Free Meet Me at the Chapel by Joanna Sims

It seemed to her that if he were walking normally, she would have to take nearly two steps to match his one.
    â€œHave you seen the inside yet?” Brock asked her.
    â€œI was just about to.”
    At the base of the steps leading to the front door, they paused together. Brock pointed to Michael’s tree.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œHoly 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
    O nce 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.
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œI 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