Meet Me at the Chapel

by Joanna Sims

  She smiled at him with that open, friendly smile of hers. It had been an awfully long time since a woman had smiled at him like that—no reservation, no pretense or judgment, just open and friendly. That smile was a magnet for him and he realized that now—by the simple fact that he was standing down here instead of still working up on the roof.

  “Do you want to start getting settled in?”

  “Absolutely.” Casey walked around to the passenger side and got Hercules.

  Hannah was running like a wild child around in circles, her long, tangled curls flying behind her.

  “She’s been like this all morning,” Brock explained. “Usually the medications keep the hyperactivity in check enough for her to function, but not on days like today, when she’s excited about something.”

  “I understand,” Casey reassured him.

  That’s when it really sunk in—he didn’t have to explain or justify or apologize for his daughter’s behavior. Casey worked with children with disabilities for a living—she, more than anyone else in his life, would truly understand Hannah. It was a relief to spend time with someone who could understand, and accept, his daughter for who she was, regardless of her behavior—good, bad or indifferent.

  “I did warn you that it’s humble,” Brock said as they reached the top of the stairs that lead to the loft apartment above the barn.

  “I’ll spruce it up.” Casey didn’t mind humble. And, if it was dirty, there usually wasn’t much that couldn’t be fixed with elbow grease. She’d never been afraid of hard work or of getting dirty.

  Brock opened the door and let her go in first. He was right—the loft apartment with its pitched roof and rough-hewn, wide-planked wooden floor was indeed humble. But the inside of the roof was lined with sweet-smelling cedar, and there was a single bed in one corner of the room, and a small love seat on the other side. The bathroom was tiny and the kitchen only accommodated a hot plate, microwave and little refrigerator. Her large black trunk, a trunk her mother had used when she went to boarding school, was waiting for her at the end of the bed.

  Brock had to duck his head as to not bump on the low part of the ceiling—he could only stand completely upright when he was standing directly beneath the pitched ceiling.

  “I tried to straighten up the place a bit.” To her ears, he sounded a little self-conscious.

  “This is great.” Casey wanted to reassure him. “It’s perfect for us.”

  She saw a faint smile move across his face. He was pleased that she was pleased.

  “Well, I’ll let you settle into the place. I’ve got more work to get done before supper,” Brock said, his head bent down so he didn’t bang it on the top of the door frame. “You can use the kitchen for cooking—the hot plate is only good for so much. And you’re always welcome to join us for meals.”

  “Thank you—let’s just play it by ear, see how it goes.”

  Brock nodded his agreement before he ducked his head completely free of the door frame, put his hat back on his head and then left her to her own devices.

  The first thing she did in her new home was let Hercules out of his carrier so he could get used to the smells and layout of the loft. Next she checked the bathroom accommodations and the feel of the mattress, before she unlocked the trunk and began to unpack. Every now and again, she would look out the window and watch Brock at his work. He was focused and relentless in the way he attacked his work—that kind of work ethic was attractive to her. It reminded her of the work ethic that her own father and grandfather had both had.

  It didn’t take long for her to get settled into her summer loft apartment. Hercules had his toys strewn across the floor, which made her feel right at home. She scooped up her poodle and sat on the bed to contemplate her next move: to take a nap, or not to take a nap—that was the dilemma. In the end, the “take a nap” side won out. She kicked off her boots and curled up on her side. The bed was just big enough for her and Hercules.

  “Mmm.” Casey closed her eyes with a contented sigh.

  She had managed to find the perfect spot to spend a stress-free, worry-free summer. She usually worked during the summer session—this was her first real summer off since she had graduated with her master’s degree in special education and took a job with the public school system.

  She was in a comfortable bed, the cedar on the roof smelled sweet and there was a gentle breeze coming in through the open window. Life was, indeed, pretty darn good.

  * * *

  Casey had dozed off quickly and was awakened abruptly. Hannah burst through the door; the door swung open and hit the wall with a loud thud. Casey sprung upright, catapulting poor Hercules forward.

  “My stars, Hannah!” She clutched the material above her rapidly beating heart. “You scared me! Remind me again about what you should do before you come into a room?”

  Hannah spun around in the center of her bedroom/living room combo space, her head tilted back and her arms spread out wide like airplane wings.

  “I was supposed to knock.” The girl kept on spinning. “Dad wants to know if you want to have some gluten-free mac and cheese with us.”

  Casey felt a little foggy brained; she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, then blinked several times to get a clearer view of the preteen spinning like a top.

  “Tell your dad I’ll be down in a minute.”

  Hannah left as quickly as she came, without a greeting or a salutation. There was a lot of work to be done to improve Hannah’s social language skills. It would just take time and patience. But the reality was, and she hoped Brock was realistic about it, Hannah was never going to have completely “normal” pragmatic skills; it was possible, however, for Hannah to have friends, a job and a fulfilling social life. With supportive people in her life, Hannah’s quirks and slightly askew social skills would be expected, understood and accepted.

  Casey freshened up a bit and then headed down to the farmhouse. As expected, Brock was at the stove with his standard “Kiss the Chef” apron on, which may have been feminizing on some men, but not on the ranch foreman. Hannah was at the table eating macaroni and cheese out of her plastic ladybug bowl, with her ladybug silverware. Casey had a feeling that Hannah insisted on eating out of that particular bowl, using those particular utensils—and if she didn’t get her way, she would either begin to have a tantrum or flat-out refuse to eat.

  “Thanks for the invite.” Casey sat down at the table.

  “It’s gluten free.” Brock handed her a bowl. “Hannah’s allergic.”

  “I figured.” Casey nodded. “I actually dated someone who had celiac disease, so I have a lot of gluten-free recipes stored on my phone if you want to see if I have any that you don’t have.”

  “That would help,” Brock told her. “I have a heck of a time getting her to eat much of anything other than mac and cheese. That’s all she wants. Mac and cheese.”

  “I have some tricks up my sleeve,” Casey reassured him.

  Hannah finished her meal quickly, left the table without taking her bowl to the sink and ended up on the floor in the living room playing with Hercules.

  “I’d like to take a couple of days to get settled in here, let Hannah get used to the change, and in the meantime, we can sit down and talk about some practical goals,” Casey said quietly.

  Brock agreed with her timeline. Any change, even if it were a positive change like Casey coming to stay on the ranch for the summer, would be difficult for Hannah to process.

  “I’d like to hear your thoughts.” Brock stabbed a chunk of hot dog he had mixed into his mac and cheese with his fork. Before he took that bite he added, “I’m sure you have some.”

  He was right—she did. Her brain just naturally observed children with special needs, catalogued the behaviors to try to fit the pieces into a puzzle and then, always, there were a list of goals that emerged
from her informal, naturalistic evaluation. She had been a special education teacher for a decade and it was like breathing now—it happened without thinking about it. And, in the short time she had observed Hannah, she had made a laundry list of pragmatic goals—but it was always up to the parent and child, if possible, to help prioritize those goals.

  “This arrangement is going to work out real well for all of us,” Brock interrupted her thoughts.

  She looked up from her bowl—she had been staring at it, but her thoughts were on Hannah. “I think so, too.”

  After they were done with their food, they lingered at the table for a little while longer, making small talk mainly, before clearing the table. Casey offered to wash the dishes, but Brock told her to just pile them in the sink and he’d get around to them later. The outside of the house was where Brock liked to spend his time and energy—that was obvious by how far along in the cleanup outside he was. On the other hand, the inside of the house was as messy or even more messy than it had been a week ago. For Hannah’s sake especially, some semblance of order and cleanliness needed to be established in the house. She wasn’t going to lead with that thought—Brock might not appreciate her butting in that far to his personal space. Yet if she was going to earn her keep, she had to be honest with him. Part of her job had always been to have courageous conversations with parents.

  * * *

  “Good morning!” Casey greeted him with that bright smile that lit up her impish face.

  “Howdy.” He was surprised to see her up so early and said as much.

  Casey fell in beside him and walked to the barn with him.

  “I’m an early riser,” she explained. “The other day was an anomaly. Can I help?”

  He had gotten Hannah started with her morning routine and now he was going to move rapidly through his morning barn routine before heading over to Bent Tree Ranch for the day. He had been working at Bent Tree since he was a teen, and had managed to work his way to ranch foreman. It was a big job for a big ranch and he took his role seriously. And even though Hank Brand, Casey’s uncle, gave him a lot of latitude and a flexible schedule, he didn’t want to ever have it appear that he was taking advantage of his goodwill.

  “I wouldn’t mind a hand,” he told her.

  His new tenant was dressed for the barn in slim-fitting faded jeans, ankle-high paddock boots and an untucked Kelly green T-shirt.

  “You mind mucking?” Brock led the way into the feed room.

  “Don’t think I’m weird—but I actually enjoy mucking out stalls.” She took the pitchfork from him. “I always say that I have to be from good peasant stock because I’d much rather be mucking out stalls than sitting in an office somewhere. When I sweat, I actually feel like I accomplished something.”

  Brock easily hoisted a bale of hay onto his left shoulder. “I already think you’re a little weird.”

  Caught off guard by Brock’s rare show of humor, Casey had a delayed response. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Brock didn’t turn around—he kept on walking down the concrete breezeway of the barn. But he did say, “It was meant as one.”

  Casey happily mucked out the six stalls in the barn and made the acquaintance of all the horses stabled there, as well as Lucy and Ethel, the free-range chickens. When she finished with the chore, she was winded and her shoulders were aching, but she felt proud of herself. She had ridden since she was a kid and she had competed in dressage nationally; when she went to college, her horses were sold and she hadn’t had much of an opportunity to ride since. This was her chance to get back into a sport she loved. It felt so good to be back in a barn.

  Chapter Five

  “How’d we fare?” Brock had hay all over the front of his shirt and stuck to the side of his thick, ruddy neck. The man was truly built like a brick house—his muscles were thick, heavy and rounded—defined like a body builder or someone who worked out in the gym. She leaned the pitchfork against one of the walls and gave him a thumbs-up.

  “He’s amazing.” Casey walked over to where Brock was standing.

  A plate on the stall read “The Mighty Taj.” The way Brock was petting and talking to Taj, she could tell how much he loved this big beauty of a horse.

  “Is he a Friesian?” She reached out to pet the silkiest part of his nose—right between the two flaring nostrils.

  “That he is,” Brock said with pride in his voice.

  “I’ve never seen one in person. Only in the movies—almost every black horse I see in a movie is a Friesian.”

  Brock rubbed Taj on the neck and then gave him a hard couple of pats with words of affection. And then he asked her, “What did you think of the palomino?”

  “She’s a sweetheart—and so pretty,” she said happily.

  Good as Gold, Gigi for short, was a stocky, twelve-year-old quarter horse mare that was to be her horse for the summer.

  “I can tell that she’s developed some bad habits, but nothing that can’t be remediated with time. Thank you for letting me work with her this summer. It’s really a dream come true for me.”

  “It’s good for both of us. I don’t have time to work with her. If you weren’t here to work with her, I’d have to think about finding her a new home. It’s not fair not to work her out regularly.”

  “Well, it means a lot to me. I’ve wanted to get back into horses for years, but it’s expensive. And even though I love my job—and I do—it’s just good that I’m not in it for the money.”

  “I remember you were a good rider,” Brock said to her, their eyes meeting and holding for a minute or two. “I remember that about you.”

  She remembered so much about Brock—a young man who seemed to have disappeared completely. What a crush she had had on that Brock! She’d pined for him as only a teenage girl can pine—and the fact that he’d been engaged to Shannon, a beauty pageant winner, had been a knife in her tender teenage heart.

  He was different now. It made her wonder—where had the old Brock McAllister gone?

  “I’m going to get Hannah ready to go. I’ll be at Bent Tree all day. Are you going to be visiting your aunt and uncle today?”

  Good question. She had been in stealth mode, avoiding her extended family. Not because she didn’t want to see them—she did—she had just wanted to do it on her own terms, when she was a little bit more rested.

  She frowned in thought. Her preference was to start working with Gigi. But she had been in Montana for a little over a week without visiting her aunt and uncle—if she waited any longer she was heading into “hurt feelings” territory.

  “I probably should.” It was a statement that sounded a bit like a question.

  “You probably should,” he agreed with her without hesitation.

  Oh, all right. Fine!

  “I’ll call Aunt Barb now,” she told him.

  “She’ll be glad to hear from you.” Brock started to head back to the house. “I saved some pancakes for you. Just nuke ’em if you want ’em.”

  Casey thanked him while she waited for her aunt to pick up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Aunt Barb? It’s your wayward niece, Casey.”

  “Casey-face? I’ve been waiting all week for a phone call from you! What in the world took you so long?”

  She wasn’t too long into the conversation with her aunt before they made arrangements for her to have lunch at Bent Tree; it wasn’t her first choice, but sometimes with family, you had to put off what you wanted to do in order to do the right thing.

  Darn it!

  * * *

  “Oh, Casey! Give me a hug!” Aunt Barb greeted her as she always had, with a big smile on her face, warmth in her striking blue eyes and a genuine hug filled with love and welcome.

  “Hi, Aunt Barb.” Casey hugged her aunt tightly. �
�I’m sorry I didn’t call right away.”

  Aunt Barb nodded her head. “I was very upset with you. I couldn’t understand why you didn’t call us when you ran into trouble with the truck—when you needed a place to stay. Do you want some coffee? I just put a fresh pot on.”

  Casey declined the coffee—she had already had two cups of Brock’s personal high-octane morning blend. She followed her aunt into what had always been one of her favorite rooms in Bent Tree’s main farmhouse—the study. The walls of the study were lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves jam-packed full of books. There was also a large hearth where her aunt hung stockings during Christmastime. Coming to Montana, to the ranch where her father had been raised, had always been magical for her. So many wonderful family memories were tied to this home, to this land—to the people of Bent Tree. And then, after her grandfather Brand’s last will and testament was read, the family imploded and nothing was ever the same. Her father stopped speaking to his brother, her uncle Hank. Family vacations to the ranch ended. She still felt a little awkward being at Bent Tree now. Perhaps that’s why she had put off coming. This was her first time back to the ranch since she was a teen. And somehow, even though her father knew she would be visiting the ranch, it felt like a betrayal.

  “Is it okay if I let Hercules out?”

  “Who?” Her aunt tossed some pillows out of her way so she could sit in her usual spot.

  Casey held up the carrier that resembled an oversize purse. “Hercules, the greatest dog that ever was or will be.”

  Aunt Barb was an avid animal lover. The minute she realized that Casey had a friend she immediately changed course and, instead of sitting down, came over to say hello.

  Hercules was let out of the carrier and into Aunt Barb’s hands. “You are too cute. Is he a toy or a teacup?”

  “He’s a teacup—a micro-teacup, actually. I adopted him from the poodle rescue. My tiny apartment could only really handle a tiny dog.”

  “Well, you want to stay with your auntie for a while, don’t you, Hercules? We had to put Ilsa down last month—it’s been so strange without her in the house.”