by Joanna Sims
“Oh. I’m so sorry to hear that.” She remembered playing with Ilsa, the family’s German shepherd, when Ilsa was just a puppy.
“Thank you. Your uncle’s been having the toughest time with it. They get in your heart, don’t they?”
With Hercules in her lap, her aunt sat down, then Casey sat down across from her on the couch so they could talk easily.
“It’s been such a long time, Casey.” Her aunt looked at her with sorrow in her eyes. “So much time has passed. I don’t want to dwell on what we can’t change—what would be the sense in that?—but I have to say this. You do know that we always wanted to see you—you and your sister were always welcome.”
This was the topic that made Casey squirm inside. This “feud” had started between brothers, but it had impacted everyone. Taylor and she hadn’t had a vote—their aunt, uncle and cousins were taken away from them without warning or discussion. When Taylor made the decision to return to the ranch last year, she blazed a trail for Casey’s return. But she still didn’t feel comfortable talking about it.
“I know, Aunt Barb.”
“Well.” Her aunt’s hands were busy petting Hercules. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
She was here now. The smells of the house, the sounds of the house, seemed to be a part of the very core of who she was now. Everything—everything—unlocked memories and brought them to the forefront of her mind. Things that she hadn’t thought about in years—like the way the library always smelled a little soapy and clean because of the leather cleaner her aunt used to care for the furniture. And the way the wide wooden planks in the hallway creaked across from a grandmother clock that always ran fifteen minutes fast. It was...overwhelming.
They caught up for a while and then they moved to the kitchen for lunch. Uncle Hank made it a point to stop his work and drive back to the main house to join them. It was so strange seeing her aunt and uncle in person. Their images had stayed frozen in her mind—and even though she had seen pictures of them on social media, it was different seeing them in person. Uncle Hank, a tall, slender man with deeply tanned skin, deep-set blue eyes and white hair that he always parted on the left and combed neatly back from his narrow face, was still a handsome man—but he looked so old to her. And Aunt Barb, who was from Chicago and had worked hard to maintain her city chic in spite of the fact that she had lived on a cattle ranch for over forty years, had aged gracefully. But even though she still wore her hair pulled back in a neat-as-a-pin chignon, it wasn’t blond any longer—it was silver. Time had moved on, had changed them all, and it made her acutely aware of everything she had missed.
“How’s Brock been treatin’ you over there at his place?” Uncle Hank asked her between bites of his baked chicken breast that he had smothered with homemade barbeque sauce.
“I already told her that she should be staying with us. We’ve got plenty of room upstairs.” Aunt Barb sent her a disapproving glance.
“He’s been so good to me,” she told her uncle.
“He’s a good man,” Uncle Hank said simply, but Casey knew how much weight that simple compliment carried. Her uncle wasn’t an easy man to impress.
Hank turned in his chair to look at his wife, who was opening the oven. “Are you joining us, Barb? We’re almost done here.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Aunt Barb brought a plate of corn bread hot out of the oven and then took her place at the table.
“I appreciate the offer to stay here, Aunt Barb.” Casey took a piece of corn bread and slathered it with butter. “But I really wanted to be closer to town. And I like that the loft is my own little private retreat from the world.” Casey poured honey all over her corn bread. “Besides, Brock’s place is halfway between Bent Tree and Helena—I’m close to everyone there.”
“Well.” Aunt Barb’s tone reflected her continued dissatisfaction with the arrangement. “Now that you know the way, I’m sure you’ll want to come to Bent Tree for regular visits.”
* * *
Aunt Barb was happy to dog-sit Hercules while Casey visited the horses in the main barn on her way to see the chapel. The chapel, a one-hundred-year-old structure, had been built by her great-great-grandfather and had been moved down the mountain so that it could be restored and enjoyed by new generations of Brands for decades to come. Her memories of the chapel were seared into her mind. She couldn’t wait to see the restored structure in person—she imagined that the pictures she had seen couldn’t truly do it justice.
Casey took her time in the barn, personally greeting each horse and putting little pieces of apple and carrot in their food buckets as treats. So far, it had been a successful trip back to Bent Tree. She couldn’t believe that she had been worried about opening her life to this part of her family. Yes, her father still refused to speak to Hank, but she was a grown woman. Ultimately, she had to decide who she let into her life.
“Heads up!”
Casey had been in her own world, deep in thought, when the loudly shouted warning shocked her back to the present. An early model pickup truck had been backed into an open part of the barn and there was a young man in his twenties preparing to throw a bale of hay in her direction.
“Did I scare ya?” The young man stood upright with a teasing grin on his face.
“That would be a yes!” she snapped.
He jumped off the back of the truck and sauntered over to her.
“Well, I’m mighty sorry about that.” The cowboy pulled off his leather glove with his teeth so he could stick out his hand. “I’m Wyatt.”
“Casey.”
“I do apologize for scarin’ you. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”
She took in his dimples, the strong jawline, the masculine chin and the nice teeth to top off his lopsided, flirtatious grin.
Brushing off the flirtation, she said sardonically, “Consider yourself forgiven.”
Something akin to surprise mixed with respect flashed in his light blue eyes. “Where did you come from?”
“Chicago.” Casey shifted her body away from him, silently signaling that she was planning to end their small talk.
She took a small step back and Wyatt, she noticed, took a small step forward.
“Well, nice to meet you, Wyatt.” She gave him a quick wave of the hand.
“It’s always a pleasure to make the acquaintance of such a pretty lady.” He tipped his hat to her.
His blatant attempt to flatter her, which was obviously a strategy that had worked extremely well for him in the past, made her laugh. It made her glance over her shoulder at him.
What a flirt!
Wyatt was still standing where she left him, grinning at her with both dimples showing. “Hey! Are you kin to the Brands?”
“Niece.” She threw this response over her shoulder without looking back this time.
That cowboy didn’t need a bit of encouragement. He was way too cute and way too aware that he was cute not to be playing the field. A cowboy like Wyatt could probably pick women up just as easily as picking up a gallon of milk at a convenience store.
“Hope to see you around!”
“Goodbye, Wyatt!” She gave another wave of her hand, but resisted the urge to turn around. He was a nice piece of eye candy—that was an undeniable fact. But she had been around the block enough times to know that eye candy like Wyatt was best left on the shelf.
She was, however, still smiling at his flirtation as she hiked up the hill where the chapel had been relocated. At the top of the hill, she paused to catch her breath. The change in altitude made the air thinner; it would take some acclimating before she could hike in the mountains, which was something she genuinely looked forward to doing.
Standing upright, hands on her hips, her cheeks feeling flushed from the exertion and fresh air, Casey stopped to admire the c
entury-old chapel. It had a fresh coat of bright white paint and the curved, wooden door, hand-carved by her ancestor, had been restored.
“Beautiful,” Casey said aloud.
After she had caught her breath, she kept on walking. Just over the crest of the hill, Casey spotted the tree that had been planted in memory of Penelope’s twin brother, Michael, who had died at birth. She stopped by the oak tree to read the bronze plaque placed in front of the sapling.
Bowing her head, Casey said a silent prayer to her nephew. Tears of sorrow for her sister’s loss, and for the loss of the entire family, started to flow without warning. She had thought that she had already cried all of her tears for Michael.
Casey wiped her tears away. Taylor, who had really been more of a mother than an older sister to her, had always taught her to keep moving forward. So, that’s what she did. She said a final prayer for her nephew’s soul and then walked the short distance to the chapel.
Of course, she wanted to see the inside. But she was saving it for last. She walked all around the perimeter of the chapel, touching the stained-glass windows original to the structure. The chapel, no bigger than a modern one-car garage, was so romantic, set high up on a hill overlooking Bent Tree Ranch, with regal mountains off in the distance. It was the perfect spot for a small, intimate wedding.
“I didn’t know anybody else was up here.”
For the second time in a relatively short window of time, she had been startled. She had a terrible startle reflex, so even the slightest surprise set her heart racing, made her jump and, when she realized that there wasn’t any danger, it made her ticked off.
“Don’t sneak up on me like that, Brock! Geez!”
The front of Brock’s shirt was sweaty from working, and there was a ring of dirt in the creases of his neck. He was carrying a small cooler in his hand that she had seen him pack with snacks and food for lunch.
“I wasn’t really sneaking...” he said. “But I am sorry I caught you off guard.”
Her heart was still racing. It was a terrible feeling to have her body overreact over the slightest thing. Having anxiety stunk.
“It’s not you—it’s me.” Casey sighed with irritation. “Lunchtime?”
“I come up here sometimes. I like the quiet.”
They both starting walking toward the front of the chapel—Brock had to deliberately shorten his stride to keep pace with her. It seemed to her that if he were walking normally, she would have to take nearly two steps to match his one.
“Have you seen the inside yet?” Brock asked her.
“I was just about to.”
At the base of the steps leading to the front door, they paused together. Brock pointed to Michael’s tree.
“I like to sit right over there.” He pointed to Michael’s sapling. “I wouldn’t mind the company.”
She went up the two small steps to the thick, curved door and Brock headed over to his favorite lunchtime getaway spot. Casey was glad that he didn’t join her in the chapel—for a reason she couldn’t exactly pinpoint, she had wanted to be alone when she saw it as an adult for the first time.
Walking into the chapel again was like taking a step back in time. She was eight or nine, and this was an enchanted cottage in the woods. Her imagination had taken her so many places when she had played in the chapel as a child—she had been a princess in a hobbit house or a forest fairy with magical gnomes and wild animals as friends. She’d never played “wedding”—it was never that for her.
The renovation had transformed the space from a dilapidated building decades past its glory days to a beautifully preserved representation of turn-of-the-century construction. She had watched the renovation unfold via social media, and she knew that her aunt and uncle had taken every measure to save as much of the original structure as possible. This wasn’t the chapel of her memories. This was the chapel returned to its former glory.
“Holy cannoli...” Casey walked along the middle aisle, her eyes flitting from one spot to the next. She wanted to take it in all at once—she wanted to take it in one small piece at a time.
The prayer altar had been preserved and it was there that she found her name carved, by her own hand, into the age-darkened wood. She ran her finger along the groove of each letter and wished she could remember the details of the day when this was carved. She knew that she had been the one to carve it, and it had been carved with her cousin Tyler’s pocketknife, but she couldn’t recall much more than that. This beautiful, special place was part of her and she was part of it. No matter where she was living in the world, there would always be a piece of Casey Brand carved into the history of Bent Tree Ranch.
Chapter Six
Once she had taken in her fill of the interior of the little building, Casey walked back out into the sunlight. This wouldn’t be the last time she visited this place. There was something very special about it—it was intangible, yet palpable.
Brock was propped up on one arm, lying in the grass with his long legs stretched out and his ankles crossed. He had earbuds in his ears and his hat off. When he spotted her, he stood up and waved her over.
“It’s unreal in there,” Casey said to the ranch foreman. “I could imagine what it must have been like to attend service there a hundred years ago.”
“I saved you a spot.” Brock gestured to a shady spot next to him.
She hadn’t really thought of sticking around. In fact, she wanted to get back to the barn and start working with Gigi.
“I’ve got water and plenty of food to share.” Brock opened the top of his cooler. “Are you hungry?”
Actually, she was a bit hungry. Her aunt didn’t know she was a vegetarian, so she had only had salad and corn bread. The hike up the hill in the fresh air and sun had made her stomach start growling.
He must have anticipated that she was being persuaded to stay, because Brock seemed to her like he was trying to close a deal.
“I have egg salad made from eggs produced by free-range chickens.”
Casey laughed. “Okay—you know you had me at free-range...”
She sat down in the shady spot, cross-legged. Brock tilted his hat back on his head and sat down next to her. He handed her a bottle of water after he had wiped the condensation off.
“Thank you.”
He dug around in the cooler and pulled out a piece of fruit. “Peach?”
She loved peaches. “Thank you again.”
Brock also offered her one of his two sandwiches, but she was happy with her peach. She bit into it and juices from the peach dripped down her chin.
“Mmm. This peach is incredible!”
He glanced at her while he was taking a large bite of his sandwich. “Here...” He reached into his cooler and pulled out a couple of paper towels.
She smiled at him and wiped off her chin. Casey didn’t try to make conversation until she had eaten the peach all the way down to the center seed.
“That was a delicious peach.”
“Good.”
That was all that was said between them for a while—they enjoyed the breeze and the sunshine and the quiet together.
“What were you listening to?”
Brock cleaned off his hands, tossed his trash into the cooler, then held out one of his earbuds for her to put up to her ear. She listened, her brain sorting through her memories to put a name with the sound.
After a second or two, she looked up at him, surprised. “Beethoven?”
“Bach.”
In the short time she had spent with him, this man had already surprised her a couple of times. He was burly and masculine and the antithesis of a metrosexual, and yet, he seemed to have...depth.
“I’ll show you the best way to enjoy it,” he told her. “Lie on your back.”
If it had been anyone but Brock, sh
e would have thought this was a ploy to get her in a compromising position—but Brock was straightforward. If he wanted her in a compromising position, most likely he’d come right out and say it.
She lay flat on her back in the grass, both earbuds in her ears.
“Now, close your eyes and let the music take you on a ride,” Brock said with an enthusiastic smile. She could tell that he felt as if he was sharing a very exciting secret with her.
“I’m not a big fan of classical music,” she warned him.
“Don’t focus on that,” he instructed. “Just close your eyes, try to turn off your thoughts and listen.”
Casey’s eyebrows rose as she gave a little shrug and then closed her eyes. Eyes closed, cool breeze brushing over her arms and face, and the music in her ears—it was...
She opened her eyes and saw Brock watching her expectantly.
“Well?”
She pulled the earbuds out of her ears and handed them back to him. “I liked it.”
Brock pulled the cord out of his phone. “There’s no reason why we can’t both enjoy it.”
It wasn’t her nature to take afternoon naps and she usually ate lunch on the go at work. But she needed to force herself to slow down. She was on her first true vacation in years, after all. So, side by side in the grass, not close enough to touch, but close enough to enjoy the lilting strains of music, Brock and Casey spent the rest of the foreman’s lunch break quietly together.
* * *
By the end of her first month in Montana, Casey had settled into life on Brock’s ranch as if she had been born to it. She had put her own homey touches on the loft and now it felt like her own cozy cocoon. Of course, during the heat of the day, some of the less pleasant smells from the barn did waft upward and it could be rather pungent. But it wasn’t anything that an open window couldn’t fix. Casey had struck a deal with Brock to rotate the cooking and pay a fourth of the food cost, in light of the fact that Brock ate enough to be counted as two people. The loft didn’t have Wi-Fi, so whenever she needed to use the internet, she took her computer to the main house. Brock always left the front door open for her, which allowed her to come and go as she pleased. The idea of an unlocked door, coming from Chicago, took some getting used to.