Wed in Wyoming

Not exactly a tunnel.

She knew that’s what Brody was thinking.

But “We’re almost there,” was all he said. “Think you can stand it for another couple minutes?”

Pride lifted her chin if nothing else would. This was part of St. Agnes, not a culvert running beneath the city of Atlanta. “Of course.”

He didn’t smile. Just gave a single nod and turned forward again.

His simple acceptance of her assurance went considerably further than if he’d taken her hand and drawn her along with him like some frightened child. She focused on watching him, rather than the confining space, as they continued their brisk pace.

As he’d promised, it was only a few minutes—if that—before she followed Brody around another corner, up several iron stairs and out into the dark, wet air. A vine-twined trellis overhead kept the drizzling rain from hitting them, though Angeline shivered as the air penetrated her clothes.

Thunder was a steady roll, punctuated by the brilliant flicker of lightning.

She got a quick impression of hedges and rows of plants. The convent’s garden? Surely there would have been an easier route to take.

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