Page 1 of After We Fall

1

How hard would it be to locate a bulletproof stained glass window?

Standing at the foothills of the Rocky Mountains on the far edge of the Holcombe property, I scan the outside of the quaint chapel. I could find one, but not before the Thanksgiving Day wedding that starts in—I flip the sleek band of my gold-link watch—sixty-eight minutes.

Besides, such a precaution would be overkill.

The on-call security consultant arriving soon will cover my bases for the last-minute situation I discovered. Another item completed on the list attached to my black acrylic clipboard.

Efficiency is my love language.

The wind catches the corner of the message that arrived sometime during the night. At least I think it’s a message. I found it this morning amid a shattered floral arrangement at the front of the chapel. The gust grabs the fluttering edge from my hand, whisks the glossy paper through the air, and plasters it around a fence post that delineates the property lines. Before it can take flight again, I snatch the paper, smooth the edges into submission, and secure it under the clipboard’s clamp.

Once I manage this detail, everything will be in place for my boss’s nuptials. Bosses’. Both of them. My professional multitasking duties straddle the property line on which I currently stand. West of the fence rolls out the vast acreage of Harlan Holcombe’s childhood home, where he now runs a consulting company. East of the fence sits Twelve Bluebells Ranch, his fiancée’s boardinghouse for young women aging out of the foster care system.

A master’s degree in business administration prepared me for work with Harlan’s company. A master’s degree in misery from a group home during my teenage years prepared me for work with Meredith’s halfway house.

West of the fence holds my expertise. East of the fence holds my heart.

And it’s almost time to ask the soon-to-be newlyweds for my dream job.

I stride toward the white wooden chapel, crunching the brittle grass with each step of my four-inch heels. As if a personal wedding gift to the Holcombes, the sun breaks through the smoky clouds, streaking well-wishes across the grounds for the noonday ceremony.

Upon entering the one-room building, I proceed down the aisle and study the floral decor. Bound by brown ribbon, modest wildflowers adorn the ends of each of the eight pews. Light fragrance dusts the room with a romantic autumn perfume. Bold colors complement the fall palette of the golden aspens and Rocky Mountains outside the church windows.

An out-of-place daisy catches my attention.

I hike up my knee-length trench coat, and flares of boysenberry chiffon fabric peek from underneath, hinting at the hidden cocktail dress. Before I can crouch down to fix the flower, someone at the chapel entrance clears his throat.

Leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed, eyes glittering, he chews on a toothpick. “Luke Granger.”

Two words. It only takes two words to appreciate this man’s electricity. Something’s vaguely familiar about him, but I need to focus on the task at hand. Cargo pants accentuate his tall, muscled body but aren’t enough to throw me off my game. Even if the black fleece he wears causes those green eyes to pop. But I don’t recognize his name.

“I’m from the LG Security Team,” he says. “I know Logan usually handles your account’s on-property needs, but he has the day off to celebrate Thanksgiving with his family.”

“Of course.” With a calming exhale, I approach the back of the room and extend my hand to him the way my education taught me. Palm neither up nor down. Straight across and equal. “Penelope Reid, Harlan Holcombe’s assistant. Thank you for coming on such short notice, Mr. Granger. I’m sorry you’re here on a holiday but grateful your company offers on-call services.”

“Not a problem. Call me Luke.” He matches my firm grip. “The after-hours operator briefed me with the basics. She mentioned we don’t have long before the ceremony begins. Show me what we’re dealing with in here.”

“Today’s wedding is a small family affair. Several of us worked yesterday to set up the chapel. We finished by 7:30.” I place my palm firmly on the door. “I’m positive I shut the door before we left the premises. But when I arrived this morning, it was cracked open.”

Luke crouches down, inspecting the latch. “Entry doesn’t look forced.”

“No need,” I say. “The family keeps the chapel unlocked.”

He stands, runs a hand up the dark-stained wood, then closes and reopens the sturdy door. “The wind wouldn’t be able to budge this thing open.”

“I don’t think so either. Everything appeared to be in place with the exception of a shattered floral arrangement on the stage. While cleaning the debris, I found small pieces of ripped paper. I gathered them and taped them back together.” Earlier, I’d painstakingly pulled each scrap from the pile of flowers, glass, and water. I hadn’t needed to tape the pieces of the puzzle together before I recognized it as a shiny brochure for Twelve Bluebells Ranch.

I slip the mangled leaflet from the top of the clipboard and pass it into Luke’s hands.

He shifts the toothpick to the opposite side of his mouth while studying the paper.

“I’d like for this to be handled without burdening anyone else.” I lift my chin and say firmly, “Harlan and Meredith deserve a day to celebrate without this added stress.”

With a curt nod, he takes booted steps across the hardwood planks and inspects the front of the chapel.

Outside the open doorway, a flash of color catches my eye, and I see the three tenants of Twelve Bluebells Ranch skittering across the field. Meredith purchased each of the women burnt-orange taffeta dresses for today’s occasion. Three beloved giggling pumpkins scurry toward the barn for the upcoming group pictures.