Meet Me at the Chapel (15 page)

Casey had been in a deep sleep, curled onto her side with Brock's warm body pressed against her. A sharp, stabbing pain, like an ice pick being shoved into her stomach, made her jerk away from Brock. She lurched forward, eyes open, hands pressed into her abdomen.

“Oh!” she cried out. Her loud cry awakened Brock.

“What's wrong?” He knocked items off the bedside table on his way to switching on the light.

Casey pushed herself to the edge of the bed. “I don't know! I don't
know
!”

She got herself out of bed and ran to the bathroom. She slammed the door shut behind her and locked it.

Brock had followed her and was outside the door calling her name. “Casey.” He knocked on the door. “Casey!”

Casey crumpled onto the floor holding her stomach—the pain was so strong that she felt like she was going to pass out or be sick.

“I'll be out in a minute!” she tried to reassure Brock.

Through her tears, Casey noticed a large spot of blood on the nightshirt she had put on right before she'd gone to sleep.

“Casey! Did you get your period? There's blood on the sheets.”

“I don't think so...” She forced herself to stand up so she could get herself cleaned up. “It's not time.”

* * *

Putting off going to the gynecologist was no longer an option. Taylor talked the receptionist into squeezing Casey in for an appointment the day after she had started the irregular bleeding. She had experienced spotting and pain before, but had always chalked it up to her diagnosis of endometriosis and nothing more. Even the times when the sex with Brock was a little painful, she had always attributed it to her previous diagnosis. But this pain and this bleeding were
not normal
.

The doctor took her history, conducted a pelvic exam, made contact with her recently fired, but not yet replaced, gynecologist and collected urine and blood. Brock and Taylor didn't hesitate to put aside their differences and focus on Casey. Brock waited in the waiting room while Taylor held her sister's hand through the transvaginal ultrasound and an endometrial biopsy.

Several days later, the tests results were back and she was back in Dr. Hall's office with Taylor by her side and Brock in the waiting room. But even after the doctor gave her a diagnosis, explained her treatment options and then gave her some time to process the information with her sister, Casey's mind had gone completely blank. There was a noise in her head like a TV station that had just gone off the air—and she could hear her sister talking to her, but it sounded like she was talking to her with a tin can on a string.

“I have to go talk to Brock,” Casey finally said after a minute of staring at a jar of tongue depressors on the table across the room.

“Okay.” Taylor stood up and put her arm around Casey's shoulders. “Let's go talk to Brock.”

Brock wasn't sitting down where they had left him. He was standing just outside the door, pacing on the sidewalk in front of the doctor's office. Casey finished her business with the receptionist before she went outside to see Brock.

“Hey!” Brock spotted her and came immediately to her side. “What did the doctor say?”

“Um...” Casey slipped her hand into his. “I'd rather tell you after we get in the truck, okay?”

Casey saw Brock and Taylor exchange a look. Taylor hugged her sister and said, “I'm going to let the two of you be alone. Call me the minute you get back to the ranch, Casey. We have to figure out our next steps.”

Casey hugged her sister tightly, so grateful for her. “I will.”

It was nice to see Taylor and Brock rally during a crisis—it made her feel like there was hope for them to all be able to get along. Taylor surprised both of them by hugging Brock before she got into her truck and drove away.

Once they were inside the truck, Brock turned toward her and stared at her face intently.

“Tell me—what's going on?”

Casey held his hand—glad for the comfort she received from the warm strength of his fingers and hoping to give him some comfort in return.

“I have cancer,” she told him simply. “Endometrial cancer.”

Chapter Fifteen

B
rock didn't waver in his resolve to accompany her back to Chicago. They were both so stunned by her diagnosis that most of the movement was muscle memory—making plane reservations, making arrangements for the animals to be cared for on the farm and making sure she was packed and ready to go back to Chicago. Brock picked up the tab for the rush-order tickets to get them from the Helena airport into O'Hare. Casey insisted that she pay him back for the expense of the tickets, but Brock refused to argue with her about it.

“Let's just get you home,” he had told her. “The rest can wait.”

The day that she was scheduled to leave Montana, Casey sat down one last time in the window seat. This had been a favorite spot—a little cubby tucked away that had an amazing view of the world below. She had watched Brock work from that window—and she had began to admire the man from this window seat.

“I'm going to miss this place,” Casey said to the poodle that had been glued to her side. He sensed something was wrong.

“Are you ready?” Brock walked through the door to the loft.

Casey nodded as she stood up. “All I have is the trunk and this one bag.”

Brock made short work of loading her trunk and bag into his truck. They dropped Ladybug off with Kay Lynn—she was familiar and would love the Labrador like her own while Brock was gone. Taylor had wanted to accompany her back to Chicago, but she finally conceded that Brock had more freedom to travel at the moment. Taylor did, however, meet them at the airport to say goodbye.

“Call me as soon as you land. I hate that I'm not going with you.” Taylor hugged her for a fourth time.

Clint was standing away from them holding Penelope. His collarbone was healed and he was contemplating his next move career-wise. This was the first time Casey had seen Brock and his stepbrother together in one place for more than a couple of minutes.

“Let me see my beautiful niece for a minute.” Casey took Penny in her arms and hugged her and kissed her sweet-smelling skin.

“Thank you for taking such good care of my sister, Clint,” she said to her brother-in-law before she gave Penny one last kiss on the top of the head and handed her back to her father.

“You get yourself squared away right quick.” Clint pulled her in for a hug.

“That's the plan,” she reassured him.

Taylor had tears in her eyes, even though Casey had explicitly told her sister
no tears
. Taylor wiped the tears off her cheeks and looked as if she was trying to rein in her emotions.

“Nick is picking you up from O'Hare?” her sister asked.

“That's what Mom said.”

Their brother, Nick, had just graduated from law school and was studying for the bar exam. He still lived in Chicago and would meet them at the airport and take them straight to their parents' house in Lincoln Park. Her father and mother insisted that she stay with them until her health improved and she was grateful. The idea of being alone in her tiny one-bedroom apartment while she treated the cancer didn't appeal to her at all.

She knew she had cancer. She believed the diagnosis, even though she would be paying close attention to the second opinion when she visited the gynecological oncologist. But she suspected that she was in shock—she hadn't cried. Not once. She had systematically figured out the next steps she needed to take and then put her plan in motion. Perhaps her brain was giving her a break—perhaps her brain knew that home was the better place to have an emotional crisis.

“Thank you, Brock.” Taylor, for the second time in one week, hugged the ranch foreman.

And, miracle of miracles, Brock and Clint acknowledged each other, were civil and shook hands before the two couples went their separate ways. Casey managed to sleep on the plane ride back to Chicago—she had Brock's hand to hold and Hercules to share a blanket with. She slept until the steward announced their descent into Chicago O'Hare; Casey blinked her eyes to focus them as she put her seat back in the upright position. She secured Hercules in his carrier and then pushed the window cover up so she could see the lights of her home city as they approached.

“Back to reality,” Casey said under her breath. “I sure didn't expect to be coming home like this.”

Brock tightened his grip on Casey's hand. He couldn't have predicted this if he'd tried, but he was about to land in Chicago with the woman he loved. Casey wanted him to see her home safely and then head back to Montana. But that just wasn't going to happen. He wasn't about to drop her off and take off like nothing was wrong. What kind of man would he be if he did that? No—he planned on staying in Chicago for as long as he could manage. He had savings—he'd always been smart with his money. He could stay until Hannah was scheduled to return to Montana, and then he would have to go. He was hopeful that, by then, Casey's treatment plan and prognosis would be clear.

“Nick!” Casey spotted her brother standing near one of the baggage carousels. “Nicky! Over here!”

Her brother heard his name and looked their way. She waved her arm in the air. Nicholas, the middle child and all-around golden boy, had always been the star of the family and the apple of their mother's eye. Nick was handsome and athletic and had followed their father into law. If he weren't such a likable guy, he would be completely intolerable.

Casey introduced her brother to Brock; the two men shook hands and then they walked closer to the crowded carousel area to grab the trunk and other luggage. Nick had been his normal friendly, but formal, self. On the other hand, she was completely worried about how her parents would react to Brock. They were still reeling from Taylor marrying a professional bull rider who hadn't gone to so much as community college—and now their youngest was involved with a cowboy. For their mother, it would no doubt feel like an epidemic of some sort. Something wrong with them that needed to be cured.

Their bags showed up in one piece. They loaded all of them into Nick's late-model Jaguar XJ, and merged onto I-90 East to Lincoln Park.

“Nice graduation present,” Casey said from the backseat.

“I was going to wait until I passed the bar exam—and then I thought, why not use it as incentive to
pass
the bar?” Nick flashed her a smile in the rearview mirror.

“How's Mom doing with all of this?” she asked her brother, and he knew exactly what she meant. Their mom was a pathological drama queen; she was famous for making gigantic mountains out of microscopic molehills. Give her something like her “baby” having cancer to chew on? She could subsist on this kind of tragedy for years.

“She's already seen her shrink, her internist and located a support group for parents of children who have been diagnosed with some form of cancer.”

“And Dad?”

Nick met her eyes quickly in the rearview mirror again. It was always a mystery to them how their father had lasted for so many decades with their mother.

“He's glad that you're going to be staying with them until this gets sorted out. How are
you
doing?”

“I'm okay...” She lifted her shoulders up and then dropped them down with a shake of her head. “I mean, I have cancer—so that stinks. But besides that, I'm okay.”

* * *

Casey's parents' house in Lincoln Park was a display of wealth the likes of which Brock had never experienced before. The house was four stories tall, with floors of polished Italian marble, curtains made from velvet, crystal chandeliers and a double banister staircase that he'd only seen used in some of the fancier hotels he'd stayed at over the years. There were layers of crown molding in every room, marble fireplaces and rooftop terraces with views of downtown Chicago. Brock hadn't often felt out of place in his life, but he sure as heck felt out of place here.

“I'm going to see that you're settled and then I'm going to head to my hotel—I made reservations at one of those extended-stay places.” Brock's deep voice echoed up the stairwell leading to the second floor.

“Already planning your escape?” she asked him, only half in jest.

“I'm staying close by...”

As it turned out for Brock, he ended up staying even closer
than he had anticipated. Her mother, Vivian Bartlett Brand, had floated down the curved stairwell in a flurry of diamonds and designer clothes and hugged her harder than usual before turning her attention to the tall ranch foreman. To her utter amazement, her mother took to Brock like she took to a new Louis Vuitton bag. Vivian insisted that Brock stay in the guest room, and if there was one thing that Vivian excelled at, it was getting her way with a man.

Her mother had one of the housekeepers on staff get Brock settled in the guest quarters while she accompanied Casey upstairs to the bedrooms on the upper floor.

“Let Leah do her job, darling.” Her mother took her hand and led her out to a sitting area that overlooked one of the balconies.

“Come and sit with me.” Vivian patted the spot next to her on a chaise.

Her mom wasn't often affectionate, but this was a rare occasion that Vivian put her arm around her shoulder and left it there for more than a quick second.

“Well...” Her mother gave her head a decisive nod. “They caught it early. You're going to be just fine.”

Casey believed that. The doctor in Montana had assured her that it was at the early stages and the success rate of treatment was very high. If she was going to get cancer, it seemed that this was the better one to get. It was slower growing and hadn't reached the lymph nodes. Surviving the cancer wasn't her main concern—the recommended treatment was her concern.

“The doctor in Montana said that I might need to have a partial hysterectomy.” Casey looked at her mom and, for the first time since the diagnosis, she actually felt tears forming in the backs of her eyes.

“Well, just think. No more menstrual cramps.” Vivian patted her leg with an upbeat lilt in her voice. “Besides—motherhood isn't everything it's cracked up to be, Casey. If I had to do it all over, I'm not so certain I'd choose it again.”

* * *

“Are you lost?” Casey found Brock in the hallway leading to the cellar.

“I was.” He had a bemused expression on his face. “How big is this place?”

“Four thousand square feet.” She walked into his open arms.

They stood together silently, hugging each other tightly. Brock felt so warm and solid and safe. She was glad now that he had insisted on coming
and
staying.

“Are you hungry?” Casey linked her arm with his.

She already knew the answer—Brock could always eat. She took him to her father's fully stocked bar and then called up to the kitchen. The cook told her what was on the menu for the evening with options for other meals if the prime rib he had prepared didn't sound appealing.

Brock bellied up to the ornately carved mahogany bar. “It's like a hotel—I swear I've run into at least three people who work here.”

“I know.” Casey went behind the bar. “I think it's really embarrassing, but as long as it keeps Mom off his back, Dad lets her run the house the way she wants. Can I buy you a drink, cowboy?”

“I wouldn't be mad at a nice, smooth bourbon.”

Casey poured them both glasses of one of her father's best bourbons. She leaned toward him, her glass extended.

“Here's to us,” Casey toasted.

“To us.” Brock touched his glass to hers. “Why don't you come over here with me? You're too far away.”

She joined him on his side of the bar; he put down his glass so he could pull her into his arms.

He looked into her eyes. “I love you, Casey. I'm going to be here for you. That's a guarantee.”

“I love you.”

They kissed and held each other; they were tired from their day of travel and a bit disoriented from the drastic change of setting. Her parents' posh Lincoln Park mansion was a world away from Brock's modest Montana ranch.

“I'm sorry Mom roped you into staying here, Brock.”

Brock kept one arm around her but freed up a hand so he could take another taste of the bourbon.

“I'm not worried about it. I'm closer to you—so it's okay. She's a well-preserved woman. I thought she was your sister. I really did.”

Casey took a seat next to him. “She has a great plastic surgeon. Well-placed fillers and Botox.”

“Uh—do you do that?”

“No.” She laughed. “I'm sorry to tell you that I'm going to wrinkle. Not that I wouldn't—don't get me wrong. But I'm scared to death of needles. I really am. I've wanted to get a butterfly tattoo on my ankle since I was fourteen and I've never been able to do it. I've gone twice to get it done and both times—” she made a cutting gesture with her hand “—I chickened out.”

Their conversation waned for a moment, then Casey looked at the ranch foreman's face lovingly. “My mom really likes you.”

“Is that right?” he asked with a pleased smile.

“Yes.” She nodded her head but her brow was wrinkled. “And it doesn't make a bit of sense. I've brought any number of very preppy guys with excellent pedigrees home and she picks them apart like I scraped them right off the bottom of the barrel. But for you? Vivian had nothin' but praise.”

Brock winked at her as he finished off his drink.

“I don't get it. But, somehow...all of that—” she pointed to his cowboy hat and boots “—fits in with—” she gestured to her parents' opulent mansion “—all of this. Go figure.”

* * *

Three weeks after arriving home in Chicago, Casey had been on a whirlwind tour of specialists and surgeons. A specialist confirmed her cancer type and stage; a partial hysterectomy with her ovaries preserved was the recommended course of treatment.

The hard truth—the undeniable truth—she would never be able to carry her own child. She would never know what it was like to feel a life growing inside of her. Brock was always quick to remind her, however, that a child with her dark green eyes and his height wasn't out of the question. Yes, they would have to find a suitable uterus to rent, but at least there was still hope. So, instead of having surgery straightaway, Casey opted to receive fertility treatments for two weeks to harvest her eggs. She despised needles—but she didn't hate them enough to risk losing the chance to have a child of her own one day. Once her eggs were harvested and frozen, Casey went in for surgery. Two days in the hospital and she was back at her parents' house for recuperation. Brock was with her every step of the way; he had made good on his guarantee.