by Joanna Bell
"It's glacial. Same one you fell into, actually. The glacier feeds into a lake up at the top of the mountain, behind that ridge up there."
Astrid glanced up, in the direction I was pointing. "Have you ever been up there?"
"A few times when I was a kid. You can't take the horses up that high, the path is too treacherous. The view is fucking amazing, though."
"And it's so clear. Can you drink it?"
I knelt down beside her. "Probably, but better not. Don't want to get beaver fever."
She turned to give me a look and I couldn't help planting a sudden, quick kiss on her forehead.
It felt like another world up there on the mountain. It felt like we'd left everything behind – but of course we hadn't. Astrid leaned into me slightly, after I kissed her, and it made my heart ache.
So my heart was aching, and my balls were aching – and it was still one of the best afternoons of my life.
"What's beaver fever?"
"It's a parasite you can get from drinking contaminated water. It doesn't matter how clean it looks, either. Like I said, this is probably fine – we're high enough up that the cattle aren't drinking it upstream. But there could still be mountain goats or bears shitting in it."
My beautiful wife dipped just the tips of her fingers back into the stream.
"We screwed up," she said quietly, watching the refracted sunlight dance over her skin for a moment. "Didn't we?"
I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell her no, we didn't screw up. And more than either of those things I wanted to tell her don't go, don't go, please don't go.
"I wish I'd met you somewhere else," I said, pulling her against me. "I wish I'd met you at the bar in Sweetgrass Ridge. I wish – I just wish it was different. I wish we didn't..."
"You can say it," she replied when I trailed off. "You wish we didn't get married. So do I. It wasn't a very smart idea."
I let out a grim chuckle. "No, I guess it wasn't."
That was true. A smart idea? To legally bind your life to a stranger's? No one would call that smart. The part I left unsaid, though, was the part where I didn't actually regret marrying her at all.
"I told my mother, you know. Last night, on the phone."
"And how did that go?" I asked, even though I had a pretty good idea how it went from the look on Astrid's face.
"Really badly," she replied, her voice so quiet I had to lean closer to hear. "She hung up on me. She's never done that before. I could just tell I – I could tell, I –"
It took me a moment to realize she was crying and tighten my arms around her.
"I could tell I really messed up," she continued, wiping her eyes. "Worse than I've ever messed up before. My mom just sounded so disappointed."
I held my wife as she cried. I held her as she curled herself against me and pressed her face into my chest, and then I held her as she came out of it, as her breathing slowed again and she let me dry her tears with the sleeve of my shirt.
"Your mom will get over it," I told her. "She loves you. I can tell from the way you talk about your parents that they love you. So she will get over it. You may have to give her some time, but she will."
"How can you tell?" Astrid asked, looking up at me. "How can you tell my parents love me?"
"I just can. My own family is such a fucking disaster. Maybe that makes it easier to spot people who don't come from families like that?"
My tone was slightly distant, slightly sarcastic, the way it often was when I talked about my family with anyone outside of it – which was hardly ever. But Astrid saw right through my efforts to keep my family – to keep Jack Devlin – at arm's length. She reached up and touched my cheek, a gesture so full of concern I had to turn away.
"Why is he like that?" She asked a moment later. "Your dad, I mean?"
I kept my gaze fixed on a point in the distance. "I don't know. Or, fuck – maybe I do? My mom died and he never dealt with it. Or his way of dealing with it was just being angry all the time – and he's not the first Devlin to end up that way. I mean, it's not like we talk about this or anything but I've heard a few things over the years. You know, that his dad was hard on him, too. And his dad's dad was hard on his dad and on and on. That's how this stuff goes, isn't it? Someone does it to you and then you do it to someone else and they do it to someone else. I don't know. But if I ever treat any of my kids the way that prick treats us, do me a favor and fuckin' shoot me."
I stopped talking at the exact point that I realized just how much I was saying. How many truths – truths I normally kept locked down so tight I myself was only vaguely aware of them – I was revealing.
"Sorry," I said gruffly, coughing. "I shouldn't have said anything."
"Why not?" Astrid replied, her voice as clear and gentle as the breeze and her eyes focused right on mine. "It's all true, isn't it?"
"Sure," I replied. "My dad might not agree, but it's the truth as I see it."
"Your dad seems like a very unhappy man."
"Maybe he is."
Astrid sat up. "Maybe? Isn't that basically what you just said?"
"I don't know," I replied, suddenly unsure of my own opinions. "I mean, what does he have to be unhappy about? He's rich, his wife is hotter than anyone else's – and believe me, that matters to him – everyone kisses his ass all the time and does whatever he says. What does Jack Devlin actually have to unhappy about?"
"He lost his first wife, didn't he? And it sounds like he comes from a long line of dysfunctional fathers. Even with money, it was probably difficult for him to raise five boys –"
"He didn't fuckin' raise anyone!" I snapped, suddenly angry – and disinclined to feel any sympathy for the father who had so thoroughly screwed me over the night before. "We raised ourselves! Why do you think I'm like this? You think I got this way by myself? And why are you acting like you feel sorry for him, anyway? He was a total asshole to you last night."
There was a strange expression on Astrid's face. It reminded me of something, her eyes just a little wider than usual, her mouth slightly open, a little furrow of baffled hurt on her brow. What was that? Where did I recognize that look from?
Oh shit. Oh – oh fuck.
The sound of my own rushing heartbeat suddenly filled my ears. My fingers tingled with pins and needles. I stumbled to my feet, driven by some primitive Devlin instinct to get away.
But Astrid knew something was wrong.
"Hey," she said, as I knelt back down, cupped my hands in the stream and splashed cold water onto my face. "Cillian. What's wrong? Did I say something wrong?"
"It's not you," I replied, almost too breathless to speak. It was her, though – just not the way she thought. It was that look I saw on her face. "It's not – it's not you. I just, uh – what time is it? We can't stay up here for too long. We have to be out of the trees before it gets dark or we're fucked."
Astrid looked thoroughly confused – and not a little worried. "What is going on?" She asked, slipping her phone out of her pocket to check the time. "Why won't you tell me? And it's 2:30."
2:30. Time to head back down. Better safe than sorry, right?
My head spun as I made my way back to where the horses were tied up, with an obviously confused and upset Astrid behind me. I couldn't even look at her. Couldn't risk seeing that expression again.
"Wait," she said, putting her hand on my forearm as I started to untie the horses. "Wait. Cillian."
I ignored her. I didn't want to ignore her. But I also didn't want her to see how shaken I was.
"Cillian!" She finally yelled, grabbing both my hands. "What the hell?! What is going on right now? Did I say something wrong? We were having a conversation and then you just – you freaked out or something. Tell me what's happening! Please!"
Sometimes, the best way to keep one truth hidden is to conceal it with another truth.
"I don't want you to go!" I burst out, dropping the horse's reins. "Alright? I don't want you to go. I know we fucked up. I know that. I know we s
houldn't have gotten married. I know my dad is a crazy asshole –and I know I'm not perfect, either. But as well as I know those things – and I really do, Astrid, I do – I just... I don't want you to go. I'm not going to try to stop you, that's not what I'm saying. But I don't know how else to put it. I don't know if it's what I should feel or shouldn't feel or if it's right or wrong or any goddamn thing! All I know is I don't want you to go."
She stood in front of me, her arms by her sides and an expression – thankfully not the same one from a few moments ago – I could not read on her face. She smiled, and then frowned slightly.
"I think that might be the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me."
We were facing each other – close but not touching as we tried to read between each other's lines.
"I mean it," I continued, my shoulders slumping a little because I was pretty sure my pleading wasn't going to make a goddamn lick of difference. "I don't want you to go."
Astrid stayed very still, thinking.
Please, I continued in my head, I know it's only been a week and I know this is insane but I already feel like I don't know what I would do without you.
"I don't want to go," she said eventually. "I – I don't know what you think. It feels like you think I'm this perfect person who knows exactly what she wants and exactly what to do all the time."
I laughed quietly. "You do kinda seem like that."
"Well I'm not like that. Not at all. Not even a little bit. This is hard for me too, OK? Like I definitely don't know what to do or –"
"So stay," I broke in, taking her hands in mine and trying to pull her close. "Stay. It's so good between us. I know you feel it too. I know you –"
But she put her hands on my chest, resisting. "It's not that easy. This is real life. I can't just –"
"I know this is real life," I cut in a second time, irritated at what I perceived – in the way life in the Devlin family had trained me to perceive most things – as a slight. "I'm not as stupid as you think I –"
"Oh my God!" She cried, throwing her hands up. "Will you let me finish?! No one is saying you're stupid. I'm trying to tell you what I feel here, OK? Can I do that?"
There was a flush of color in her cheeks, the same flush I was used to seeing after I made her come. My eyes flicked from her cheeks to her eyes, even more gold-toned in the afternoon light than usual, and narrowed slightly in frustration. She was beautiful. I know I keep saying it. It's only because I kept noticing. Every time I saw her from a different angle or in a different light, it's like my brain discovered it anew.
"OK," I said. "OK. I'll shut up. I'm sorry. I just – no, I'm shutting up. Go ahead."
Astrid laughed in spite of herself. "That was difficult for you, wasn't it? Shutting up?"
I grinned sheepishly, unable to deny it.
"So I don't want to go," she continued a moment later, when she was confident I was going to keep my big mouth closed. "I don't. There's a lot going on in my head right now. A lot of reasons – reasons to stay, reasons to go. And then there's what's in my heart – which is that I want to stay. It doesn't feel like we've only known each other for a week – does it?"
I shook my head no, but I forced myself to stay silent.
"And I'm kind of scared of you, to be honest."
She must have seen the look of horror on my face, because she explained herself quickly.
"Not of you, I mean. Of – well, of what you do to me. Of the things you make me feel. It's never felt like this before – with anyone. It's never felt like I could really lose myself. That's scary to me. It's new. I don't know how to deal with it."
That was good – wasn't it? She felt so much for me it scared her?
"But I still have to go."
Fuck.
"I'm not breaking up with you. I'm not saying this is over. Last night I thought maybe it was but that was just me bullshitting myself that whatever this is between us isn't a big deal. But I meant what I said. I have to think. And I can't think with you around. It's like trying to diet in a chocolate factory."
I chuckled at 'trying to diet in a chocolate factory.' She wasn't just beautiful. She was funny. And smart. And everything I knew I didn't deserve but wanted anyway.
"And I need to talk to my parents," she continued. "I let them down and I – I need to face them. I need to face what I've done here, with you. I don't know what's going to happen between us, Cillian. I honestly don't. But I know if we're going to have a chance I have to go home and deal with my life."
Do you, though?
That's what I wanted to ask. It's not like anyone was holding a gun to her head. No one was forcing her to fly back to Florida. Why couldn't she just talk to her parents on the phone?
But at the same time, Astrid's almost quaint insistence on her own personal integrity was one of the things that drew me to her.
"OK," I told her. "I hear you."
I want to say that was the day Cillian Devlin learned patience – but it wasn't. It really, really wasn't. And I still had so much to learn about what patience and strength – and love – really are.
Chapter 20: Astrid
I never saw anything like the western Montana foothills from the lower slopes of the unnamed mountain that marked one boundary of the Devlin Ranch before. Which was strange, because I am what some might call 'well-traveled.' I visited literally every continent by the time I was 20 – including Antarctica, on a private cruise with my parents to mark my father's 40th birthday. I stargazed in the Andes and went on spa and meditation (mostly the spa part) retreats high in the Himalayas – so high I was breathless the whole time.
I was breathless in Montana, too – but it had nothing to do with the elevation.
Montana was different. There were no groomed paths or guides carrying coolers of fresh fruit and macrobiotic salads on that ride up the mountain. There was only Cillian Devlin, with his hilariously ill-constructed sandwiches and his burly shoulders and his shotgun slung over his shoulder like it was the olden days.
There was also, nestled in the golden hills below us, Sweetgrass Ridge. It didn't look like much from where I stood, gazing down from a height. It was little more than a cluster of two and three story brick buildings built along Main Street, a few blocks of houses and apartment buildings beyond that and then, further out, various farms and farm buildings.
This is the place that made Cillian Devlin, I thought to myself as the horses carefully picked their way back down the rock-strewn path. This is where he's lived his whole life, on the edge of this little town that barely seems to make a dent in the landscape.
I was feeling buoyed after our conversation in the meadow. I was so insecure back then. I needed the reassurance of knowing Cillian wanted me to stay. I needed to hear him say it. It made me hopeful that maybe, somehow, we could pull something real and good out of the mess of our impulsive Vegas marriage.
"Didn't you ever want to leave?" I called ahead to him as we rode. "Sweetgrass Ridge, I mean? Not that it's bad. It's just –"
"Small?"
"Yeah."
I watched my husband tilt his head to one side, thinking, as the sunlight filtered down through the pine branches and lit up his broad shoulders and long, golden hair. He really was extraordinarily attractive. I itched to slide down off my horse, run ahead, clutch at the soft, sun-warmed fabric of his shirt until he dismounted and pulled me into his arms...
I didn't, though. I was determined to fly back to Miami that evening. I had to make things right with my parents. I had to figure out what I was going to do. And I couldn't do that when I was around Cillian himself. The deafening drumbeat of desire was too loud.
"Sure," he replied, shifting in the saddle so the shotgun slipped down his back a few inches. "I thought about it a few times."
We kept riding. I mean, forget sex. I couldn't even ride a horse behind that man without falling into a trance of infatuation. Forget the views, too. I couldn't look at anything except him.
"So you t
hought about it?" I prompted a few minutes later. "What did you think?"
"What did I think about what?"
I was pretty sure he knew what I was talking about, but I answered anyway. "About leaving Sweetgrass Ridge – about traveling or living somewhere else."
I liked the way Cillian rode. Upright in the saddle but still at ease, his torso rolling gently from side to side with the horse's movements. I liked that about him in general, to be honest. He had something of a big cat about him, that same almost ostentatious relaxation in a body that speaks to power and strength.
"Well I guess I thought it wasn't worth it, didn't I?"
I smiled at the mild belligerence in his tone, helplessly aroused by it even as I knew I really shouldn't be. He was upset that I was leaving, and he wasn't doing a very good job of hiding it.
"OK." I replied. "We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."
We rode in silence for 5 minutes – or 10, or 20. I say silence, but there was still the sound of the horses' hooves as they clip-clopped slowly back down the mountain. And there was the gentle wind in the pines, the drowsy buzzing of insects. To a city girl, it was as good as silence.
"It's not that I didn't want to leave," Cillian called back to me when we were ensconced in the thickest part of the woods. "And I know I said I thought about it but... I guess I kinda didn't? I knew I could leave – I just didn't see any reason to."
I couldn't wrap my head around that aspect of him. Not seeing other places or other ways of living seemed unthinkable to me. How do you even come to understand – the way you really come to understand things, which is not through reading about them or watching documentaries about them but through experiencing them – that other ways of being even exist? How could Cillian bear to live in such a small world for so long?
"The Devlins are pretty attached to this place," he continued, considering what he was saying. "The land, you could say. We're attached to the land. We belong here. It's like you were saying before, about being from a place you truly know. About – what was the word?"
"Rootedness."
"Yeah. That."
