The Cowboy's Convenient Wife

by Joanna Bell

  I feel like I lasted longer than I should have. It should have been over almost right away, by all rights. But something came over me, some new ability to hold back, to hold myself right at the edge and not step over it. It was probably Astrid's reaction to me. I will never get enough of her needing me the way she needs me when I'm deep inside her.

  I can tell when she's close. She always gets this note of concern in her voice. She starts to say my name randomly, in that worried, urgent way of hers and it drives me completely fucking insane.

  "Cillian," she whispered in my ear when I wasn't increasing the speed of my thrusts and she clearly wanted me to. "Cillian. Cillian!"

  That's paradise right there. If heaven exists, that's it. That's where I'll go when I die. To an eternal bliss of Astrid Walker crying out my name.

  A shudder ran through my body and down the entire length of my cock as her muscles twitched around me. Yeah, she was getting close. And she was getting me close, too. Close to letting go. Close to filling every snug, secret place inside her.

  We didn't say much. Things had at times gotten quite wordy between us, but that time it was mostly just the sounds of our breathing as it quickened in pace – and the sound of her moaning my name as she got higher and higher.

  I took a deep breath at one point, still successfully – or so I thought – fighting the urge to lose control. Astrid's breath was quick and ragged by then. She pushed herself up on her elbows and pressed her face against my neck, baring her teeth like an animal.

  "Oh God," she breathed. "Oh Cillian. Oh – Oh God. Oh God."

  And then she came. Her head lolled back between her shoulders and her entire body went taut and I barely had time to realize what was happening before her pussy was tightening around me and she was whimpering and crying and clawing at my shoulders.

  Like I said, I thought I was fine. I was even thinking I could prove myself a god by making her come a second time. That didn't happen, though.

  "Fuck," I said, actually surprised by the first twinge of bliss at the very base of my cock. "Fuck. Astrid. Ohhhh fuuuuuck..."

  The orgasm was so intense my toes were still sore the next day from curling so hard. There was no warning, either. One second I was smiling down at her, loving how lost in pleasure she was – pleasure I was giving her. The next I was groaning, shuddering with gratification, releasing myself over and over until I started to think it would never end.

  "Oh my God," I breathed as we extricated our bodies from one another. "Oh my God. Jesus Christ, Astrid."

  She lay beside me in the dark, panting. "I know."

  A few minutes passed in silence as we came back to ourselves.

  "I missed you," I said, overtaken by an ill-advised confessional urge as we lay naked beside each other in the dark. "I really missed you, Astrid. My life is – it's really bad without you. I didn't go into details before but it's been really hard. I'm not whining, I just – I don't know. I wanted you to know how much you affected me, I guess. How much knowing you mattered."

  When she didn't answer I reached out for her hand. She pulled it away.

  "Is something wro–"

  "Did you sleep with anyone?"

  The question was so unexpected it took me a few moments to process it. And when I finally did, I laughed. Why? It was funny. Just the idea that my life in Sweetgrass Ridge was anything other than a drunken, lonely pile of shit was funny to me. If she thought I'd been trying to fix my broken heart by banging every random between Sweetgrass Ridge and Billings, then she was exactly and completely wrong.

  "No," I replied. "No, I didn't."

  "No one? Not once? Come on."

  I shook my head, confused about where her suddenly sharp tone was coming from. "No, there's been no one. Not since the day I met you. It's been only you since then, Astrid. In more ways than one. Maybe I shouldn't admit that but fuck it, it's true. I don't even think my dick works with other women anymore."

  For a brief moment, I thought I saw a look of anger on her face. But I told myself it must have been the shadows playing tricks on me. She didn't have any reason to be angry. Neither did I. All I wanted to do was pull her into my arms and fall asleep.

  So that's what I did.

  When I woke up a couple of hours later she was gone, and there was a piece of paper on the nightstand.

  Chapter 32: Astrid

  He lied to me. He lied to my face and then he embellished that lie with details about how it was "only me" and his "dick didn't work for other women." Those details pissed me off. They created a hard place inside me where moments before there had been only softness. But I think the laughter pissed me off the most. That was Cillian's very first reaction to being asked if he had been with other women. He laughed because he didn't know I knew.

  It wasn't just the two photos I saw with my own eyes, either. There were more. Ava was very reluctant to share details, but she let it slip once that the brown envelopes kept coming for weeks – and that it was a different woman each time.

  And then Cillian Devlin laughed at me for asking about it. He laughed at me as I lay naked next to him, completely vulnerable. At least he fell asleep before he saw the tears spilling down my cheeks.

  This is the note I left:

  Cillian –

  I don't want this to be too long so I'll just say this: I can't do this again. OK? I can't. I'm grateful I met you. I'm grateful for knowing you and for the things you showed me – which is more than you think. But I'm too fragile for this. Too weak. I want to be a strong person but I'm not. I'm stronger now than I was before, but I'm still not strong. I suppose what I am is a little more realistic – if a billionaire's daughter can be said to be realistic. I know better what I can handle and what I can't and what I can't handle is you.

  I'm going back to Peru. I feel like I was laying a foundation for myself there, as much as I was for my mom's charity. I don't want to stop doing that work. I don't want to do anything to endanger it. Being with you will endanger it. This is what I mean when I say I'm not strong. That's not me being humble or modest, it's just the truth.

  I need to get to a place where I'm not waiting for someone (i.e. a man/you) to come and save me. I have to save myself. What just happened is the opposite of that.

  I think your brother is going to be OK. When he wakes up you have to tell him how you feel. I hope the two of you can build a relationship again. I hope he forgives you.

  I want you to know I'm not leaving this note to hurt or punish you. I just have to look after myself. It's no one else's job but my own. I truly wish you the best but I have to ask you not to contact me. Maybe sometime in the future, when I'm not so specifically vulnerable to you.

  - Astrid

  I thought the note was pretty magnanimous when I left it. As angry and hurt as I was, I took care to keep in mind that Cillian's brother was still critically ill in the hospital. I left out the real bitterness.

  ***

  And then I returned to Peru like a small child returns to the mother she has momentarily lost sight of in a crowded store.

  It was the dry season once more and I eagerly – some might say desperately – threw myself back into work. The clinic was busy. It was so busy the facility Maria thought would last for a few years without needing significant upgrading was already bursting at the seams as women from even the most remote parts of the jungle got word of its existence.

  "Are you sure you want to do that?" Maria asked me one evening over pork tamales when I said I wanted to help with the expansion. "There's more than one kind of work to be done here, you know. You might be more use in the office than you are digging holes or clearing brush."

  That's how I spent my first few weeks back – hacking through the jungle with a blunt machete, clearing the way for a second large building, one that was to contain 3 more examination rooms, 2 more labor and delivery rooms and 1 fully equipped operating room.

  "It's fine," I replied, mistaking what was actually the project director's mild annoyance for c
oncern. "I like the physical work. It means I don't have to think."

  Maria smiled. "I'm not sure you're hearing me."

  I looked up, confused. "What? I said it's fine. I actually like the hard work."

  "Astrid, why are you here?"

  It was then I realized my boss – who wasn't really my boss because of who my mother was – wasn't simply worried about my aching muscles.

  "Um," I replied. "I'm here to help. Aren't I?"

  "Yes. And you have helped. Everyone here has helped. I'm just saying you could be helping more. I understand you're trying to get away from something here. I think maybe more of us than would like to admit it are doing something similar. But I believe there's a balance to be found between escape and service."

  My cheeks flushed hot and pink as I realized what Maria was saying about my motivations. "But I –" I started, putting down my tamale and swallowing what was left in my mouth as my eyes began to sting. "I thought – I thought it was balanced. I thought I was –"

  "Oh Astrid," she said, reaching across the table and squeezing my hand. "Please don't get upset. I'm not saying this to upset you. I'm saying this because you have skills – you speak English, for one thing, and we have to deal with organizations in the US every single day – that could be put to better use. You have an education. You could be doing more if what you want to do is help this place grow."

  "But that is what I want!" I cried. "That is exactly what I'm here for!"

  So the next day I wasn't swinging a machete at vines until my arms ached and my mind went blank. The next day I was in the office, answering e-mails from the official e-mail account and making (and taking) phone calls from various organizations and businesses and individuals who were thinking of getting involved in the project.

  And then the next day I was doing the same, and the next and the next and the next until the weeks and then the months passed and the rains came back and I went to bed every night with splatters of mud on my calves from running through camp relaying messages back and forth.

  It was my mother who suggested, on one of our infrequent satellite phone calls, that I consider taking a Master's degree in Philanthropy and Non-Profit Management. She wanted me back in the US, I knew that. I couldn't blame her. She missed me – so did my dad, even though there was still a lot of distance between us. I missed them, too. I missed my friends and my home. I also didn't particularly enjoy working in the office. An office somehow remains an office, whether it's situated at the top of a high-rise downtown or in the middle of the Amazon jungle.

  I didn't want to stop doing the work, though. The longer I spent at the clinic the more I realized that my time in Peru was no rich girl's belated 'gap year.' I wanted to keep going. I wanted to keep doing something of consequence, no matter where I was. So a couple of weeks after my mom mentioned going back to school I e-mailed one of her contacts at a university in the Northeast, to enquire about tailoring a Master's program to my specific areas of interest.

  I slipped in Los Angeles. I slipped and fell, and there were a few hours there where I could really have lost myself again. I didn't, though. I got back up, dusted myself off and got back to work. I was proud of that. Proud of myself. Things were getting better. I had a setback, that's all it was.

  Chapter 33: Cillian

  My brother was asleep when I brought him our mother's bible. She used to read that bible to all of us but Jackson was the only one who was really into it. I remember lying in bed as a kid, listening to the two of them reading and talking well past official bedtime, burning with jealousy at their closeness.

  I wanted him to have the bible. I wanted to apologize too, although I didn't have the first idea how to apologize for something like what I did. I didn't know if such a thing was even possible.

  When he woke up that day, Jackson was hostile. He tried to kick me out of the room and all of those feelings I always had for him – the raging inferiority complex, the frustration of the younger brother forever being talked down to, forever expected to just take it – came flooding back.

  I tried to talk to him. After I gave him the bible I tried to start a conversation about how things were between us. My big brother wasn't having it, though – and it's not like I could blame him. He was still in the hospital recovering from life-threatening burns. I'm sure the last thing he felt like doing was making nice with one of the people who was responsible for his being in California in the first place.

  He pushed me at one point. After I tried to talk about what went down between us he pushed me and I almost fell over and God fucking damnit it was hard to walk away from that. Like, really hard. All the old urges were there. My heart pounded in my chest, my throat felt like it was closing from sheer rage, my hands itched to curl into fists and fight back.

  I knew I deserved it, though. I knew even if Jackson beat me to a bloody pulp, I deserved it. I deserved his scorn. All my life I hated my brother for his effortless sense of superiority, for the dismissive way he treated me. And how did I deal with that resentment? I handed him the justification for every bad thought he ever had about me on a silver platter. I helped my dad drug him and mess with his phone so he would think the girl he loved – pregnant with his baby – left him.

  So yeah, I did not fight back. And before I left, I told him I was sorry for what I did.

  It wasn't enough. How could it be? But I told him. I said the words. So even if he hated me for the rest of his life, at least he heard me say sorry.

  ***

  I stayed in California for a few months, drifting around filled with regrets over the way I handled everything. I had a chance with Astrid Walker. When we were first together, I had a chance. And I got a second chance when she came to LA. All I had to do was keep my promise, keep my hands off her, show her I could be a good man rather than just talking a good game.

  My brother survived, too. That was a second second chance from the universe right there. A lot of people don't even get first chances. I got two second chances and I thoroughly blew both of them. I failed.

  And the difference between the way Astrid handled things and the way I handled things could not have been starker. She did something good. She found something genuinely meaningful and dedicated herself to it. I spent almost an entire year getting drunk at the Lone Pine Bar every night, getting into embarrassing, sloppy fistfights in the parking lot outside and waking up the next morning feeling like hammered shit.

  After she left me in LA, it didn't take too long to go right back to that life. California was nice – warm and lush and beautiful and always sunny. Too sunny. I couldn't take it. Jackson didn't want anything to do with me anyway, and the pull of my hometown was too strong.

  Astrid Walker was gone. So was my brother. So was my dad, who I finally completely stopped speaking to. There was no dramatic scene or phone call, I just didn't want Jack Devlin in my life anymore. The Devlin Ranch was gone, too – not that there was ever a real possibility of it being mine. I may be a moron, but even I understood that by then.

  All of that loss – some of it for the better and some of it for the worse – seemed to snowball. It snowballed into more loss, including the loss of the future I always assumed would be mine. A home in Sweetgrass Ridge – not the ranch itself but a nice house, a decent place. A home with a wife and some kids and a couple of dogs. That's what I always imagined was in store for me after I finished having fun. And then I met Astrid Walker and briefly got it into my head that there might be something more. Not just a wife, but her. Not just children, but our children. Not just a home but the Devlin Ranch itself.

  I didn't give a fuck about losing the ranch. Goddamn place is cursed. But losing Astrid? The children we would have had together? The life I could have built with her? That mattered. Losing that hurt.

  All the clichés are true. You really don't know what you got 'til it's gone.

  It's not like none of it made any sense, though. It was my punishment, wasn't it? All of it? Meeting Astrid and then losing her. Losing m
y brother. It was my punishment for who I was – for all the things I did.

  It was with that spirit of intense self-loathing that I returned to Sweetgrass Ridge that winter and threw myself right back into the bottom of a whiskey bottle. Quite a few whiskey bottles, actually.

  One day, hungover after a liver-pickling marathon the night before, I ran into Patrick at the Super Mart. He took one look at his bleary-eyed, unshaven brother and shook his head.

  "Jesus Christ, Cillian."

  That was it. That was all he said. It was all he had to say. The disgust was written all over his face, clear in his tone of voice.

  I left my shopping cart, filled with grape juice and microwave meals, in the middle of the aisle. And then, at not even 2 o'clock in the afternoon, I headed straight for the bar.

  Bob barely looked up when I walked in. "Not open yet, man. Not open for another 3 hours. Why don't you get a sandwich at Henrietta's and come back here when –"

  "Fuck Henrietta's," I growled. "Give me a goddamned whiskey."

  Time was, Bob the bartender would have given me a whiskey before the Lone Pine officially opened because I was Cillian Devlin. Because I was Jack Devlin's son, because I was Jackson Devlin's brother. He would have served me early partly out of respect but mostly out of fear.

  That day, when he placed the glass of amber liquid in front of me, he did it out of pity. I was on a first-name basis with all the bartenders by then. They all knew I wasn't there to get laid or to have a good time or for any of the other reasons normal people go to bars. I was there to get drunk. To get mind-erasingly, paralytically fucking drunk.

  I downed the whiskey and tapped the bar for another.

  "Cillian..." Bob said, his face a mask of disapproval. "I really don't think –"

  "Just give me another fucking drink."

  Grumbling that he could get fired, he poured me another whiskey. And then another and another until by the time the place opened I could hardly stay upright on my barstool.