The Cowboy's Convenient Wife

by Joanna Bell

  "You always call me 'kid.' Sometimes my daddy calls me 'kid,' too."

  "Well you are a kid," I replied. "So it makes sense, right?"

  My nephew was an open, loving child. He had an easy smile and the kind of sunny personality that can charm even the worst curmudgeons. Not that he would get a chance to charm the worst curmudgeon any of us knew: his own grandfather. Jackson and Hailey were resolute that Jack Devlin would not be given any opportunities to poison the life of his grandson the way he poisoned the lives of his sons. I thought it was the right decision – the only decision they could have made.

  "Do you have a stick, Uncle Cillian?"

  I couldn't help it, I loved being called 'Uncle Cillian' – and every time Brody referred to me that way I knew how lucky I was.

  Lucky, yes. I was. And thankful. Thankful to be welcomed back into a family by the last two people on earth with an obligation to do any such thing. Lucky and thankful and wiser than before.

  But still – still – not happy. Not that I expected happiness, of course – and being welcomed into someone else's happiness is not the same as having it for yourself. But being at my brother's party made me ache for the home I didn't have, for the son I would not be tucking into bed in a few hours – and for the woman who was still out there somewhere, getting on with her life without me.

  I roasted marshmallows with Brody for awhile, teaching him my patented browned-but-not-quite-charred technique, but pretty soon it started to feel like the walls – even though I was outside – were starting to close in.

  I looked around at everything my brother had and I couldn't escape the uncomfortable truth that in spite of my loneliness, everything was as it should be. Jackson had those things because he deserved them. And I didn't have them – because I didn't deserve them.

  Most of the time I was almost OK with that. Not everyone gets to have a family. Not everyone gets the cozy house and the cute kids and the loving husband or wife. Some people miss out through no fault of their own – and others because they fucked it up. I fucked it up.

  Not everyone even wants it. I did, though. As soon as I met Astrid Walker at the Billings airport I wanted it. And being around my brother and his family that night just served to unintentionally highlight the differences between our lives.

  I looked around for Uncle Dave but he was deep in conversation with the ranch owner from LA and I didn't want to butt in. So instead I wandered my brother's property. It was a nice piece of land, carved out of the high ground west of the river, with a good mix of grassland and trees.

  I remembered, as I walked, Astrid's incredulity that I'd never been out of the United States. My brother was putting down roots, I could see that. He had a wife and a kid to look after, a new property, new cattle to tend. Reasons, in short, to stay in town. And it struck me, as I almost stepped in a small stream meandering around the base of a hill, that I didn't have any of my own.

  There was my brother and my nephew – and my sister-in-law, even though I knew she probably wouldn't be too sad to see me go. But Jackson and Brody could do without me, our reconciliation was still very fresh. What was I actually going to do in Sweetgrass Ridge, anyway? Spend the rest of my days skulking around, trying to avoid my dad? Marry some local girl whose sole identifying characteristic would surely be that she was not Astrid Walker?

  Maybe it was time to get out a little. Time to see some of those places Astrid used to talk about. London, Vancouver, Melbourne, Paris, Munich.

  What I couldn't do was stay at the party. It was somehow more than I could handle that night. All the warmth and conviviality made me think of Astrid, and how perfect it would be to have her with me, how much she would enjoy herself, how everyone would love her. I think I had accepted, by then, that I was going to miss her forever. And most of the time I could live with that. Most of the time I could convince myself that was a thing a person could do – just live with loneliness on a long-term basis. And then at other times I missed her so much it gnawed away at me.

  Jackson caught me standing alone on the deck just before I left and tried to talk me into staying. I brushed him off as politely as I could, already planning to call him the next day and apologize for being such a morose party pooper.

  And then instead of driving straight home, I took the scenic route along the winding back roads that only Sweetgrass Ridge locals know about. I drove past the field where the farmer used to let local families pick their own pumpkins at Halloween, where Patrick ate too much candy corn one year and puked all over his own feet. I drove past the abandoned house we explored as young teenagers, trying to scare each other with tales of witchcraft and black magic. I drove past the school bus stop where I had my first kiss.

  It was that first kiss I was thinking about, bothered by the fact that I couldn't even remember what the girl's face looked like, when my phone chimed. I assumed it was Jackson or Uncle Dave, texting to tell me to come back to the party.

  But then I looked at my phone and suddenly slammed my foot down on the brake, coming to a screeching stop in the middle of the empty road.

  The name on the screen?

  Astrid

  Chapter 37: Astrid

  I wasn't thinking straight. Or I wasn't thinking at all. I don't know what else to say to explain the way I went about things. My memory of that time is one of desperation and panic, of simultaneously realizing you might have done something very wrong and that it might be beyond fixing. I didn't even call Cillian until I was back in Sweetgrass Ridge. And even then – what the hell was I doing? Why was I there?

  To show him the photos. To ask him what they mean.

  It didn't go beyond that. It should have – in light of what happened afterwards it definitely should have. But it didn't. I spent so much effort willing myself into a place where Cillian Devlin was part of my past. So much time. So much denial. And then, at the first confusing sign that I might have been even a little bit wrong about him, I impulsively jumped on a plane to Montana, barely pausing in my rush to the airport to send an e-mail to my supervisor.

  ***

  "Astrid?"

  His voice sounded disbelieving. But it was him. It was Cillian. And just to hear him again after so long – oh, what a sweet kind of pain it was.

  "Yes, it's me."

  "Holy shit," he whispered. "Holy sh– is it you? Are you – is something wrong? Are you OK?"

  "Nothing's wrong," I replied hurriedly. "I'm not bleeding out or anything like that, is that's what you mean. But I'm here. I'm in Sweetgrass Ridge."

  "You're in – you're here?"

  "Yes. I'm here."

  "Is this a joke?"

  "No," I replied. "It's not a joke. I have, um – I have to talk to you. I have to show you something."

  "Uh," he said. "Uh, OK. Holy shit. It was already a strange evening and now you calling like this out of the blue to – what did you say? To show me something?"

  "Yeah. It's important."

  My entire body was tingling. Cillian was somewhere close. Likely only minutes away. None of it felt real. Was I really going to see him again?

  "Where are you?"

  "I'm at the Rocky Mountain Inn. But I can come to the condo if –"

  "No, I'm not at home. I'll – I'll come there. What room are you in?"

  "208."

  "Astrid?"

  "Yes?"

  "Tell me this isn't a trick. Tell me you're really here."

  "I'm here," I replied. "I'm really here. Room 208."

  ***

  I had the envelope with the photos inside it in my hand when I answered the door. And then when I finally saw him standing there in front of me in his jeans and his t-shirt, his shoulders as burly and solid as ever, that same hand fell limply against my thigh.

  "Oh my God," I whispered, more to myself than to Cillian.

  "Hey," he said, eying me, his expression alternating between happiness and worried confusion.

  "Oh my God," I said again, louder that time, as my knees threatened to b
uckle and my heartbeat pulsed in my throat. "Oh Cillian. I – I think I messed up. I think maybe I messed up really badly."

  Of course he reacted perfectly. Of course he did. He stepped into the room, wrapped one arm around my shoulders, and guided me towards a chair. And there it was again, right away. There was that feeling of just being next to him, like the sun breaking through the clouds after days – months – of rain.

  "It's OK," he reassured me, and even though there was no way he could have known that, part of me still believed him. I couldn't help it. I couldn't stop myself. "It's going to be OK. How about you tell me why you're here. You said there's something you have to show me?"

  I looked down at the envelope on my lap. "Yes. There is. But now I'm here," I looked up, "I don't know."

  "What don't you know?"

  "I don't know if I came here to show you the photos at all. Or I don't know if that's the only reason. I think maybe I came because I couldn't stand it anymore."

  I don't know why I was so surprised that Cillian was exactly the same. What did I think, that he'd sprouted an extra head since I last saw him?

  He hadn't – and he was still himself. He was still so entirely, completely himself. And I was still so completely myself. So unable to tear my eyes – or my attention – away from him as soon as we were in the same room together.

  "Couldn't stand what?"

  "Couldn't stand..." I started and then trailed off.

  He must have known how that sentence ended. He must have noticed my breathlessness, my fidgeting, the fact that I was beside myself just to be sharing the same air as him.

  "Wait," he said, frowning slightly. "Did you just say photos?"

  "Yeah," I replied, tightening my grip on the envelope. "Yeah, I wanted to show you some photos."

  "Of what?" He asked, obviously baffled.

  And then, half in a daze, I made a very big mistake. I simply handed the envelope over. I didn't explain a thing. I didn't even give him a hint about what he was going to see.

  He looked at me, and then at the envelope, and then he opened it and pulled out the stack of photos.

  "What's this?" He asked, looking down at the first one and then, a few seconds later, bending down to get a closer look. "What the – Astrid, what is this?"

  I didn't answer. Maybe because it was obvious what the photos were – what they depicted.

  Cillian put the first photo down beside him and turned his attention to the next.

  "What the fuck?" He whispered, going through the same process of looking, recognizing something, and then looking closer. "What the fuck?"

  He moved on to the third photo, and then the fourth and the fifth and then he looked up at me, uncomprehending.

  "What is this?" He asked again. "Where did you – where did you get these?"

  But before I could answer, he was onto the next one.

  "Holy shit," he murmured. "Holy shit. I – I remember this girl. That's Amanda Larkin. This was – Astrid this must have been taken 4 or 5 years ago! Where did you get these?!"

  I was too fixated on the timeline. Too focused on getting proof the photos weren't taken when whoever sent them to me wanted me to think they were taken. Too obsessed with giving myself a reason – any reason – to have Cillian Devlin back in my life. I should have paid more attention to the way his surprise and bafflement soon began to morph into anger.

  "Where did you get these?!" He repeated, his voice rising as he continued to flip through the photos. "Astrid! Tell me where the fuck you got these!"

  "Someone sent them to me," I replied, flinching slightly as he leapt out of his chair.

  "WHO?!"

  "I don't know! I thought it was my dad. He said it wasn't but for a long time I didn't believe him. And then when I looked again yesterday I called and asked him again and he swore it wasn't him! I'm only showing them to you because I thought you might –"

  I could see the gears turning in Cillian's head as he paced the room. "Someone sent them to you? Who would – wait. When? When did you get these?"

  "Last year. Remember that day we rode up the mountain and had a fight at the airport when I had to go back to Miami? They arrived after that."

  "In Miami?"

  "Yes. Someone sent them to my condo. I didn't – Cillian you have to understand, I didn't look at them very closely. I didn't even see all of them! After the letter and the first two photos arrived Ava –"

  "The letter? What letter?"

  "There was a letter too," I said. "It's in the envelope."

  I watched as he opened the envelope again, fished out the letter, and began to read. He then read it a second time, his eyes widening as they scanned the lines.

  "Holy fuck," he whispered, suddenly letting out a strange, barking laugh. "HOLY FUCK! Is this why you left me? Is this letter – are these photos why you left me?"

  There was an edge in his voice when he asked me those questions. A threat. Not directed at me, I didn't think, but it was there.

  "I don't know," I replied. It was a lie. I did know. But something about that tone in his voice made me afraid to say it, made me afraid to admit that the photos and the letter had, in fact, played a major role in my decisions about our relationship. "I – Cillian, I don't know. I mean, us getting married was a stupid idea. We admitted that. Remember? When we first met and after we realized what we'd done we both said –"

  "Astrid."

  "What?"

  He drew in a deep breath and looked me right in the eyes. "When you asked me in LA if I'd been with other women, and then you left me that note saying not to contact you again – did you do that because of these photos? Did you think I was lying when I said I wasn't with anyone else? Is that what happened?"

  I hesitated, opening my mouth and then swallowing when I couldn't quite get the words to come out of my throat.

  "Is that what happened?" Cillian repeated, his voice rising again. "Because do you know what I thought? Do you want to know what I thought when I read that note?"

  "What?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

  "I thought you hated me," he replied. "I thought you hated me and –"

  "I didn't!" I cut in, desperate to calm him down. "I never hated you! You thought I hated you? No. No! I loved you. I loved you and I thought –"

  "You thought I cheated on you, though – right? You thought as soon as you flew back to Miami I was back out at the bar picking up women?"

  I nodded. "Yes. Yes that's what I thought. I should have looked closer. I should have –"

  "Oh this isn't your fault," he replied, one hand clenching into a fist against his thigh and then unclenching again, the knuckles white. "You're a trusting person, Astrid. You didn't know these photos were old. I mean – how could you? How could you have known? It's not your fault. It's – it's –"

  Cillian broke off, collapsing into a chair and holding his head in his hands.

  "I can't believe this," he whispered. "I can't – Jesus, I actually can't fucking believe this. You'd think I could. After all those years in that house, after seeing what he did to Jackson – you'd really think I could. Wouldn't you?" He finally looked up. "Wouldn't you?"

  "I don't know," I replied, not sure what he was talking about. "I –"

  "JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!" He shouted, before letting out another one of those strange laughs. "I – oh holy fuck, Astrid. I can't – I don't –"

  Something was happening. Something bad. I could feel him coming to a violent boiling point.

  "Cillian!" I shrieked when he jumped up and put his fist through the wall.

  But he didn't stop there. He wrenched his hand out of the hole and did it again and again until the blood was running down his wrist and the cheap hotel carpet was covered in pieces of smashed drywall.

  "Stop it!" I yelled, really beginning to panic. "Please! Cillian, you're bleeding! Please stop!"

  "IT WAS HIM!" He roared, snatching up the photos and stuffing them roughly back into the envelope. "It was Jack! Of course it was
fucking him!"

  And then, without any further explanation, my ex-husband suddenly headed for the door. I ran after him, grabbing uselessly at his arms, trying to slow him down.

  "Cillian!" I implored as he yanked the door open so hard it came off its hinges. "Cillian – wait!"

  He turned to face me. "Do you know what I'm going to do now?"

  "What?" I asked, my voice wobbling. "Cillian, please. Let's just sit down and talk about th–"

  "I'm going to kill him," he whispered and I knew – I just knew from the look in his eyes – that he meant it. "That's what I'm going to do. Right now. Right this minute. I'm going to kill Jack Devlin. Fuck him. That son of a – oh Jesus Christ, fuck him. Fuck him."

  "No!" I cried, trying to grab him again as he easily twisted away from me and marched away down the hallway. "Cillian! WAIT! CILLIAN!"

  But he didn't wait. In seconds he was gone and I was left standing alone in the silent, fluorescent-lit hallway with a terrible feeling in my gut. I whirled around and looked back into the room, as if there was something there that could give me a clue about what to do. And then I looked back down the hallway, hoping he might suddenly reappear.

  He did not.

  Suddenly I spotted something on the floor. A phone. His phone. It must have fallen out of his pocket. I ran to pick it up and scrolled through the contacts until I landed on one I recognized.

  Jackson. Cillian's brother.

  It was late – after midnight – but I didn't hesitate. I called Jackson Devlin and he picked it up after a couple of rings.

  "Hey man. What's up? Why did you take off like –"

  "Is this Jackson Devlin?"

  There was a brief pause. "Uh, yeah, this is Jackson. Who is this?"

  "Astrid," I replied. "Astrid Walker. I know your brother – I know Cillian. I need your help!"

  "OK...?"

  "I need your help right now!" I cried. "I think he's going to kill your dad. I think he's going to kill Jack! He just left the hotel room and –"

  "What?" Jackson stopped me, his tone now deadly serious. "What did you just say?"

  "I think Cillian is going to kill Jack!" I yelled. "He just left – he was here with me in my hotel room and he just ran out saying he was going to kill him! Please, I don't know what to do! I don't know if –"