The Cowboy's Convenient Wife Read online

  ***

  There's no warning that a person is about to become indispensable. The universe doesn't send a note in the mail:

  Dear Mr. Devlin,

  Consider this your official warning that one Astrid Walker of Miami, Florida is about to become indispensable to you. If you wish to avoid this perilous situation, you are advised to take preventive measures now.

  Yours,

  The Universe

  Life doesn't work like that. We only discover we can't live without someone when it's already way past too late. And sometimes, it happens a lot faster than you think. Sometimes it happens without you even realizing it. That's how it was for me. That's how it was for me, with her.

  And by the time I did realize it, Astrid Walker was as lost to me as those childhood days in the pasture, eating sandwiches with my mom.

  Chapter 14: Cillian

  "I don't think your family is going to like me."

  That's what Astrid said to me as we walked across the tarmac at the Billings airport to meet my dad – and whoever else he'd brought down with him.

  "It'll be fine," I replied, again trying to convince myself at least as much as I was her. "Don't worry. They're going to love you."

  But are you going to love them?

  ***

  Darcy loved her. Darcy loved Astrid before she'd even met her, because Darcy noticed we'd flown private and Darcy cannot distinguish between being impressed with someone's material resources and loving them.

  My dad, on the other hand, didn't quite "love" my wife. He was polite – as polite as Jack Devlin can ever be – but he was also distant. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. He said he wanted me to marry and have babies but he probably didn't expect it to happen that fast. And he almost certainly didn't expect it to happen with someone like Astrid.

  Someone he couldn't look down on, I mean.

  "Is that your plane?" Darcy chattered excitedly as my dad drove the 4 of us back to the ranch.

  "No," Astrid replied. "Not mine. My father thinks owning private jets is a bad investment. We have a contract with a company that charters them out to members."

  "Oh," my stepmother replied, deflated.

  It had long been Darcy's dream that my dad purchase a private jet for her personal use. I overheard her whining to him once that it was making her uncomfortable that some of her friends on social media were posting photos of themselves flying private when she couldn't join in.

  If I'm remembering correctly, my dad's response was something along the lines of: "Social media friends aren't real friends. And I don't give a fuck how uncomfortable you are." Shortly after that he started forcing her to fly commercial again.

  Don't get me wrong. My dad is the best – or at least the richest – thing that ever happened to Darcy, and she probably more than anyone is able to not just tolerate but sometimes even enjoy what might politely be called his 'irascibility.' He keeps her in luxury brands and long-term, worry free unemployment and in return she tends to him the way an indulgent mother tends to an overtired toddler. I'd say she got the worse end of that deal – but it does mostly work between them, and the Devlin boys are mostly OK with it. Without Darcy around I think there would have been a lot more fistfights between Jack Devlin and his sons when we were growing up, let's put it that way.

  "Are you OK?" I whispered to Astrid as we got closer to the ranch, noticing that she was looking distinctly green around the gills.

  "Mm-hm," she nodded, pressing her lips together tightly. "I think so. Will we be there soon?"

  "Yeah, soon. Are you carsick?"

  "I don't know. Maybe. What's the smell, though? It was like that before but not so... strong."

  I sniffed the air and couldn't detect anything out of the ordinary. "What smell?"

  "Cowshit!" My dad called back from the driver's seat. "Little lady doesn't like the smell of cowshit! Can't be a rancher's wife if the smell of a little cowpatty makes you sick now, can you?"

  At the time I was convinced I was imagining it, but after he realized Astrid wasn't feeling well I thought I detected a slight change in the way my dad was driving. It was almost like he was trying to increase the forward and backward motion of the truck, accelerating too hard and then braking to slow down again, even on open stretches of highway. It got so bad as we got into town that I actually asked him to stop.

  "Stop what?" He replied, coming to way too hard a stop at a red light and causing us all to lurch forward in our seats.

  "Jesus!" I exclaimed. "Dad! Can you cool it with the braking? Astrid's really not feeling well back here."

  "It's not my driving," he reiterated cheerily. "I'm tellin' ya, it's the cowshit. You can't smell it because you're used to it, but out-of-towners always can. City folk got real sensitive noses."

  We arrived about ten minutes later and the first thing Astrid Walker did on the hallowed ground of the Devlin ranch was barf. My dad pulled up outside the house and she hopped out immediately, staggered over to one of Darcy's ornamental rose bushes and puked all over it.

  "Oh!" Said Darcy, because she didn't know what else to say.

  My dad simply shot me a look and headed into the house.

  "Really?" The look said. "Really? This girl? The girl barfing her guts out because she can't deal with the smell of a ranch? This is who you chose?"

  I felt a hard little ball of anger form in my stomach.

  "Are you OK?" I asked my wife as she stood up. "Let's go inside. I'll get you a glass of –"

  "I just blew that," she said grimly, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. "Didn't I?"

  Chapter 15: Astrid

  The Devlin Ranch was everything I imagined it would be. A long driveway, above which a cloud of dust kicked up by the truck hung in the evening light, led to the house. More of a log cabin on a monumental scale, the Devlin home was built from enormous, hand-hewn logs, its roof almost crowded with stone chimneys.

  It was built on a natural high point, surrounded on all sides by rolling, golden hills dotted with scraggly pines and small stands of leafy, pale-trunked aspens. And in the near-distance the silent, brooding Rockies kept their watch over it all. If someone told me it was 1850 the only giveaway that it wasn't would have been the cluster of dusty pick-up trucks parked outside.

  "How much land does your family own?" I asked, shielding my eyes from the sun with one hand.

  Cillian made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "All of it."

  I laughed at first, thinking he was joking. He wasn't.

  "No," he continued, "really, we own all of it. As far as the eye can see in every direction except east."

  "Really?" I gasped, suddenly seized by the idea of a cozy little cabin in an alpine meadow, a burbling stream nearby, a few sun-tanned children playing amongst the wildflowers...

  "Yeah, really. I told you the ranch was big."

  He did tell me. I just didn't realize how big. Out west, people have a different conception of 'big.' To me, big is a couple of acres. In the most exclusive areas of a city, that kind of land is off-limits to all but the most financially blessed – and is often worth tens of millions of dollars.

  Not in Montana. In Montana a rich man can own so much land it would take him days to walk across it.

  "Come on," Cillian prompted. "We should probably go inside."

  Inside, the house was like something out of a decor magazine. Someone – I strongly suspected Darcy Devlin – had spent a lot of time getting everything from the materials to the art pieces just right.

  "You have a beautiful home," I told her when we found her standing in front of a marble-topped kitchen island so expansive I almost felt I had to shout across it to be heard.

  Cillian's stepmother, who was of indeterminate age but obviously significantly younger than her husband, looked genuinely happy at the compliment.

  "Thank you. I wanted Jack – and the boys – to have a beautiful space to come home to. A real oasis."

  Everything in the kitchen was spotless. A
stack of built-in wall ovens, enough to feed a king and his court, were shiny and finger-print free. The marble on the island and the countertops was pristine. I soon got my explanation why when Darcy's phone buzzed.

  "Ah," she said. "There's dinner. Cillian can you –"

  "Yeah, we'll get it," he replied.

  I followed him out of the kitchen and down a hallway lined with photographs – mainly of Jack and Darcy with various politicians and dignitaries – to the front door. A white van was parked outside, and a woman was ferrying carrier bags full of boxes to the front steps.

  "Darcy doesn't cook," Cillian told me, seeing the look of confusion on my face. "She just lets the caterers know what we want and they deliver it."

  Interesting. Darcy's sentiments about the house, which seemed to indicate that she was one of those self-consciously old-fashioned wives – coveted by Montana ranchers and Los Angeles lawyers alike – did not seem to extend to all types of home-making. She didn't cook. That was good, because neither did I –and it meant my husband's family had one less point to judge me on.

  We carried what seemed to be a ridiculous amount of food back into the kitchen and, like moths to a flame, male Devlins suddenly began to appear. First was one of Cillian's brothers: Patrick. He looked like Cillian but his hair was darker, his skin a little paler, and he looked more like their father than my husband did.

  When I shook Patrick's hand he briefly looked me up and down. "So is it true?" He asked. "You married this jackass?"

  That wasn't quite worded the way I expected but I nodded anyway, eager not to give anyone any more reasons – beyond the puking – to think I was a stuck-up princess. "Uh," I replied, looking to Cillian for guidance but not getting any. "Yeah. Yes, we're married."

  Patrick, who had the same broad smile as his brother, continued: "That's crazy. Damn. Crazy. So you're gonna live here now and everything? Here at the ranch?"

  "Uh –"

  "Yeah," Cillian broke in gruffly, not meeting my eye. "We are."

  I looked over at him and then back at Patrick.

  Before me or his brother could say anything else, Cillian grabbed a beer out of one of two restaurant-size, glass-fronted refrigerators and cracked it open on the rim of the marble countertop.

  "Hey!" Darcy yelled, walking in at just the right moment to catch him in the act. "Cillian! How many times have I told you not to do that? You'll damage the marble!"

  I watched as beer bubbled over the mouth of the bottle and spilled onto the floor. No one else seemed to notice. And before my husband could reply to his stepmother, someone shoved him hard from behind. Another Devlin brother.

  More beer sloshed onto the floor as Cillian turned to return the shove.

  Before a full-on wrestling match could ensue, a booming voice rang out:

  "SETTLE THE FUCK DOWN! We got civilized company tonight goddamnit! Stop acting like animals!"

  Jack Devlin. His nostrils flared like an angry bull's as he glared at his sons. And to my surprise, everyone in the room – everyone except me – immediately hung their heads. Mumbled apologies filled the air and Darcy took the opportunity to plant a kiss on her husband's cheek and ask if he was hungry.

  "Of course I'm goddamn hungry! Let's eat!"

  I stayed right where I was as the Devlins swarmed the kitchen, hanging meekly back as they grabbed tableware and beer and bags of boxed food and carried them into the dining room.

  Eventually, when it seemed safe to make my way to the table without getting trampled or yelled at, I followed them in.

  "Here!" Cillian called, indicating the seat next to him. "You can sit –"

  "No!" Jack shouted over his son, pointing to a seat at the opposite head of the table. "She sits there. Guest of honor and all that."

  At the best of times, I do not enjoy being the center of attention. To say I didn't crave a place in the spotlight during that dinner in particular would be a serious understatement. I looked to Cillian for help.

  "Dad," he started, "I don't think –"

  "No," Jack continued, not even looking at me as he indicated once again where I should sit. "She sits where I say she sits. We're going to have a nice dinner. And we're going to get to know each other a little bit. What do you say, Astrid? Does that sound acceptable?"

  I was being tested. Jack Devlin was looking for weak points, trying to prove whatever it is men like that are constantly trying to prove. That I was a spoiled rich girl who would never be able to handle ranch life? Maybe. Or maybe it wasn't even about me.

  There was a lot of tension in that expensively-appointed dining room. The kind of tension that exists between fathers and sons, all the unspoken dynamics that lurk below the surface. In testing me, I suspect Jack was really testing his son. After all, if I didn't measure up who's fault was that other than Cillian's – for being dumb enough to pick me?

  "That sounds wonderful," I replied graciously, smiling and taking the seat Jack Devlin was indicating. He wasn't going to get the better of me. He also wasn't going to get the better of Cillian – not if I had anything to do with it.

  Dinner was strange. The containers from the caterers, the ones that looked like they should be full of take-out food, were actually full of about half a cow's worth of rib-eye steaks, butter-laden mashed potatoes and, well, not much else. I cast my eye over the dining table in search of something – anything – green. There was nothing.

  And yet in spite of all that steak and starch, not a single one of the Devlins looked overfed. Darcy was as rail-thin as can be expected of any self-respecting trophy wife and Jack Devlin was as wiry and weathered as a leather sofa left out in the sun. Cillian's brothers were, like Cillian himself, what one might refer to as 'strapping.' Each was taller than their father, and broader. And they all had the same huge, mitt-like hands and the same air of almost puppyish energy about them.

  "What do you think?" Jack asked after I took my first bite of sweaty, ruined rib-eye.

  "Uh..." I began, not sure what I was being asked about. Did he want to know what I thought of the food? Or what I thought of everything?

  "The steak," he replied, pointing his fork at my plate. "It's from one of ours. We only eat Devlin beef in this house. It's organic, you know. Naturally pastured. Best beef in the world. You like it?"

  "It's delicious," I replied. "I've had it before."

  That was a lie. I hadn't had Devlin Ranch beef before. But I was strangely desperate – especially after the puking – to make a good impression on Cillian's family. They must have known – better than I did – that it was a coin toss at best if we ever saw each other again. But I obviously cared enough about what they thought of me to tell a bald-faced lie.

  "Have you now?" Jack continued, probably suspicious I was trying to score points – which is exactly what I was doing.

  "Yes," I nodded, mortified by my own dishonesty but trying not to show it. "A few months ago. At, um – at La Petite Grenouille. In Miami."

  "La Petty – what?"

  "La Petite Grenouille. It's French."

  "French, huh?" My father-in-law replied, grinning. "Pretty fancy."

  "It was very good," I burbled. "Best steak I've ever had."

  For a moment, I thought I may have gone too far with that last comment, made my butt-kissing a little too obvious. But Jack Devlin just smiled and brought his fist slamming down onto the table.

  "Best steak you ever had, huh? At some fancy-ass joint in the city? Damn straight, I say. Damn straight!"

  The weird tension that was building in the air dissipated slightly at Jack's taking obvious pleasure in my story.

  "Sorry about these," he said a few minutes later, indicating the steaks we were eating. "The meat itself is top-notch, but Darcy here can't cook for shit so most nights we just have it brought in. We'll have a fire next week and cook a few on the open coals, then you'll see. Ain't nothin' like a steak cooked over open coals."

  "I would like that very much," I replied.

  Thankfully, the topic of c
onversation soon switched from my faked appreciation of the steak to Patrick Devlin's truck – and the fact that it was currently stuck in the mud somewhere on the ranch.

  "Fuckin' idiot!" One of the other brothers – Connor, I think it was – admonished his sibling, adding a surprisingly hard punch on the arm for emphasis. "I told you it's not dry enough to get through Gillie's Gully yet. Now you're gonna have to get a tow-truck out there."

  "You didn't say shit," Patrick of the stuck pick-up shot back. "And it's been a dry spring –"

  "Not that dry. Trust your dumb ass to get stuck in the mud trying to impress a girl."

  I glanced at Darcy, subconsciously seeking one of those subtle signals of solidarity that women will often send each other's way when they find themselves in a roomful of men. But Darcy was pushing a tiny amount of mashed potatoes around her plate and looking like everything was entirely normal.

  Which it almost certainly was. I forget sometimes that most people grow up with siblings. They get used to noise and arguments and 'friendly' punches.

  Halfway through the next razzing session, though, I excused myself. I didn't actually need to use the facilities, I just had to get out of that dining room. It was too busy, too loud, too much. Did Cillian really think we could live in that house as a married couple?

  I made my way through the kitchen and took a wrong turn into a pantry of some kind, its shelves piled high with chips and diet soda and keto-friendly snack bars. A few unused kitchen appliances, still brand new in their boxes, were stacked on the floor. I turned around and tried another route. The floors throughout the house were hardwood – and not as pristinely maintained as people who live in fancy houses in the city like to keep them. I imagined, as I looked down at the scars and marks in the boards, that they were made by the cowboy boots and spurs of Cillian's forebears.

  Even the interior walls were made of logs, honey-colored and smooth with the passing of the years. The Devlins seemed to like wood in their decor as much as they liked steak in their bellies.