by Joanna Bell
I could still hear the din from the other side of the house as I made my way into a cathedral-ceilinged great room, lined on one side with westerly-facing windows that must have been at least 20 feet high. There was a fireplace too, built of pale gray stones charred black with the smoke of hundreds – probably thousands – of fires past. I allowed myself, very briefly, to imagine a fire roaring in that fireplace, cuddling up on one of the sofas with Cillian as a winter storm raged outside.
A side table crowded with framed photos soon distracted me from my thoughts. I took a step closer, my eyes alighting on one photograph in particular, obviously older, of a woman with long, blonde hair and a smile just like Cillian's.
His mother. It had to be. Gently, I lifted it off the table to get a closer look. Behind the blonde with the dazzling smile the Rocky Mountains stood out against a cloudless blue sky. The woman seemed to be my age – maybe even younger – and she was looking at whoever was behind the camera.
"That's my mom."
I jumped in surprise, not having heard anyone come into the room – and promptly dropped the picture.
Thankfully, it landed on a rug and not the hardwood.
"Oh!" I cried, kneeling to pick it up. "I'm sorry! I –"
"Don't worry about it. It's fine."
For a split second I thought it was Patrick but it wasn't – just someone who looked a lot like him.
"I'm Séan," he said. "Cillian's brother. Sorry I'm late for the big dinner, got caught up in town."
"Oh," I replied, embarrassed at being caught snooping. "Oh yes, hi. I'm Astrid."
Séan must have noticed my red cheeks. "It's OK," he reassured me. "Really. You're one of the family now, so these are your photos too."
I almost hugged him, grateful to be shown a small kindness.
"You alright?" He asked. "You look a little shook up."
"I'm fine," I replied, too quickly. "I'm fine. Your family is just –"
"A lot?"
"Yeah. More than I'm used to, anyway. And Jack is, uh – he's a little scary."
"Don't let him get to you," Séan said. "He's just like that. You want to know how to deal with him?"
"How?"
"Just let him be who he is. He's always looking for a fight, so don't give him one. If he tells you the sky is green and the grass is blue, just nod your head. If he says he's not going into town with you wearing a jacket like that, change into another jacket. That kind of thing."
"Is that all?" I laughed nervously. "Just do whatever he says – all the time?"
Séan Devlin looked down at the photo in my hands. "I can see why that might seem difficult," he replied. "But I promise you the alternative is worse for anyone who doesn't have the option of not dealing with him. Which you don't. I mean – you married Cillian. You did marry him, right?"
I swallowed. "Yeah. I did."
"Why?"
It was the same borderline-incredulous tone Patrick used earlier when he, too, asked whether or not I really had married his older brother. I didn't really like that tone. It seemed to imply there was something unbelievable about someone marrying Cillian.
Also, I didn't know how to answer. Yes, I was married to Séan's brother – for almost whole week at that point. But the truth was that in spite of the marriage certificate and the vows and the rings, me and my new husband didn't even know what we were to each other, let alone what to tell others we were. I knew I had hopes – and I think I knew he did, too. But we hadn't talked about it. We were still in that strange territory between it all being a kind of joke and the realization that there actually was, against all the odds, something between us.
"Um, I, uh –" I stammered. "Because we –"
Séan put a hand on my shoulder as I flailed. "Look," he said, leaning in and lowering his voice. "You don't have to tell me. But you two are going to have to come up with something believable, because my dad hasn't talked about anything else since he found out. He can't figure it out."
"He can't?" I replied. "What is there to figure out? We got married and –"
"Yeah. Exactly. You got married. To Cillian. That's what no one can figure out."
I had no idea what he was getting at.
He laughed. "What – you think we found out Cillian got married and didn't look you up? Do you have any idea how paranoid my dad is about gold-diggers? He was probably Googling your name before the call was even over. I'm just saying we know who you are. We know who your parents are. And like I said – not a single one of us can figure it out."
"Figure what out?" I repeated, letting a hint of defensive frustration creep into my tone. "Two people got married. That's how it works. Isn't it?"
"Yeah," Séan said, studying my face. "But – to him? A girl like you?"
Cillian's own brother seemed to be implying I was too good for him and the same sense of loyalty I'd felt earlier, when I had found myself determined to make a good impression for Cillian's sake more than my own, returned.
"So what?" I demanded, my voice a little louder than I intended. "What's so wrong with Cillian? What are you impl–"
"It's not about that. I mean, maybe it is, but – I don't know. It's just weird, is all."
The conversation came to an awkward halt and I turned my eyes back to the family photos on the table. There was one of Jack Devlin as a younger man, wearing a cowboy hat and holding a newborn calf in his arms. Another featured two naked toddlers playing in a water-filled trough. And then there was one of Cillian himself at about 14 or so, grinning as someone off-camera threw a handful of hay over his head. I picked it up, my heart softening immediately at the more rounded, boyish version of the face I already knew so well.
"Look at him," I said quietly, more to myself than anyone else.
Séan smiled. "That's not Cillian."
"It isn't?"
"No, that's Jackson. Didn't he tell you about Jackson?"
I looked up, because there was a strange tone in Séan's voice. "Jackson? He's the oldest, right? Yeah, Cillian told me about him."
My brother-in-law studied his fingernails. "Did he? Did he tell you everything about Jackson? The whole story?"
"He told me he left. That he left Montana, I mean."
"And did he tell you why?"
"We didn't really get into it."
Séan cleared his throat. "Those two always looked exactly the same. I know we're all similar – but Cillian and Jackson especially. They were always getting mistaken for each other. Lots of people in town thought they were twins – which they are, kind of. Irish twins."
Sadness. Is that what I heard in Séan Devlin's voice? His older brother moved away, so it made sense that he would miss him. There seemed to be something else there, though. Something he wasn't saying.
I was in the midst of trying to figure out if it would be too forward of me to ask what it was when I heard heavy, loping footsteps behind me. Cillian. A week into our acquaintance – and our marriage – and I could already identify him by his footsteps alone.
He bounded into the room and up to where I was standing next to his brother.
"What are you two doing in h–" he began and then stopped abruptly, his expression darkening, when he saw the photo in my hand.
Chapter 16: Cillian
I never planned to keep what happened with Jackson a secret from Astrid. I never planned it because I married her without planning anything. And then it turned out I actually liked her. A lot more than I was prepared to handle.
I'm not going to claim it was all a joke from the start. That wouldn't be true, either. But it was close to a joke. It was the kind of thing an impulsive, privileged idiot like me – someone who has never really had to face consequences for anything they've done – would do. As far as I was concerned when I found out about Astrid Walker from the matchmaking service, if it worked out that was awesome – regular sex with a cute girl and the whole Devlin Ranch to boot. Good deal, right? And if it didn't work out? No biggie. Quickie divorce, move on with my life. I hone
stly didn't put any more thought into it than that.
At no point did it ever enter my mind that I would actually care about Astrid – or what she thought of me. Girls were a means to an end. A way to scratch an itch. A way to boost my own ego, to lord my access to pussy over other men. And then, a way to get my hands on the ranch my forebears built.
That's what she was, too. Past tense. That's what she was. Before we met. And then we did meet and sometimes I honestly think it would have been easier if she'd just pulled a sledgehammer out of her purse in the middle of the Billings airport and smashed me over the head with it. At least then I would have had an explanation for everything I did.
As it turned out there was no head injury to point to. And whatever Astrid did to me managed, somehow, to be better and worse than being hit over the head with a sledgehammer. At least it didn't hurt – not until it did. I spent that first week with her basking in the entirely unfamiliar bliss that is being with someone you're really into. We spent most of our time in Vegas in bed, only leaving to eat or shower or pull back the curtains and peek out the window to make sure the rest of the world was still there.
I didn't understand quite how into her I was, of course. I never fell for anyone before her. I didn't recognize it for what it was.
What I did know was that I couldn't tell her about Jackson. Not then, not so soon after meeting. Astrid was a good person. A decent person. The kind of person who would leave if I told her truth of what happened – of what I did to my own brother.
"Hey," she said, lighting up when she saw me. "What's up?'
I will never, not until the moment I take my leave of this life, get sick of the way Astrid's expression changes when she sees me. She really does light up, like God himself is reaching into her soul and flipping a switch. Being looked at like that, by a woman like her, is the closest a man like me will ever come to redemption.
Not that I knew it back then. Back then all I wanted was to get her the fuck away from Séan before he opened his big mouth and told my wife who I really was.
"I thought you were going to the bathroom?" I said, trying very hard to keep my tone as casual as possible.
She laughed. "I was – but I got side-tracked."
"Come on," I said, taking her hand. "I'll show you where it is."
We were walking away when Séan called out after us: "I was just telling her about Jackson."
"Great. Cool." I replied, ushering Astrid ahead of me.
"Wasn't sure if you told her anything about that, yet."
Was I going to have to kick my brother's ass at a family dinner? I led my wife to the bathroom and, when she closed the door behind her, immediately stormed back into the living room and grabbed my shit-stirring brother by the collar.
"Let go of me," he spat, twisting himself out of my grip. "Don't come bulldozing in here like you can solve this by beating me up, you goddamned Neanderthal."
Typical Séan. He always did seem to think he was better than the rest of us Devlin brothers, with his good grades and his candy-assed hybrid car.
"You haven't told her, have you?" He continued, straightening his shirt. "About Jackson? About how you and Dad fucked him over?"
My brother was lucky my new wife was in the house. Because if she hadn't been, family dinner or not, he would definitely have found himself on the receiving end of a beat-down.
"We didn't fuck anyone over," I hissed. "He fucked himself over. And it wasn't just me and Dad – although I'm not surprised your fence-sitting ass opted out. Getting your hands dirty isn't really your thing, is it?"
"That's not what fence-sitting means," he replied smugly. "If you're going to insult me you might as well get your vocabulary strai–"
"Oh fuck you," I broke in. "Just – fuck you. Stay out of my business. What I tell my wife isn't your concern."
He leaned his head back and laughed out loud. "Your wife! Yeah, I almost forgot. Jesus Christ."
"Yeah," I snapped. "My wife. What of it?"
"How'd you even manage that? Come on, for real. She seems nice, you know. Sweet. Smarter than your dumb ass, that's for sure. You got some dirt on her old man or something? How'd the likes of you get a girl like that?"
"Same way I know the likes of you is never going to get a girl like that," I responded coldly.
And then I walked out of the room before he could say anything else, my heart pounding hard and fast in my chest because, in spite of all my posturing, I knew damn well I was full of shit. I knew Jackson didn't bring it on himself. And sooner or later, Astrid was going to find out all about what happened between me and my big brother.
***
Family dinners were more of a thing when Darcy and my dad first got married. I used to think my new stepmother was the driving force behind them, always harassing us boys to wash our hands and be on our best behavior because our dad had a hard day etc. etc. I mean – hard days? Jack Devlin? Maybe when he was younger. By the time his sons were getting into their teens, though, he did very little in the way of actual work. Sure, he complained about his aching back a lot and never went into town without his dusty cowboy boots on, so everyone would think he was just taking a break from a days-long cattle drive or some shit – but real work? Bucking hay, fixing fences up on the mountain slopes at the edge of the property? Riding out at midnight in a spring snowstorm to check for newborn calves? Nah. My old man had people for that.
It wasn't Darcy who wanted those family dinners, though – what reason did she have to give a single fuck about her husband's pack of increasingly feral boys? It was my dad – he just didn't want to admit it. And to be honest, I still don't really understand why it was so important to him. He was never the sentimental type, and the overwhelming impression I got after my mom died was that he was mostly just annoyed she wasn't around anymore to take care of the drudgework of raising 5 boys.
Séan's words echoed in my head. How'd the likes of you get a girl like that?
Funny thing that, because I'd wondered the same thing about my parents more than once. My mother is, in my memories of her, an almost infinitely patient and gentle woman. I have no recollection of her ever raising her voice with any of us, despite my dad rarely communicating at any volume below a belligerent shout. Even on bad nights, when he was drunk and raging, she would still come to each of her sons in turn, lie down in bed next to us and talk about whatever it was we wanted to talk about. And then, when we got sleepy, she would kiss our foreheads or our cheeks and tiptoe out of the room.
What the hell did she ever see in Jack Devlin?
What the hell does Astrid Walker see in you?
I pushed the question away and sliced into my second rib-eye. Astrid came back from the bathroom and took her seat, shooting me one of those quick, almost secretive little smiles of hers that made the blood pump faster in my veins.
My dad chose that precise moment to skewer another steak and slap it down on her plate. "There you go, honey. Healthiest food on earth. You're not full, are ya? Still feeling a little sick from earlier? What was that, anyway? You get carsick?"
"Dad –" I started, immediately recognizing the antagonistic tone in his voice.
"It's OK," Astrid broke in, gamely picking up her knife and fork and slicing into the steak. "Yeah, sometimes I get carsick. I hope I didn't ruin anything. If you need me to replace that bush I can –"
My dad roared with laughter. "Don't worry about the damn bush, girl! If a little throw-up kills it then it was never going to survive out here anyway, was it? You gotta be tough to live this life – ain't that right, Darcy?"
Darcy nodded and smiled indulgently at my father. "Yes, sweetie. That's right."
"So it was carsickness, was it?" Jack continued, just getting going. "'Cause I coulda damn sworn it was the smell gettin' to you. The ranch smell. You know, cowshit. It's not so bad in the winter. You want to know why?"
"Dad –" I said again, as an air of malevolence filled the room and everyone – everyone except my dad, who was causing it –
pretended not to notice.
"Why?" Astrid asked quietly, giving me a little shake of her head like she wanted me to know she could handle herself. I sat back in my chair proudly, looking around at my brothers like yeah, fuckers, that's my girl.
"Because shit freezes!" Jack Devlin roared. "Freezes solid – don't it boys? Not like in the summer. In the summer it can get pretty bad, I admit. There's nothing so offensive to the ol' nasal passages as a half-rotten pile of wet cowshit. Flies lay eggs in it and man, you should see the maggots. Just a mass of –"
"Jesus Christ," Séan muttered. "We're fuckin' eating here."
I was just about to tell him to shut the fuck up – it wasn't his job to protect Astrid, after all – when the sound of a loud belch made us all turn towards my wife. She had the back of her hand pressed against her mouth and a stricken look on her face.
"Sorry," she whispered, retching just a little as she reached for her glass of water. "I – I'm sorry. I think I'm just tired."
"Tired is it?" My dad cracked. "You sure about –"
"DAD!" I yelled, shoving my chair back and jumping to my feet. "Leave her the fuck alone! Just shut up!"
My dad jumped to his feet, too – quickly, almost as if he'd been waiting for the opportunity to do so – and got in between me and my wife.
"What was that?" He demanded, eyeballing me. "You tellin' me to shut up in my own house? How'd ya like that, Astrid? How'd ya like being married to a disrespectful little shit? You think –"
"OK," Séan stood up and physically inserted himself between our dad and myself a few seconds before the urge to pick Jack Devlin up and chuck him across the fucking room became overwhelming on my part. "Cool it. Just – Jesus, both of you, cool it. Cillian, maybe you should take –"
"Wait," I said, my teeth gritted. "'Both of you?' I'm not the one trying to make a woman sick at the dinner table. I didn't start –"
"You fuckin' did!" My dad yelled at me across Séan's shoulder, jostling him. "Tryin' to look like the big man in front of your lady, weren't ya? I see you, boy. I see you struttin' around here like a goddamned rooster so she'll think you're the king shit!"