Meet Me at the Chapel (9 page)

“What's going on?”

The fact that he had pulled the chair up and sat down signaled to her that he wasn't going to go away without some sort of legitimate explanation.

“Female problems.”

He processed the information for a moment, didn't seem fazed, and then leaned forward, his hands clasped. “Is there something I can do to make you feel better? I think we have a heating pad. Would that help?”

“Thank you. But I think I just want to rest.” She tried to smile at him so he was reassured. “I'll feel better by tomorrow.”

“I've got to go to work today,” he explained, as if he needed to.

“You've been out for a week already,” she agreed.

He didn't get up right away. “Are you sure you don't need anything?”

“No—just remind Hannah to bring Hercules back before you leave. Okay?”

Brock stood up and moved the chair back a little. “Will do.”

He paused at the door. “You feel better.”

* * *

“Did Aunt Barb call you about our birthdays?” Taylor raised her voice because Penelope was banging on her brand-new xylophone.

“No.” Casey was sitting in the long window seat in front of the large loft window. The cramps had, for the most part, subsided with the help of the ibuprofen. Her bleeding was still unusually heavy, which concerned her, but at least she felt well enough to be out of bed.

“She wants to throw us a birthday party out at the ranch.”

Their birthdays were a week apart—she would be turning thirty-five and her sister would be turning forty.

“That would be fun.” Casey leaned her head against the window—the cool glass felt nice against her skin.

“I think so, too. I'm just worried about how that would work out with Luke and Sophia...”

“What are you talking about?”

Luke was Aunt Barb and Uncle Hank's oldest boy; he was a retired marine captain and a veteran of the war in Afghanistan. From what she had gathered, Luke had been deployed to Afghanistan five times and had been injured once. Luke was married to Sophia and they had three young children together. Taylor had decided to rent her house in Sophia and Luke's neighborhood so she would have a built-in support system; Taylor and Sophia had become very close friends.

“Oh, I haven't told you. I just found out myself.”

“Found out what?”

“Luke moved back to the ranch.”

Casey didn't say anything—it took a minute for her sister's words to sink in. “Wait—are they separated? They're not getting a divorce, are they?”

Taylor sighed. “I don't know. Luke has really struggled since he retired—he's been diagnosed with PTSD and it's just taken a toll on their marriage.”

“I'm so sorry to hear that.” Now she understood what Taylor meant about the birthday party. How would Luke and Sophia feel about being at the party together? Was Aunt Barb, who had a very difficult time not meddling in her children's lives, hoping that the party would be a good reason for them to be back under the same roof together?

Taylor agreed with her. Luke and Sophia were the perfect couple—if they couldn't make it, who could?

“We've got a couple of weeks—let's just see how it pans out. Maybe they'll figure it out by then.”

Her sister agreed again and then changed the subject. “You sound tired, sis—usually you've got energy to spare. You okay?”

“Um...” Casey's hand went to her abdomen. “Yeah... I don't know. I got awakened out of a really sound sleep by horrible menstrual cramps.”

“Out of a sound sleep?” Taylor asked, concerned. “That worries me. I mean, you've always had a rough time of it but never that bad. The shots didn't help?”

“Not really,” Casey told her. “If anything, I think it's gotten a little worse. The bleeding is really heavy.”

Casey recounted her experience with her ex-gynecologist and when she was finished, her sister said, “I think you need to see someone ASAP.”

“I'll see.” Casey did not want to add a pelvic exam to her list of fun things to do on her summer vacation schedule. No, thank you.

“Aunt Barb has the name of a really good gyno—it's kind of weird that this doctor basically has a monopoly on all of the Brand vaginas in the greater Helena area, but if you can get over that...”

“Say hi to Clint for me. And give that good-lookin' niece of mine a big smooch on the cheek. 'Kay?”

“You got it. Love you.”

“Love you.”

Chapter Nine

B
rock came back to the ranch for lunch. He took Hercules out and then brought Casey some fruit, crackers and cheese to eat. It was a kind gesture—a caring gesture. The man truly had a good heart.

“Hercules wants up.” Casey covered her mouth with her hand. She chewed a couple more times and swallowed. “He really likes you.”

Brock stared down at the micro-dog at his feet. “I'm still convinced that he runs on batteries.”

“Oh, be nice to my baby boy!” she chided the rancher. “He can't help it that he's tiny any more than you can help how big you are.”

As if on cue, Hercules yipped and hopped in a small circle.

Brock scooped up the poodle that fit in the palm of his hand—and still had room to spare—with a shake of his head.

“Wait—hold that pose. I want to get a picture of the two of you together. It's like one of those pictures where they put a Great Dane and a Chihuahua together in a shot with a silly caption like ‘opposites attract'...”

Casey held up her camera. “You're not smiling.”

“I'm not going to...”

“Spoil sport.” She took the picture, anyway.

Brock always had a comment about Hercules, but she knew that he secretly liked her canine companion. Instead of putting the poodle on the window seat next to her, or back on the ground, Brock put Hercules on his thigh and went back to drinking his water.

“This was nice of you. You didn't have to...but I appreciate it.”

“I'm a nice guy.” He gave her a little smile. “I'm glad to see that you look like you feel better.”

She raised her eyebrows with a small nod in agreement. She was glad that she looked like she was feeling better, too.

“You know what?”

“Hmm?”

“I've been meaning to ask you about this furniture.”

Brock seemed guarded. “What about it?”

“Where'd you get it? It's beautiful. All of the hand carving—the details—it's really well made. I'd love to have a set like this. Did you buy it local?”

Brock finished his water, twisted the top back on and put the bottle down on the floor next to his chair.

“Nope. I made it.”

Now it was her turn to look surprised. Casey tilted her head questioningly. She pointed to the bed frame. “You made that?”

“All me.”

“No, you didn't.” She shook her head. “Really? You made all of this—the dressers, too?”

“Every bit of it.” Brock picked at his thumbnail before he chewed on it a bit. “And the rocking chairs.”

Casey's mouth dropped open. “Why didn't I know that?”

Brock looked down at the poodle that had made himself at home on his thigh. “I don't know. I suppose I never had a reason to bring it up.”

“Well,” Casey said, amazed, “you are talented as all get out. I'm telling you that right now. You could sell the heck out of this stuff in Chicago. Are you kidding me? You could sell the heck out of this stuff online—get a website built.”

Brock scratched his beard—a beard that had gotten way too long and was pretty salty on the bottom part of his chin. “I don't really tinker with that too much anymore.”

“That's nuts. Why not?”

“I don't know. Haven't really thought about it. We had Hannah and it seemed like she took up most of our spare time.” Brock handed Hercules over to her.

“Do you want to see some of the stuff I made along the way? Maybe you'd see something you could salvage.”

When she hesitated, he added, “It might do you good to get some sun on your face. You're looking a little green around the gills.”

“Gee.” She rolled her eyes at him. “Thanks a lot.”

She grudgingly got up and reached for her shoes.

“Hold Hercules while I put on my shoes, will you? He doesn't want to be on the ground right now. Imagine that everything in your world was giant?”

“Everything in my world looks small.” Brock directed his next comment to Hercules. “Especially you.”

Brock held the poodle close to his face and the teacup rescue bit him gently on the nose.

“Did you just see that...?” Brock laughed. “He just bit me on the nose!”

Casey stomped her feet into her boots, stood up and flipped her hair over her shoulder. “See? I told you he liked you.”

Brock, still carrying Hercules in his hand, took her to a shed set back a ways from the barn. He grabbed ahold of the handle and pulled hard on the sliding door. The door didn't budge, so Brock handed Hercules to her and used both hands to force the door open. Inside of the shed, piled high almost to the ceiling, hand-carved furniture, made with quality wood like oak and maple, had been haphazardly packed. Forgotten treasure.

Casey didn't know what to say. Some of the furniture was showing signs of water damage—the wood was rotting and there was a layer of white powdery mold on the legs of the chairs and on the desktops. The shed was long and wide and filled with all of this incredible furniture that could have been appreciated by someone.

“I don't understand.” She looked at him. “Why would you throw all of this incredible furniture in this shed and let it rot?”

He didn't answer her. There had to be more to this story than what he was willing to say. And that was okay.

“You're an artist, Brock,” she told him, her eyes trying to distinguish shapes and patterns in the dim light at the back of the shed.

“I know how to use a saw and a hammer. That's all.”

“No.” She shook her head. “That's not all. You are an artist.”

If she weren't starting to feel tired and light-headed, she would crawl on top of that pile and see what was in the back. She'd have to save that activity for another day.

“Were you serious about giving me some of this?”

“You can have it all.” Brock waved his hand like the stuff in the shed didn't matter—like it was just a pile of junk. “I'll start pulling some of it out and you can point out what you want.”

Casey was blown away by the offer and she had every intention of taking him up on it.

Brock continued after a minute or two of thinking. “I may as well pull all of it out. I can burn what you don't take.”

She gasped—literally gasped—at the thought of Brock making a bonfire out of his incredible creations. In fact, that was a fantastic business name—Incredible Creations—handmade in the USA.

“That is not going to happen! I'll take every last chair and table and desk before I let you do that!”

Brock pulled the door to the shed shut with a hard slam.

“You take what you want. If you want it all, I'll be happy to load it on a truck and send it back to Chicago with you.”

Her apartment wouldn't be able to accommodate but a couple of pieces, but there wasn't any way she was going to let him burn it like scrap wood. She didn't know what she was going to do with it all—maybe store it until she could find good homes for each piece—but none of it was going to go up in flames. Not on her watch.

They walked side by side in silence. Brock seemed pensive now. This whole thing had to be related to his marriage—and his impending divorce. Nothing else made sense. Why would he give up something that he had obviously loved? Why had he given up something that he was so talented at doing?

“If I asked you to make me something custom, would you consider doing it?”

Brock stopped in his tracks—looked at her.

“No. I'm sorry. I don't do that anymore.” He stared at her a minute longer, long enough for her to catch the raw pain in his eyes. “Not for anyone.”

* * *

The pain and discomfort lasted longer than usual this time, but it did subside. Yet—she couldn't ignore that what she was experiencing simply wasn't the norm. And whatever was wrong—if it was, in fact, endometriosis—it seemed to be getting worse. She didn't like to think it, but she would probably have to go to that doctor Taylor had mentioned. The next time she was at Bent Tree, she'd have to ask Aunt Barb for the name of her doctor and a contact number.

“What's on your agenda?” Brock picked up her plate and took it to the sink for her.

“What?” She had drifted off in her mind. “Oh, gosh. Sorry. I was somewhere else.”

He was in the habit of asking her about her plans for the day over breakfast, and then after dinner he would ask her how the day had unfolded. She'd never had any man show this much interest in the mundane details of her life.

“Actually...” she continued. “I was thinking about exploring the shed today. Is that okay?”

“You're feeling up to that?” He stopped rinsing off the plate to look at her.

“I feel much better today.” That wasn't exactly true. She was better, but still not 100 percent. But sitting around waiting to feel better made her nuts.

She didn't tell the ranch foreman the entire truth because she had picked up on the fact that Brock, underneath his hard, brick-and-mortar exterior, worried about the people in his life. No sense adding to the burden he was already carrying because of the divorce. A divorce and custody arrangement that seemed to be dragging out and dragging out—it always came down to three things: joint custody of Hannah, selling the house and ownership of Taj. Brock didn't open up much about his ongoing mediation with Shannon—the little he did share with her, away from Hannah's ears, told her they had reached an impasse. Mediation had failed and they were going to court.

Hannah, who had been quietly scrolling through her iPad with her left hand and taking bites of food from her plate with her right hand, asked them, “Did you know that ladybugs are cannibals?”

Casey had been encouraging Brock to redirect some of Hannah's intensive interest in ladybugs to other subjects in order to increase her ability to function more appropriately and socially with her peers. But it was also true that those intense interests or passions that often came with a diagnosis of autism could lead to a career down the road.

“I had no idea,” Casey said to her. “I thought ladybugs were harmless.”

“They are harmless.” Hannah looked at her so seriously, as if she were defending the honor of a close friend. “They only eat their siblings if food is scarce.”

Brock met her eyes and they smiled at each other.

“Well.” Casey pushed back her chair. “That's certainly good to know.”

The ranch foreman rested his hands on the back of one of the kitchen table chairs—Casey often found herself staring at his hands. They were massive. Not the kind of hands that you would suspect washed dishes or cooked stick-to-your-ribs, down-home country food.

“Come on, Hannah. Get your stuff together. It's time to get you to school.”

It took Hannah a little bit longer than other children to shift her focus, but she had made progress.

“Check your schedule,” Brock reminded her. “Make sure everything's checked off.”

A visual schedule with a list of chores always worked in Casey's classroom, so she suggested that Brock create one for Hannah at home, and it seemed to be reducing the number of outbursts in the morning. Hannah knew what she was expected to do and she was in charge, in control, of getting the chores done and checking them off the list.

Hannah picked up her plate, rinsed it off and put it in the dish drain. Then she checked that chore off her list. Brock waited until he heard Hannah's heavy footsteps reach the top of the stairs before he said, “You've done so much with her in such a short time.”

Casey was kneeling down beside the family dog, Lady, who had taken a liking to Hercules—and now the feeling was mutual. They were a very odd pair, but it appeared to be love. Whenever they were in the same room, Hercules would be glued to the yellow Lab, and if Lady was lying down, the poodle would lie down atop her outstretched paws.

Casey didn't want to take credit for Hannah's hard work. All she did was make some changes to the home environment and work on some essential social skills.

“She's a really hard worker.” Casey scooped up Hercules. “There isn't any reason why Hannah can't go to college, have a career, get married.”

Brock stared at her wordlessly for so long that she was prompted to ask, “What?”

“I'm just not used to hearing someone be so positive about Hannah.” Brock's voice had an odd waver in it that made her look closely at his face. “I've heard a lot of negatives for most of her life—what she needs to work on, what her limitations are going to be, behavior plans. I don't hear about all of her strengths much.

“Thank you for that,” he added.

* * *

Before Brock piled Hannah in the truck, he opened the shed door for Casey. She had promised to be careful; he had warned her to watch out for creepy-crawly inhabitants as well as slithering ones. It was a large shed, the size of a two-car garage but twice as deep. This was going to be a challenge, push her strength to the limit, but she thrived on seemingly insurmountable tasks. It was fun for her and she could happily lose herself in a job like this. She didn't really have a rhyme or reason to her method of how she was going to unload the furniture—she was just going to dig in.

One by one, she untangled loose chairs, easy to lift and move out of the way. Then she crawled up on top of the pile to reach for the chairs at the peak. It was warming up quickly inside of the metal structure, and several hours into the chore, Casey had to take a break. She had begun to sort the pieces according to style or function. Her favorite pieces were the heavy rocking chairs—Brock could sell these like crazy on a website. She just couldn't understand his stubbornness on the subject.

Casey dusted off one of the rocking chairs, sat down and sighed the sigh of a woman who was feeling a rush of endorphins from exerting her body. She guzzled down a full canteen of water before she closed her eyes and rocked happily in the rocking chair. This chair, for sure, was going back to Chicago with her. She already had the perfect spot picked out for it.