The Devil in the Saddle

by Julia London

  No one was interested in her opinion.

  The brouhaha had started in the middle of a meal that was mediocre at best. They’d been seated around the dinner table and, Cordelia would admit, she’d had too much wine. But no one had told her how she was supposed to numb herself to the emptiness she felt when she looked at Charlie’s place at their hand-carved dining table. If it wasn’t wine, what was it?

  The dress was the thing that made Cordelia snap, but it had really begun with the fact that the meal was just awful. Frederica had not come to cook. For the first time in Cordelia’s memory, the longtime family cook had politely declined to prepare a meal for the Prince family. Yes, they usually had Thanksgiving catered, but Cordelia assumed that Frederica would know that this year, of all years, they would not do that. And when Frederica had claimed “other plans,” Cordelia panicked—it had been an age since she had prepared a meal herself. She’d begged Frederica. She’d even offered a bonus. But Frederica had said, in that very quiet way of hers, that she had other plans and could not come to the ranch.

  When Luca had gamely tried to suggest the turkey was “pretty good after all,” Cordelia had waved her wineglass at him and said, “It’s retaliation for cutting her hours, you know.”

  “What are you talking about?” George asked. He was seated to her right.

  “Oh, come on, we all know the turkey is dry, the cranberries are bitter, and the dressing is bland. That’s on me. Frederica blames me for cutting her hours, but honestly? She can thank Charlie Prince and those high-roller tables in Vegas. Am I right?”

  Everyone looked at their plates.

  “She never struck me as vindictive,” George offered. “Maybe she just had other plans.”

  “Whatever,” Cordelia muttered, and poured more wine into her glass.

  “For heaven’s sake, Delia. She has a new job,” Dolly said, and lifted her gin and tonic.

  That sentence had not computed. “A new job,” Cordelia had repeated, as if she didn’t even know what the word meant. Really, who in Three Rivers could afford a full-time cook? Mrs. Hurst, maybe, but she lived at that ranch by herself, and Cordelia was pretty sure Big Barb the mail lady had told her that Mrs. Hurst had her meals delivered. “I think you misunderstood something, Dolly.”

  And yes, if anyone asked, that opinion had sounded dismissive even to Cordelia, because again, she’d had too much to drink, and who could take anything seriously from an old woman whose gray hair was tipped with orange and brown in homage to the Thanksgiving season?

  “Well, I didn’t misunderstand a bloomin’ thing, Delia,” Dolly had snapped back, predictably annoyed. “All I know is that Debbie Wainwright likes having a cook.”

  Cordelia put down her wineglass and stared at her mother-in-law, irrationally incensed by this news. George pointed out later—much later—that Cordelia ought to be grateful Frederica had managed to make up the hours she’d lost at Three Rivers Ranch, because she had a family, and her mother was in a senior home.

  “Are we speaking of Debbie Wainwright? The same woman who prides herself on practically masticating her children’s food for them has hired a cook?”

  “Gross,” Jonah said.

  “Debbie’s very nice,” George opined, as if that meant she ought to have Cordelia’s cook. “I like her.” He popped an olive into his mouth.

  Debbie Wainwright was fifteen years younger than Cordelia and a whole lot prettier. She didn’t want George to like Debbie. She didn’t want Debbie to hire her cook away. She wanted Charlie back, she wanted Frederica back, and she wanted her old Thanksgivings back, and she wanted to be queen bee around here. Not Debbie Wainwright.

  “You don’t need Frederica, not really,” Sandy said. “I think the meal is great.”

  “Well, thanks to you, hon,” Dolly had said, because Dolly was always eager to heap praise on anyone but Cordelia. “Your green bean casserole pretty much saved the day.”

  Cordelia couldn’t argue with that. Sandy, tall and big-boned with a mop of short brunette hair, was a practical woman. She’d never let the Applewhite wealth affect her. She’d never had a cook, although they were richer than Midas. No, Sandy had prepared meals for her four sons, had gone to all their games with a cooler full of drinks and snacks. She’d made her own Christmas decorations, she’d done all the laundry, and she’d probably cleaned that massive house in the Dominion by herself. The maddening thing was, Cordelia should have called Sandy and asked her how to cook a damn turkey, but she hadn’t thought of it.

  “It was nothing,” Sandy said about the casserole. “Hallie asked if I could whip it up, and I said sure. It’s so easy, Delia. All you need is some green beans, some cream of mushroom soup—”

  “Hallie asked you to make the casserole?” Cordelia had asked, interrupting her sister-in-law before she could cook another batch. The idea that Hallie had gone behind her back and called her aunt Sandy had made Cordelia irrationally—read drunkenly—angry. She’d turned a cold look to her traitorous daughter. “I didn’t know you liked it so much, sweetie.”

  Hallie looked up from her plate. “I like Aunt Sandy’s casserole. And you were complaining about having to make dinner, so . . . I asked her.”

  “I was not complaining,” Cordelia said quickly, although she had complained about it, and her whole family knew she had, and if they’d forgotten, Dolly was there to remind them all with a snort and roll of her eyes.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter who asked,” Sandy quickly interjected. “I was going to make it anyway, so there you go.” She picked up her fork and speared some turkey.

  Of course she was going to make it, because they were all sitting around this table thinking that Cordelia Prince was nothing without Charlie. And for some reason that she would never understand, she took out her frustration on her daughter. Maybe because she didn’t want Hallie to make the same mistakes she’d made in her life—to be nothing without Chris or another husband. Maybe because her daughter was an easy target. Cordelia didn’t like to look too closely at her motives because she knew she was not going to like what she saw.

  But that didn’t stop her from taking a big swig of wine and saying, “Well, it is awfully good, Sandy. But Hallie, honey, you should avoid so many carbs. You don’t want to put on any more weight than you already have.”

  Someone gasped. Maybe Ella? And then Hallie turned her hazel eyes to her and said, “I’m sorry, Mother. I’ll excuse myself from the table so you don’t have to look at me.”

  “No, Hallie,” Luca said, but it was too late. Hallie was on her feet, marching from the dining room, and even though Cordelia knew she was terribly, terribly wrong to say what she had, she worried that Hallie’s zipper might bust open with all her arm swinging.

  Dolly watched her go, then shot a look of disgust at Cordelia. “Well, Delia, you sure know how to go and put a fork in something, don’t you? Reminds me of the time my mother announced to the mayor’s wife at Sunday brunch that the mayor had been spending an awful lot of time after hours with the county auditor. Who was a man. Now that was a perfectly good meal gone to ruin, just like this one.”

  A cacophony of voices exploded around the table, and everything had gone to shit.

  Cordelia was now sitting on the patio with a cup of coffee at her elbow. When she heard footsteps behind her, she closed her eyes and prayed that whatever her punishment, it would be quick.

  “Are you all right?”

  Cordelia opened her eyes and looked at George. “No. I’m a horrible person.”

  George sighed. He took a seat beside her at the table. “You’re not a horrible person, Delia. But that was not nice.”

  “I know.” Cordelia groaned. “I don’t know why I said it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me sometimes. I’m just so out of sorts, and everything is changing, and I don’t want her to end up like me, so I just . . . popped off.”

  George pa
tted her hand.

  “Do you hate me?”

  “Never, Delia. I actually feel bad for you in a way.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure. Must be hard to live in your skin sometimes.”

  “You have no idea,” she muttered. “I’m going to chase everyone off. Martin walks around on eggshells, Frederica probably won’t come back, and I heard Mayrose on the phone asking a friend if she had any work for her. Am I mean to Mayrose, too?”

  George’s response was to smile sympathetically. Cordelia took that as a yes.

  “Delia.”

  Chet’s deep voice rumbled over her. Cordelia braced herself as her brother marched around the table where she could see him and glared at her in disbelief. “What is wrong with you?”

  “That is the million-dollar question.”

  “I swear, you’ve got the meanest mouth this side of the Red River, you know that?”

  She winced. Her fears were confirmed. “I sort of do.”

  “There’s just no excuse for that.” He talked like he was spitting out nails.

  “I know.”

  He folded his arms across his chest and glared at her. “Well? Are you going to fix it?”

  “What do you want me to do, Chet? Have you seen what she’s doing?” Cordelia could just imagine what her brother thought of a sparkly shoe full of pumpkin. Or the slow-motion crash of the china plates. Or the upside-down flowers fed to Ella’s pig. “She’s destroying things she was going to use in her wedding and posting pictures of it. She’s sleeping until ten or eleven. She’s eating mashed potatoes.”

  “So what,” he said sharply. “She says her pictures are an art project. Rex says she has forty thousand followers.”

  “I don’t care!” Cordelia said loudly. “She’s obviously lost, don’t you see that? She’s lost her father and her fiancé. What does she have?”

  “She has her beauty and her brains, and she will figure it out,” Chet said.

  Cordelia snorted.

  “I knew you’d see it that way. That’s why I just offered her the chance to get unlost, away from here and you.”

  Cordelia looked at George, then at Chet. “Excuse me?”

  “I offered to send her to our place in Aspen.”

  “Aspen? Why?” Cordelia asked, confused.

  “So she can think without someone telling her what she needs to do.”

  “What did she say?” Cordelia asked weakly.

  “She’s interested,” he said. “I told her everything upended on her, and it’s no wonder she needs a little time to sort everything out, but that maybe she can’t do that here with such a watchful eye.”

  Chet meant well, but Cordelia already knew Hallie was not going to listen to her uncle. She didn’t listen to anyone. And Chet hadn’t seen her moping around since the breakup.

  Breakup. That seemed too soft for what had happened to her girl. Betrayal was better. Or, as Dolly would say, That was some bullshit.

  “I think that sounds like a great idea,” George said.

  “Are you both insane? She is not going to go off to Aspen and find herself.”

  “Why not?” Chet asked. “She likes the outdoors. It’s a great place to think. She could do some shopping if she wants—”

  “Nope. No shopping,” George said. “There isn’t the money for the kind of shopping Hallie likes to do.”

  “Then it will be my gift,” Chet said. “Never knew a girl who didn’t like a little retail therapy to get the creative juices flowing. Anyway, that’s beside the point. The point is that she needs to take a couple of weeks and get in touch with herself. None of this,” he said, gesturing to the house and land around them. “None of your opinions either.”

  “She’s my daughter, Chet. I am allowed to have opinions. And is she supposed to go off on this self discovery by herself?”

  “She’s thirty, Delia. She’s a big girl now. She should go by herself, if she really wants to think things through. This is the one time in her life she can focus solely on what she needs.”

  “He’s right,” George said.

  Cordelia shot a look at him.

  “He is,” George said. “You two are like oil and water. You could both use some time for self-reflection.”

  Cordelia could feel her hackles rising. “Are you serious right now, George? You’re going to analyze me?”

  “Seems to me that everything you say about Hallie could be said about you. Except maybe the mashed potatoes. But you have your own vice,” he said. “How much wine have you had today?”

  So much that she felt indignantly ashamed. “I am not going to sit here and listen to this. I lost my husband,” she said. “My world has fallen apart.”

  “Maybe you ought to start one of those photo pages like Hallie,” Chet offered.

  George laughed.

  “Not funny,” Cordelia muttered.

  “Well, you’re going to do whatever you’re going to do, Delia,” Chet said as he started for the door. “I can’t save you from yourself. But I can damn sure try and save my niece from you.”

  “Oh, sure, ride in here with your shining armor and white steed, Chet. Pretend that all she needs is a week or two in Aspen! Stop acting so superior. I’ll go and talk to her right now.”

  “She’s gone,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. I guess she needed some air.” He walked into the house.

  “I guess I’ll take off,” George said.

  “What? You’re going, too?”

  George smiled sadly at her. “I’ll see you soon, Delia,” he said, and put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. Not affectionately. But in a manner that made her think George pitied her.

  Was she so wrong about her daughter’s aimlessness? Was she wrong to be worried about her? It’s like the poor thing had no idea who she was without Chris.

  Just like her mother didn’t know who she was without Charlie.

  The last thing Cordelia wanted was for Hallie to feel the way she felt. She wanted Hallie to be happy. She wanted her to fill her life with love. She did not want Hallie to know the bitterness of corrosive disappointment like she’d known the last few years.

  Maybe Chet was right.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rafe was feeling pretty miserable, and he had no one to blame but himself. His mother’s cooking had always been his undoing. They’d dined on turkey and cranberry sauce, tamales and ensalada Navideña, and Angie’s pumpkin pie, which she’d self-declared was famous. “Everyone loves my pumpkin pie,” she said.

  “Who is everyone?” her husband David asked as he helped himself to a second slice.

  “Everyone,” Angie said, and playfully thumped the back of his head.

  It was a good day. The kids were on their best behavior, spending most of their time on the trampoline in the backyard while Rafe and David tossed things to them. Angie and his mother were going over some family photos for some craft project they had in mind.

  When the meal was over, Rafe, David, and his father watched football. David asked Rafe’s dad about his work.

  He shook his head. “Don’t know if I’m going to be around much longer,” he said. “The Princes have some big problems,” he said, jabbing a finger in the direction of the main compound. “Miss Delia wants me to get rid of half the horses. You can’t do ranch work without horses, I told her. She said there wasn’t going to be anyone to ride them anyway, which I take to mean there is another round of layoffs coming. I’m down to three hands as it is. That’s not enough to work a ranch this size.”

  “She can’t run that place without you,” David said.

  “Sure she can. She’s got Nick. My gut tells me she’s looking for an excuse to get rid of me.”

  He continued on with his theories of successful ranch management, which includ
ed selling off some useless acreage that the Princes were dead set against.

  Full and drowsy, Rafe was stretched out on the couch, fighting off a nap as his dad and David talked. He’d almost succumbed when his phone pinged. He dug it out from between the cushions and was greeted with a very pregnant woman holding her belly. Her head was cropped out of the meme. I ate too much, Hallie texted.

  Rafe smiled. He sent a text back, a GIF of a balloon exploding into purple goo. Me too.

  Hallie texted back with several laughing emojis, and followed that with, What are you doing?

  Thinking about a nap. You?

  Too many men. Too much football. Luca and Ella found an excuse to leave. She punctuated that with an emoji of a skeptical face, followed by a mad face. I need to get out of here. Do you have an animal that I should come and feed?

  Rafe texted back, Nope.

  Are you on a DATE?

  It’s Thanksgiving. I am not on a date.

  Then let’s go for a run!

  Rafe almost laughed out loud. Who are you and what have you done with Hallie? Two days ago when I asked you to go run, you told me to go fly a kite.

  Go fly a kite! Lololol. I’m sorry, was it 1950 two days ago? That is not what I said.

  I’m trying to protect your princess image. Unfortunately, the sailor image keeps making an appearance, and no, that’s not what you said. Smiley face with symbols typed over its mouth to indicate swearing.

  A line of laughing faces. Come on, let’s go.

  He thought about it. He didn’t think he could run even ten yards as full as he was, but as usual, his desire to see Hallie outweighed all of his common sense.

  He pushed himself up to his elbow and looked at the TV screen. The Cowboys were up by fourteen, which rarely happened these days. He texted, Okay.

  Great!! I’ll pick you up in thirty. Let’s drive down to the Magnolia and run the river path.

  I don’t like the way you drive.

  I don’t like the way you complain about my driving. Need to make a quiet getaway from here, which will involve sneaking out the side door like I’m thirteen all over again. Fun times.