The Cowboy's Convenient Wife

by Joanna Bell

  Cillian could hardly walk. When I commented again that he didn't look well enough to be anywhere other than a hospital, the older man gently pulled me aside.

  "David Devlin," he introduced himself, reaching out to shake my hand. "Cillian's uncle. You can call me Dave."

  "Astrid," I replied. "Astrid Walker. I'm, uh – well, I'm his ex-wife."

  "Nice to meet you, Astrid. Heard a lot about you these past few months. Now what do you say we get ourselves some coffee and sit down so I can fill you in?"

  David Devlin – Dave – pulled a couple of chairs up next to the sofa and someone else brought us coffee. It was awful to see Cillian, fast asleep due to the painkillers he was given at the hospital, so black and blue. The people around him – his uncle and his brother and even his sister-in-law – made it so much easier, though. They took care of me as much as they did their wounded – and only recently reconciled –family member.

  Cillian was probably concussed. They scanned him in the hospital, gave him meds for the pain, and sent him home with a list of signs to look out for and instructions to bring him back in immediately if he started showing any of them. When everyone had been updated and it was decided that I would take the first shift sofa-side, the others faded away to get some rest – and, I think, to give me some alone time with the man I once loved.

  He was asleep at first, so all I could do was sit in my chair and fret. I wanted to touch him but everywhere I could think to touch was stained purplish-black with bruising, or swollen, or bleeding. Even his fingers were bruised.

  "You dummy," I whispered an hour or so later, as the morning light began to fill the silent house. "What were you thinking?"

  "You."

  I jumped at the sound of Cillian speaking. You couldn't tell he was awake, not by then. Both his eyes were swollen completely shut.

  "Shh," I responded, eager to keep him calm. "Don't speak. You have to – the doctors say you have to rest."

  "You," he repeated, barely opening his mouth, not moving any other part of his body at all. "I was thinking... about... you."

  Chapter 40: Cillian

  I don't really remember much about the days after I tried to kill my dad. Mostly what I recall is the strange juxtaposition of physical pain and emotional succor. I hurt. I hurt all over, from top to bottom. And as I hurt, and then as I healed, the people who owed me the least – my girl, my brother, my uncle, my sister-in-law and my nephew – tended to me.

  A couple of days after the beating, the swelling around my eyes went down enough for me to see again. I woke up from a nap one day to the feeling of someone – of something – brushing against my face.

  "Oh hey," I whispered, feeling wetness on my cheeks and reaching up to check it. "Am I bleeding again?"

  "No," Astrid replied, looking down at me with such tender regard it made my heart ache. "No, you're not bleeding. I think you were crying."

  "Crying?" I asked, confused. "I was – I think I was asleep."

  "You were," she said. "It looked like you were crying in your sleep. Maybe you were dreaming?"

  I was on strong painkillers at the time, and the line between dreams and reality wasn't as clear as usual.

  "Was I? Crying?"

  "I think so. Do you remember if you were dreaming?"

  And then suddenly I did remember. The dream came back to me in a rush of emotion.

  "My mother," I said. "I was dreaming of my mother. I dreamed – oh Astrid, I dreamed she was here. I dreamed she was alive. I dreamed – I dreamed –"

  Astrid said nothing. She simply bent forward and lay her head on my chest until the emotions faded.

  "Holy shit," I said quietly a few minutes later. "I don't even know where that came from – I think those painkillers are messing me up. I'm sorry about –"

  But the girl from Miami just shushed me and took my hand in hers and held it until I drifted back to sleep.

  ***

  A couple of days after that, I stopped taking the painkillers and managed to haul my aching, bruised body outside for the first time since nearly strangling my own father to death. Jackson and Hailey were busy with their son and their fledgling ranch, so Uncle Dave came with me, to make sure I didn't take a tumble or wander off into the woods, never to be seen again.

  "You're looking better," Dave said, eying me as I turned my face up to the sun. "I mean, mostly better."

  I laughed. I'd seen myself in the mirror a few times by then, recoiling each time in horror at the multi-colored monster that was me. "Starting to feel it too," I replied. "Still sore as shit, but getting better. Not sure I deserve all this fuss."

  "What fuss?"

  I gestured around at the house, at my uncle, in every general direction. "This fuss. You and Astrid and Jackson and Hailey. Not sure I deserve any of it."

  "I don't know about that," he replied. "I don't know about that at all. Seems to me you've done a lot of work. Seems to me you're a better man than you used to be."

  "Nah" I cut in, unable to take a compliment I didn't yet feel was deserved. "Don't say that shit – we both know it's a lie. You don't have to say nice things to me because I took a beating. You know what I've done. You know how I've lived."

  "Sure do. I know who your daddy is, too. And his daddy before him. I know what it's like growing up in a situation like that. I know how long it took me to figure things out. And I know you, Cillian. Don't forget that. I know you've changed, I can see it with my own eyes."

  I glanced at my uncle, searching his face for any hint of condescension or insincerity and finding none.

  "Hey!"

  We both turned around. Astrid was standing in front of the house, holding a foil-wrapped plate in her arms. There was a breeze blowing out of the west that day, carrying the first wisps of the changing seasons with it, and I watched as if time had suddenly stuttered into slow motion as Astrid's hair blew over her face and she lifted one of her hands up to push it away.

  "Jesus Christ," I whispered, shaking my head.

  Uncle Dave nodded. "She's a beauty alright. Looks like she brought you something, too. Why don't you two visit and I'll go see if I can find that nephew of yours – he says he's going to teach me how to fly."

  I laughed. "Oh yeah? Well make sure you've got somewhere soft to land, just in case."

  "Will do."

  Dave nodded at Astrid and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek as he went off to find Brody.

  And then I and the woman I loved completely and helplessly and without reservation and always would, were alone.

  "What's that?" I asked, eyeballing the plate she was holding. "I thought you didn't cook."

  "I don't," she laughed. "They're probably awful. But I wanted to try. I hope you're hungry."

  "Well today's your lucky day," I replied, "because I am starving. Hardly eaten a damn thing for days now."

  "You don't feel sick anymore?" She asked, putting her hand on my back as we walked into the house together. Time was I would have shrunk away from a woman touching me like that, a woman protecting me, looking out for me. That time was past.

  "Nope, not today. Not so much yesterday, either. It was the painkillers doing it, I felt fine as soon as I stopped taking them."

  "That's good. Nausea is one of the signs that you should be looking out for. If you start to feel sick again you should go straight back to the hospital."

  We made our way into the kitchen and I sat down at the kitchen table, feeling a little light-headed from the bright sunshine. "I know," I grinned. "I know that, Nurse Astrid. You only made everyone read that list a thousand damn times."

  "Did I?" She asked, her expression suddenly anxious. "Oh no. I hope that wasn't annoying. I think I was just worried about you. Maybe I should –"

  "Astrid," I said, holding up my hand. "You didn't annoy anyone, I promise. You couldn't annoy anyone. Not even if you tried."

  "Well that's not true," she replied, smiling in spite of herself. Goddamnit I love it when she smiles like that.

 
"It is," I insisted. "Now please, feed me."

  I could sense a hesitancy as she placed the plate down in front of me. She was nervous. She didn't know it didn't matter what was under that foil – whatever it was, I would have eaten it.

  It was sandwiches. A plate of white-bread sandwiches.

  "Oh," I said, already touched before she even dropped the bomb on my heart. "Are these for me? You made these for me?"

  "Uh-huh. Well, I tried. I probably messed them up. But you said mayo and bologna, right? I was going to order the bologna online but then I thought your mom would have just bought it at – Cillian? Cillian? Are you OK?"

  "Aw fuck," I breathed, lifting the bread off one of the sandwiches and then burying my face in my hands when I saw that they were indeed mayo and bologna. "Aw fuck, Astrid."

  "Cillian!"

  She got up and rushed around the table to my side. "I didn't mean to upset you!" She cried, stricken. "I thought you would like them! I thought they would make you feel –"

  "I do like them," I said, wrapping my arms around her. "I do. I love them. I love them. Thank you, Astrid. Thank you, baby. I love you. I love you so much. Thank you. Thank you for making me mayo and bologna sandwiches."

  "Jesus," I whispered a few minutes later, still holding Astrid tight but turning my face up, resting my chin on her belly so I could look into her eyes. "What the fuck are you doing to me? I can't even blame it on the painkillers anymore. You're turning me into a goddamned blubbering fool."

  "You're not a blubbering fool," she replied, brushing my hair off my face. "You're hurt, that's all. There's nothing to be embarrassed about."

  "You want to hear something?" I asked, not looking away.

  "What?"

  "I'm not embarrassed. I don't even know why, but I'm not."

  "Good," she replied, bending down to kiss my forehead, and then my cheek and then pulling away before she got to my mouth. "Now eat your sandwiches."

  So I ate my sandwiches. With a full heart and a massive hard-on laying snug against my left thigh, I ate my sandwiches. They tasted exactly the way I remembered.

  "What do you think?" Astrid asked, watching me intently. "I think I messed up the bologna. I wasn't sure if I should put one slice and leave the corners without meat or if I should use one slice and then the pieces from another slice to –"

  "They're perfect," I replied. "And so are you."

  ***

  Astrid stayed at Hailey and Jackson's for dinner every evening after the incident with my dad. And after those dinners, she headed back to her hotel every night.

  That night, she stayed. After everyone finished eating and we all sat around the kitchen table chatting and laughing and listening to Brody's stories about hidden T-Rex lairs in the mountains, she stayed. She stayed as people began to drift away, as Hailey and her mother took Brody up for his bath and then as Uncle Dave headed back to his place and then, finally, as Jackson himself said it was time to turn in.

  She stayed until it was just the two of us, holding hands under that big old kitchen table and gazing at each other like a pair of smitten teenagers.

  "Are you really there?"

  Astrid laughed. "What?"

  "Are you really there?" I repeated. "Is this really happening? I feel like I'm dreaming. I hope you are there. I hope this really is happening and that it is really you and I'm not actually passed out in some hospital bed, alone."

  Astrid does this thing sometimes when someone – usually me – pays her a compliment. She does this cute little embarrassed glance down at the floor and makes a face. It's adorable. I don't even think she knows she does it. She did it that night, though, when I told her I thought maybe her presence was a dream.

  "What?" I asked gently. "You think that's funny? Are you laughing at me for thinking you might be a dream? What the hell do you think I've been doing all this time except dreaming about you?"

  "Oh God Cillian," she replied, exhaling heavily. "Don't say that."

  "Why?" I continued, unable to stop myself reaching up and caressing her cheek, "Why shouldn't I say what's true? I thought you were all about the truth."

  Astrid closed her eyes and leaned into my touch, but she wouldn't meet my eye. "I am all about the truth. But I – I feel bad."

  "Do you?" I asked, genuinely shocked. "Why?"

  My girl cast her eyes downwards again, and then back up to me. "I feel bad for not questioning those photos," she replied softly. "I feel bad for –"

  "For believing that photos of me with other women were photos of me with other women?"

  She nodded. "Yes. I know your dad was trying to trick me – I know that now, I mean. But I should have been more skeptical from the beginning. I should have looked more closely. I was too caught up in my own sadness, I wasn't paying enough attention."

  "No," I responded firmly. "No, Astrid. It's not your fault. It's my dad's fault. And honestly? Fuck him. Fuck Jack Devlin. You know what, though? I didn't even know those photos existed until a few days ago and I still totally bought that you were right to end things. It wasn't just the photos. We can admit that. We can say it out loud. I was an asshole."

  "That's the thing though," she said, using both hands to tuck loose waves of hair behind her ears. "It was the photos. For me, it was. Yes there were other things but I think we could have dealt with them. Couldn't we? I don't know if you know how I feel – I mean, how I felt or, well –"

  When she broke off, fretting, I squeezed her hand. "Look at me. Astrid. Look at me." Finally, she looked at me. "Just say what you have to say. It's OK."

  "I don't know about that," she replied quietly. "But, alright. I might as well be honest, right? Trying to hide from how I felt about you never really worked, you know. It was only temporary. That's what I mean about the photos. Maybe you think I was going to end things anyway but I – well, I don't think I was. I thought maybe I should, after that dinner with your family and the fight we had at the airport. I knew my parents and my friends would say I should. I didn't feel it, though. It didn't change how I felt about you. I wanted it to – but it didn't. Nothing did. Nothing I tried ever changed how I felt about you."

  I spent most of my life strutting around Sweetgrass Ridge like the asshole rich boy I was, looking down on others. But late truly is better than never, and people who spend their time acting superior do it because deep down inside they're convinced they're inferior. That was me. All the toys, all the girls, all the shiny accoutrements – and none of the self-belief and self-trust that comes from real work, real accomplishment, from simply being a decent person. Spoiler warning: it really is what's inside that counts.

  When I say accomplishment, I don't necessarily mean awards or acclaim, either. I don't mean building hospitals or curing diseases – although those things would count. I mean the little things. The very little things. The things like the way it makes a man feel when the woman he loves listens to him and trusts him. The way it made me feel to reassure Astrid that she could say what she wanted to say without fear and then to have her say what she needed to say without fear.

  It was her trust, her willingness to believe that I would take care of her, that tugged at my heartstrings.

  "Yeah," I replied. "Same. Same for me, nothing ever worked – not all the whiskey in Montana. Also different, because you didn't actually do anything wrong."

  "But I did! I told you, I should have been more skeptical about the photos, I should have looked into it more than I –"

  "Astrid."

  "What?"

  "I want you to stop saying that. I mean it. It is not your fault. It's not your fault your mind isn't as twisted and evil as my dad's. You're a good person, and you're a trusting person and you can't let that bitter asshole change that about you. It's not your fault. I want you to stop saying it is."

  "OK," she replied a few moments later. "OK, I'll stop. But I'm not so trusting, you know. I thought it was my dad who sent them. I barely spoke to him for a year."

  "Have you worked it out wit
h him?"

  "I think so. I still feel like shit about it, obviously."

  "The only person who should feel like shit is Jack Devlin. Not you."

  Astrid was dressed – as was still her habit – in an outfit that wouldn't have looked out of place on a Victorian student: white blouse buttoned up to the throat, blue cardigan, long skirt. I used to prefer women the way most men prefer them – in as little clothing as possible. It was Astrid who changed my preferences, turning me into a man more aroused by the thought of what's underneath clothing than what's already visible in spite of it. I shifted in my chair and tried to keep focused on the conversation.

  "You know what?" She asked a minute or so later, after I pulled her onto my lap.

  "What?"

  I watched her mouth open, and then close again. Such a pretty mouth, the top lip jutting cutely out above the bottom one. "I –" she started, and then stopped again, suddenly covering her face with her hands.

  "What is it, baby? It's OK."

  "I know!" She whispered, her voice breaking slightly. "I know! I know it's OK. I just wanted to say that I really missed you, you know. I really, really missed you."

  To this day I'm not sure I understand just how quickly and efficiently that girl took up residence in my heart like no girl had ever come close to doing before. Maybe she did put some kind of spell on me? Maybe I was just ripe for it? Or maybe it doesn't matter how she did it. Maybe it only matters that she did it.

  "Oh Astrid," I said, resting my cheek against the top of her head. "I missed you, too. I missed you so fucking much."

  We clung to each other in the spare room for a long time, each of us holding on too tight – the way you hold on to someone when you know what a living hell it is to be without them.

  "You seem good though," she continued. "You seem really good, actually. You made up with your brother, you bought your uncle a house. Maybe us being apart was good for you?"

  "No," I replied immediately. "Nope, not at all. Being without you was terrible for me. You're good for me. I mean, you're the reason I did all of that stuff. You're the reason I started giving a shit about things I never gave a shit about before."