by Joanna Bell
"Give it to me."
Ava sheepishly handed me her phone without further argument. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I don't think you're desperate. I just think maybe you're not totally OK yet. You know?"
But I wasn't really listening anymore. I was distracted. The man in the cowboy hat was even more attractive than I'd first thought, now that I was getting a better look at him. A caption under the photo read:
'Cillian Devlin, Cowboy, Montana.'
Montana. I'd heard of it. Out west somewhere. Mountains, cattle, empty space. And – apparently – real life cowboys. Extremely handsome ones at that.
"Fuego, right?" Ava commented, grinning.
"Uh-huh."
"The article says he's looking for an 'old-fashioned' wife," she continued, wrinkling her pretty nose. "What does that even mean? And there's another one – in Los Angeles, an entertainment lawyer – he wants a wife 'skilled in the bedroom arts.' Who talks like that? Skilled in the bedroom arts? That's so creepy! Like who is going to read that and not barf?"
But I wasn't thinking about creepy LA lawyers. I was reading through the article under the photo, looking for more information on Cillian Devlin, the cowboy from Montana with the piercing blue eyes and the hankering for an old-fashioned wife.
"I know it's not 1850," he was quoted as saying. "I'm not a caveman. But I need a wife. Not a girlfriend or a best friend or a partner in crime. A wife. Someone who wants to raise a family. Someone solid."
There was another photo, too – a close-up of his face. He had broad, high cheekbones and a cleft in the middle of his chin. He also had a roguish look in his eye that, even on a screen in the bright morning sunshine, pulled me in.
"Give it back."
I snapped back to reality. Ava was holding her hand out.
"Just a sec."
"Astrid..."
Montana. It snowed in Montana, didn't it? I usually only experienced snow at ski resorts, but suddenly a riot of fluffy white flakes swept across my mind's eye and a bleak, dusky winter landscape replaced the sun-drenched terrace. In the distance, instead of yachts, there was a house. An old, weathered Victorian house on the crest of a hill, its windows filled with happy, golden light. A winter wind blew out of the night sky, carrying upon it the sound of a child's laughter.
"Astrid!"
I could live in Montana. Couldn't I?
Chapter 2: Cillian
We all thought Jackson would be back within a week. And then within a couple of months or a few more than that. But a whole year passed with no word – and then another and another until finally it sank in.
My nemesis – my brother – was gone. And the rest of us were all coming around to the idea, without saying it out loud, that he was never coming back.
***
It didn't take me long to slip into the skin he left behind. It happened almost without my thinking about it, without even noticing it was happening. Jackson Devlin was gone and everyone in Sweetgrass Ridge knew it. That made me the de facto senior Devlin brother – and the new heir apparent.
Do you want me to say I hated it?
I loved every minute of it. I loved the fact that all the good girls, who would previously have spent their time mooning over my straight-laced older sibling, seemed to suddenly develop a fondness for Jack Devlin's second son. I loved the new tone of respect in people's voices.
Once, while grocery shopping, I ran into one of my high school teachers. Mr. Hanson never liked me back in the day, mostly because I was always skipping his class to smoke joints and make out with girls under the bleachers. But that day in the Super Mart, after Jackson had been gone for awhile, Mr. Hanson apologized to me immediately when I bumped into him. And when we looked at each other I saw a certain deference in his eyes. He knew who I was. He knew Jackson Devlin was gone. And he knew that someday, the Devlin Ranch would probably belong to Cillian Devlin – to me. It wouldn't be wise to piss me off.
No one really knew that the ranch would be mine, though. What if Jackson came back? My dad wanted him to. He never said it, but it was one of those things that didn't need saying. We all knew it. We all saw the way his shoulders, always held so high and proud, began to take on a slight stoop as the months and then the years slipped by.
Which isn't to say I didn't take full advantage of my new circumstances. I definitely did. If anything, the possibility of my brother's return just spurred me on.
When Mr. Hanson apologized for what we both knew was my mistake in the Super Mart, I simply took it as my due. Instead of admitting the fault was mine, I nodded arrogantly and walked past him without so much as a word of thanks.
And when the pretty, fragrant daughters of Sweetgrass Ridge's prominent citizens eyed me in the bar, I caught their flirtatious glances and returned them in kind.
Yes, I deserve this. I deserve your attentions, your little smiles and giggles. I deserve the favors you are, in an alternate universe, bestowing on my uptight older brother.
I was like a kid in a candy store, trying to cram as many sugary treats into my mouth as I could before some grown-up put a stop to it. I swear I couldn't even tell you the names of half the women I fucked. A lot of them were fake blondes with fake tits and lips and they were, I knew, just marking time before they became younger versions of my stepmother: pampered and indulged by their wealthy husbands on the one hand, wracked by insecurity and neurotic worries about status and aging –and whose vacation photos got more likes on social media – on the other.
Some of them – quite a few of them, actually – clearly seemed to think that future husband might be me.
And for awhile – after Jackson had been gone for years but before my dad finally sat me down one night and laid it all out – I thought the same.
The Devlin patriarch didn't handle his heir's absence well. I'm certain he thought Jackson would come crawling back a few weeks later, free of the gold-digger and desperate to move back into the trailer.
When Jackson didn't come back, though, Jack Devlin got even angrier than he already was. He tried to cover it up, but when has trying to cover it up ever worked? Never, that's when – and that's a lesson I myself was soon to learn.
My dad took to stomping around so emphatically that he put his entire foot through the boards of the barn floor one afternoon, and then spent the next few days ranting and raving about the shitty job the workers did when the barn was built. It didn't matter that that particular barn was actually raised sometime in the 50s, by members of our own family, and was in fact aging particularly well. It didn't matter that the foot through the floorboards was just an excuse to let off the steam that was constantly building up inside old Jack like a pot of boiling water left on the heat, either. All that mattered was that he was angry. And everyone else was going to have to deal with it.
***
"So I guess you know what this is about?"
Me and my dad were seated across from each other at the big oak table in the dining room. I had my own place in town but he wanted me on his territory for that specific conversation. I never really noticed his constant need to have the upper hand until after Jackson left.
"Uh – do I?"
"The ranch."
I remember waiting for him to continue and then, when he didn't, lamely doing it myself:
"The ranch?"
"Yes, son. The ranch. It's yours if you want it – but I'm going to need some reassurances. You know, after what happened with your brother."
I leaned back in my chair and took a deep, slow breath. The ranch was mine if I wanted it? Just like that, after spending my whole life certain it was going to someone else?
"What reassurances?" I asked, trying hard to project outward calm.
"Well you'll need a wife, for one thing," came the brisk reply. "And I don't mean one of those dumb whores you spend all your time with. A real wife. A woman who knows her place – and some kids, too. Preferably boys – I hear there's ways of guaranteeing that, these days. I need to know you'll take it serious
ly, too – not like your brother did. Got his head all turned around by some –"
"Dumb whores?" I cut in, not so much offended as surprised. I'd been dating a much higher caliber of girl – going by my dad's metric, anyway – since Jackson left. The girls I dated after my brother was gone didn't have tattoos – which Jack Devlin hated with a passion despite having a couple himself – and they almost all came from families that my dad and stepmother didn't so much respect (because they didn't truly respect anyone in Sweetgrass Ridge) as tolerate. That was better than coming from one of the families they looked down on – which was most of them.
"Yeah, dumb whores. You gonna get your panties in a wad over hearing some hard truths? Maybe you're more like Jackson than I th–"
"Dad," I broke in, shrugging. "I don't give a fuck what you think about who I date. I've never been serious about any of them."
"Good," he replied, getting up from the table and checking Darcy wasn't within earshot before pouring himself a shot of whiskey, downing it in one gulp, and then pouring another. "You want one?"
"Nah."
"Here's the thing," he continued, sitting back down with the bottle and the empty shot glass. "I'm not getting any younger. I've worked hard all my life. I've done my duty. I've looked after this place. I haven't carved it up and sold it piece by piece to those blood-sucking real estate agents in Billings. No. This land is Devlin land. It's ours – and it's my job to keep it ours. Soon it'll be your job. If I can trust you, that is."
My dad always did have a knack for sounding utterly certain and incredibly vague at the same time.
"OK...?"
"Didn't you hear me? You need a wife. A good wife. Someone I approve of. And you need children. They're a pain in the ass and no mistakin,' but that's where the wife comes in – at least when the kids are too young to be of any use to anyone. I need to know, do you understand? I need to know you're serious – and believe me, there's nothing like a wife and a few kids to make a man serious."
It was the first time in my life he ever broached the topic of marriage and children with me. Jack Devlin wasn't one of those fathers, he didn't talk about those things – personal things – with any of his sons. Growing up on the Devlin Ranch meant we always had the latest, shiniest toys and the respect (or fear) of everyone around us. But we were no sitcom family.
"So the ranch is mine if I marry someone you approve of and have some kids?" I asked, wanting to be sure I had it right.
My dad nodded. "Yeah. That's about it."
"When?"
He chuckled. "Don't worry, you don't have to wait for me to kick the bucket. I just need to know you're serious. I need to know this place is in safe hands. I need to know you'll stick around – not like Jackson. Get yourself a wife, son. Put a baby in her belly. Done and done."
"And where am I supposed to find a wife if all the girls in Sweetgrass Ridge are dumb whores?"
Jack Devlin downed another shot of whiskey and shrugged. "Fuckin' beats me."
***
I left the ranch not sure whether to be more amused or insulted by the sheer balls on my dad to think he could dictate the circumstances of my own life to me. I was 26 when we had that conversation, and I hadn't showed any signs of settling down. If it did happen – and as far as I was concerned there was no guarantee of that – it would be sometime in the future. The far future.
Still, though... the ranch? The whole ranch?
That's exactly what was on the table. Not when Jack Devlin went to the big ranch in the sky, either, but when I got married. When I had kids. That meant it could happen soon. Hell, it meant it could happen the next day – assuming I could find a woman crazy enough to marry me and at the same time sane enough not to trigger my dad's dumb-whore-dar.
I glanced, as I drove back into town, at the dark shapes of the foothills in the rearview mirror. Those weren't just any foothills. Those were Devlin foothills, dotted with cattle and worth more money than a reasonable man could spend in 100 lifetimes.
And all of it could be mine.
***
"What you need is one of those situations."
A couple of days after the surreal sit-down with my dad, I found myself in the Lone Pine Bar with my high school friend Kevin O'Brien and a gaggle of random women I knew were the kind my dad would never abide as daughters-in-law.
"What?" I shouted over the blaring music. "A situation? What's that?"
Kevin leaned in conspiratorially. "You know, man. A situation. Like one of those Russian situations."
I looked down at my phone. It was barely 9 o'clock. "How much have you had to drink?"
Kevin looked confused for a moment. "Wait. No. Not a situation. An arrangement. Yeah – an arrangement! That's what you need. That would be perfect for –"
"Kev," I interjected, shaking my head. "I have no fucking idea what you're talking about."
A 'Russian situation?' An 'arrangement?' What?
And then it suddenly dawned on me what he was talking about. I threw my head back and guffawed. "An arranged marriage? Is that your big idea?"
Kevin nodded earnestly and finished his drink. "Yeah, that's it. You want another beer?"
"Sure."
He disappeared in the direction of the bar and the woman sitting on my left turned to me. I couldn't quite remember her name but she had very short hair and one of those faces with small, pointed features, like maybe there was an elf lurking on some obscure branch of her family tree.
Cute. Not my type, but cute.
"Are you serious?" She asked, in a tone which did not quite suggest flirtation.
"Huh? About what?"
"An arranged marriage?"
"Hey – I didn't bring it up. I didn't even know what he was talking about."
That was true. I was only very vaguely aware that such arrangements even existed in the modern world.
"What kind of man would buy a wife from a third world country?"
"The kind who doesn't want to fuck around," came the reply from Kevin, returning to slam a beer down in front of me and sending half of it sloshing over the rim in the process. "This is business for him, not pleasure."
I almost said something about making assumptions, but ultimately I just listened as Kevin and the elfin girl begin a long back and forth on the merits – or not – of American men marrying foreign strangers.
This is business for him, not pleasure.
That comment stuck in my head. My drinking buddy was right about that much. Ever since the conversation with my dad I'd been puzzling over how I – a man with no established track record of monogamous or otherwise husbandly behavior – was supposed to find a wife.
But maybe that thinking was wrong. Maybe there was more than one kind of wife? Maybe a more practical arrangement was possible? One that didn't involve love – or monogamy – at all?
If it was an option for anyone it was me. I didn't spend my days eating microwave pizzas in my mom's basement. My mom was dead, and I spent my time working the family ranch. Some of my time, anyway. When I had absolutely no other choice.
Also, it wasn't like any woman entering a practical, businesslike agreement with me wouldn't get anything out of it. For one thing, she would be rich. Really, really fucking rich.
"Yeah but where am I supposed to find her?" I asked, more intrigued than serious. "That's a pretty niche situation, right? Where do you find women looking to sign up for a loveless marriage?"
Kevin and the girl with the little pointy nose looked at me.
"Ew," she said, wrinkling her nose.
"Dating site?" Kevin suggested.
I was skeptical. Dating sites? I admit I used hook-up apps once or twice, but that was as far as any internet-based liaisons ever went. The truth was I didn't use dating sites because I didn't have to. I was Cillian Devlin. Even if I'd fallen out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down I still wouldn't have needed to do much of anything to attract female attention in Sweetgrass Ridge. The Devlin name was enough.
"There are more exclusive dating sites," Kevin continued. "For hot people or rich people or, you know – just more exclusive."
"Are there?"
He nodded. "Yeah. You're rich – or your family is, anyway. And you're good, uh, you're good–"
The pixie-faced girl burst out laughing as Kevin trailed off, his cheeks reddening. "Don't worry, Kev," she giggled. "You can compliment another man, we all know you're straight."
The particular shade of red highlighting Kevin's cheeks deepened. "I, uh – I know."
"Just say he's hot!" She chuckled, gazing at me appraisingly. "Come on, look at him. Look at those blue eyes – and those cheekbones! I swear if I had a few more beers in me I might forget I like girls."
Kevin looked away and I slapped him on the back. "Yeah, Kev. Come on. Admit I'm hot. What – you think I'm ugly? That hurts, man. That hurts a lot."
"Aw shut up," he grinned. "I'm just saying you could do it. And you could do it through one of those more exclusive places. There's millions of women out there who would claw each other's eyeballs out for the chance to marry a rich cowboy."
"You forgot the 'hot' part," I razzed, earning a punch on the arm in response.
***
I got home late that night, with more than a few beers and whiskies sloshing around in my belly, and I didn't fall asleep right away. I lay in bed thinking about what Kevin said about an arrangement.
Was it possible? I sat up and grabbed my phone.
A quick search soon established that, indeed, there were services like the ones mentioned. Most of them looked seedy, their home pages adorned with photos of women wearing too much make-up and too little clothing. That wasn't what I wanted. I could get laid anytime I wanted. If I decided to take my dad up on his offer – and at the time I was still telling myself it was too ridiculous to seriously contemplate – what I needed was not a sexy 19 year old Moldovan but a wife. A wife Jack Devlin would approve of. Did such a woman even exist?
