The Cowboy's Convenient Wife

by Joanna Bell

  'The Cowboy's Convenient Wife'

  Devlin Brothers Ranch Book 2

  A Romance Series

  By

  Joanna Bell

  © 2020 Joanna Bell

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author’s imagination.

  Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented as 18 or over.

  Contents

  Chapter 1: Astrid

  Chapter 2: Cillian

  Chapter 3: Astrid

  Chapter 4: Cillian

  Chapter 5: Astrid

  Chapter 6: Astrid

  Chapter 7: Cillian

  Chapter 8: Astrid

  Chapter 9: Cillian

  Chapter 10: Astrid

  Chapter 11: Cillian

  Chapter 12: Astrid

  Chapter 13: Cillian

  Chapter 14: Cillian

  Chapter 15: Astrid

  Chapter 16: Cillian

  Chapter 17: Cillian

  Chapter 18: Astrid

  Chapter 19: Cillian

  Chapter 20: Astrid

  Chapter 21: Astrid

  Chapter 22: Cillian

  Chapter 23: Astrid

  Chapter 24: Cillian

  Chapter 25: Astrid

  Chapter 26: Astrid

  Chapter 27: Cillian

  Chapter 28: Cillian

  Chapter 29: Astrid

  Chapter 30: Astrid

  Chapter 31: Cillian

  Chapter 32: Astrid

  Chapter 33: Cillian

  Chapter 34: Cillian

  Chapter 35: Astrid

  Chapter 36: Cillian

  Chapter 37: Astrid

  Chapter 38: Cillian

  Chapter 39: Astrid

  Chapter 40: Cillian

  Chapter 41: Astrid

  Chapter 42: Astrid

  Chapter 43: Cillian – A Few Months Later...

  Chapter 44: Astrid

  The Cowboy's Nanny

  Devlin Brothers Ranch Series

  About The Author

  Other Books By Joanna Bell

  Chapter 1: Astrid

  I heard the phrase "there was no way you could have known" many times in the days and weeks following what was to have been my wedding day. Or, as I came to call it: my un-wedding day.

  It wasn't quite true, though. There were in fact multiple signs that Julian Acton-Hayes III, scion of one of Miami's most prominent families, was perhaps not as enthused about his upcoming nuptials as his wife-to-be – that's me – believed.

  We stopped having sex, for one thing. He tried to play it off, telling me a lot of couples were going celibate before the ceremony. Apparently it made the honeymoon sex hotter. It was also a gesture of respect for each other, a way to incorporate tradition into modern lives without going full regressive. It created a space (he actually used that phrase 'created a space') for the couple to contemplate the true meaning of marriage without the complications of carnality to distract them. Which kind of contradicted the first point but at the time I wasn't examining my fiancé's logic too closely.

  I remembered that conversation for a long time. I remembered the unease that crept under my skin as Julian airily rattled off reasons for his growing lack of interest in our intimate life without once looking me in the eye. I remembered the feeling of my feet sinking into the plush cream carpeting in his living room. And I remembered the flutters of panic in my chest that I pretended were a result of too much coffee that morning.

  What can I say? I was young and stupid and naive. Even more disastrously, I thought I was in love.

  As the wedding plans kicked into high gear around Christmastime it began to feel increasingly like Julian and I were pieces of debris carried along on a torrent of parental and social expectations, rather than agents of our soon-to-be-forever-entwined destinies. My mother flew to Paris with me just after the holidays for the final fitting with the famous couturier my parents commissioned to design my gown.

  "Traditional but not too traditional," she whispered in my ear as we waited in a beautiful but disorganized studio just off Avenue Montaigne. "You're a young bride, Astrid. There's room for a little whimsy. Just a little, mind you."

  I nodded, my eyelids heavy with jetlag. "Uh-huh."

  I let my mom take the lead on most of the wedding details. Why bother researching wedding cake makers when you're the daughter of a woman who already has an encyclopedic knowledge of the best places to source baked goods – not to mention fresh flowers, videographers, make-up artists, planners, venue stylists and stockists of vintage Czech champagne flutes?

  Does all this make it sound as if I myself might not have been entirely without doubts? You know what they say about hindsight. At the time I thought I was as happy as it's possible to be. Life briefly took on the aura of a real-life fairytale. Most mornings I woke up almost bubbling over with excited anticipation for my future. My fiancé's behavior concerned me but I put it down to nerves, to the stress of change – to anything but what it was.

  And then the day came. I didn't so much walk to the vintage Rolls Royce that was to take me to the church as float on a cloud of pale silk chiffon, handmade lace – and heartbreaking naiveté. A few press photographers showed up to get some shots of the dress and afterwards, when my humiliation was complete, one of the photos showed up on the front page of a tabloid, complete with a sensational headline: "Society Wedding Shock!"

  The first hint of trouble that day came in the form of a text message to my dad.

  "Who's that?" I asked when I heard him emit a quiet huff of disapproval next to me in the Rolls.

  "Looks like the groom is running behind schedule."

  I glanced down at my freshly manicured nails. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean we're going to have to take the long way to the church," he replied. "No big deal. Not really the day to dawdle though, is it?"

  A little hum of worry started up deep in my belly. Late? For his own wedding? A man who prided himself on his punctuality?

  My dad must have sensed my concern. He took my hand in his and patted it gently. "Don't worry, honey. He probably can't figure out how to tie his shoes."

  "Dad!" I exclaimed.

  "What? Look, Astrid. Your mother and I are happy for you, you know we are. God knows you could have waited a little longer but we understand this is what you want. He's not going to win any Nobel prizes though, is he?"

  We took the long way to the church. As the driver slowed outside and just as I was glancing hopefully up at the steps that would lead me to the next chapter of my life, my dad's phone buzzed again.

  "Goddamnit," he muttered, gesturing at the driver to keep driving. "Just, uh – just circle around the block again."

  We pulled smoothly away from the curb and a sheen of sweat broke out on my forehead.

  "What is it?" I asked.

  My father shook his head. "It's nothing. He'll be there in 5 minutes."

  "But isn't everybody already –"

  "Yes!" He sputtered. "Yes, everybody is already seated and waiting. I don't know what that boy thinks he's –"

  "Dad –"

  "What?" He barked, turning to face me. "Don't tell me not to call him a boy. Almost an hour late to his own wedding?!"

  "Almost an hour?" I repeated, as some small piece of my heart quietly broke.

  As the car circled the block once more, and the
n twice more, and then a few more times until I stopped counting, the vein in my father's temple that stands out when he's angry became more and more prominent.

  I'm dreaming. This is a dream. I'll wake up in a minute and have to get dressed all over again, for the real wedding.

  But I wasn't dreaming. And there wasn't going to be a 'real' wedding. A call came through to my dad as the hour and 45 minute mark approached and he ordered the driver to stop before jumping out and launching a surprisingly foul-mouthed tirade at whoever was on the other end. My father isn't the type to yell phrases like "arrogant little prick!" and "dumb bastard!" at anyone. Not unless something is very wrong.

  He paced up and down the sidewalk, speaking in a tone so sharp it scared me a little. I stayed where I was, chewing my lip and, eventually, starting to silently pray. My stomach felt both hollow and too-full at the same time. I remember desperately looking around for a receptacle at one point, worried about getting puke on my dress if I threw up.

  Finally, my dad got back into the car and I want to say I didn't know but I did. It was the look on his face, one I'd never seen before, a combination of deep love and pure rage.

  "Daddy?" I whispered, as my head spun and my heart pounded in my chest. "What is it? What –"

  My father suddenly leaned in close, shushing me and taking my face in both his hands. The tears began to spill down my cheeks before he even spoke.

  "Astrid," he said, his voice low and firm. "My girl. My beautiful girl. I love you. You understand that, right? Your mother loves you. Your friends love you. Everyone loves you. Tell me you understand."

  "He's not coming," I replied as my vision blurred. "Is he?"

  I've never seen my dad so furious. His whole body was shaking with it. "No," he said quietly. "No, my love. He isn't."

  ***

  That is the tale of my un-wedding. Those are the gory details. I heard later that there had been near-chaos in the church as various members of the Acton-Hayes clan took turns leaping out of their pews to confer with my mom and various church officials.

  Apparently, when it became clear that her son was blowing off his own wedding to a member of perhaps the only family in Florida who could be said to be more socially prominent than her own, a loud wail was heard to come from my fiancé's mother.

  Of course it was all over social media within hours and splashed across the front pages of the local newspapers the next day. Grainy footage of my mom speaking pointedly to one of Julian's uncles even showed up on Youtube. Everyone loves a scandal – and a scandal involving 2 wealthy families and a jilted bride? That's extra juicy.

  Less than 24 hours after being dumped at the altar (OK, I didn't quite make it that far), my parents bundled me onto a private jet headed for our family compound in the south of France. They ditched everything to keep me company, to listen to me weep and rage, to bring me fresh croissants every morning as I lay curled up in bed praying for a very small, very well-aimed meteor to strike my bedroom in particular.

  It was all just so cruel. I mean, the wedding day? When the church was full of our friends and family and the champagne was already on ice? Is there a bigger cliché on earth?

  I thought Julian loved me. Maybe he did at some point? I thought it was real. Real the way it is when you can watch someone get old and gray and forgetful and genuinely still love them like you did when they were young and vibrant. Real like it is for my parents. Like it was supposed to be for me.

  Let's make no mistake about who screwed up. Julian Acton-Hayes III screwed up.

  But so did I. I knew months before the ceremony that he was acting strangely. I could have pressed him. I could have insisted on the truth – but I didn't, because I was afraid of the truth. I was afraid of losing the future I dreamed of.

  "Someday," my dad said to me one evening in France, "this will be a funny story. That's all. This will just be a funny story you tell your children."

  We were sitting out on the stone terrace, the one that overlooks the blue, yacht-studded Mediterranean. My dad had a tan but, even in the low light, I could see the grays showing at his temples. He was still a handsome man at 55, but it scared me to see him starting to look older.

  I wanted what he said to be true. But I was 23, humiliated and emotionally wrecked, and my head was filled with constant thoughts of the babies I would never have with Julian, the holidays we would never celebrate together. Sometimes at night I would torture myself by watching videos online of other young couples announcing their engagements or pregnancies to their families. Would that ever be me? Would that ever be my mom, shrieking with happiness as my dad struggled to hold back a manly tear or two? The future I thought was mine had slipped through my fingers, and I was in deep mourning.

  I nodded all the same when my dad told me it would just be a funny story one day. My parents were worried, but I knew they couldn't indefinitely postpone their own lives to care for me.

  They flew back to Florida a few weeks later, after I reassured them a thousand times that I was feeling better, that I was fine, that they didn't need to watch over me anymore. When they got home the first thing they did was send Ava – my best friend (and un-maid of honor) – out to keep an eye on me.

  It was early spring by then, over 2 months since my un-wedding day. The shock of it had mostly dissipated, only to be replaced by a heavy, creeping dread of the future.

  Ava was good company – as she always is. When I thanked her for taking a leave of absence from her job she threw her head back and laughed.

  "It's just that ridiculous internship. And you know I would fly to Siberia to camp out with the penguins if I thought it would make you feel better."

  It was my turn to laugh – to genuinely laugh. It felt at the time like exercising a long-unused muscle. "There aren't any penguins in Siberia."

  Ava turned to me, her pretty hazel eyes wide. "In Siberia? Yes there are. That's where they live."

  I shook my head, still grinning. "No it isn't."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Positive," I replied, as she picked up her phone.

  Ava Gillian, my best friend since third grade, is not 'academically inclined.' Which isn't to say she's stupid – she isn't. She's warm and kind – even kinder than she is pretty (which is saying something). As a little girl she was always rescuing stray dogs and birds with broken wings and just generally looking out for the lost and lonely. It hardly even bothered me that every boy I ever had a crush on only had eyes for her, because I knew she would never do anything to hurt me.

  "Huh," she frowned at her phone and brushed a lock of blonde hair off her face. "You're right. They live in –"

  "Antarctica."

  My lovely friend shot me a look. "How do you know that?"

  "Because I'm the smart one," I cracked. "And you're the pretty one."

  "Shut up. You're beautiful, Astrid. You know you are."

  She meant it, too.

  ***

  So far so normal, right? Poor little rich girl gets dumped on her wedding day and then, supported by her loving friends and family and a months-long luxury vacation, becomes a wiser, stronger version of herself. Boo-hoo, poor me.

  My friends back home were beginning to think I was fine. So was Ava. So were my parents. The edge of worry was gone from my mother's voice when we talked. Even I thought I was getting there.

  I wasn't fine, though. Because a few days after that conversation about penguins, I did the most batshit crazy thing I have ever done.

  ***

  The day started out like all the other days, with pastries and fresh-squeezed orange juice on the terrace. I stared out at the sea, trying to decide whether or not I should walk into the nearby town that day. Beside me, Ava caught up on the latest celebrity gossip on her phone.

  I was just about to retreat to the cool shade of the house when she let out an amused chuckle.

  "What is it?" I asked, stretching in the Mediterranean sunshine.

  Ava looked up, and then back at her phone. And then
up again. "Uh – nothing."

  Something in her tone sounded secretive. So then of course I had to know what she was laughing at.

  "No – what is it?" I repeated.

  "It's nothing. Really – it's nothing."

  My best friend is a bad liar. Always has been. 'It' was obviously something.

  I bent down to get a look at her phone screen. On it was an image of an almost ridiculously handsome man in a cowboy hat, set against a backdrop of snow-capped mountain peaks.

  "Who's that?" I asked. "Your secret boyfriend?"

  Ava giggled. "No. I wish. It's just an article about some matchmaking service in New York. He's one of the guys they're trying to match."

  "A matchmaking service?" I replied, not sure such things still existed. "Like, now? In the 21st century?"

  "Uh-huh. Apparently online dating is over. People are sick of all the effort and wasted time. The article says old-fashioned matchmaking services are making a comeba–"

  "So why are you hiding it from me?" I cut in, my cheeks suddenly beginning to tingle with heat. "Do you think I'm that desperate? Do you think I would –"

  "No!" Ava exclaimed quickly. "No, of course not!"

  "So why were you hiding it from me?"

  She opened her mouth and then closed it again, thinking about what she was going to say. "Because I... well, I don't even know! I guess I just thought you didn't need to see it right now."

  I rolled my eyes, trying to cover my embarrassment – and my curiosity. A matchmaking service? In New York? With guys as hot as that on the books?