need of a good scrubbing to get rid of the wet-dog smell and a serious cleaning in general. Yet Casey could look past the clutter and floral decor to see the potential in the house. The dark, carved woodwork used for the crown molding, the built-in bookshelves and the stairwell, which appeared to be original to the house and beautifully made. The bay windows with those antique stained-glass windows were stunning. Even though the house seemed to be sagging beneath the weight of disrepair, with a lot of TLC, it could be something truly special.