The Cowboy's Convenient Wife

by Joanna Bell

  I had been about to say that I wasn't even sure I wanted to end it – which I wasn't. It's not like I thought my parents were wrong or that marrying Cillian wasn't nuts. It was. But I still wasn't sure I wanted to end it. The feeling after being away from him for 3 days was one of coming back to earth, of the day after a childhood birthday party you've waited all year for. I missed him. He hadn't even called me – there had been no apology for how he acted at the airport – but I missed him anyway. I couldn't help it.

  "Is he?" My dad asked, wiping his mouth with his napkin and taking a sip of wine.

  "Is he what?"

  "Rich?"

  "Yes," I nodded. "His family owns a huge ranch – Devlin Ranch. They raise grass-fed beef. Trust me, they're really well-off, I don't think you guys have to worry about my 'assets' at all."

  "His family owns the ranch?" My father continued, zeroing in, as he always does, on the financial information. "Or he owns the ranch?"

  "His family," I clarified. "But he'll inherit it. He might even inherit it soon."

  "The whole thing? Didn't you just say he has 4 brothers?"

  I don't know why my dad was so worried about Cillian's inheritance. It's not like I didn't have resources of my own. It's not like I wasn't the only child of a billionaire.

  But it wasn't really about money. Well – it was and it wasn't. It was about expectations and masculinity and my parents' slightly old-fashioned ideas of what a man should do, how he should live. Somehow it was OK that I was drifting through life. It was OK that I reached 23 years old without ever holding down a real job. But it wasn't OK for Cillian. Neither of them had to say it loud, I just knew it was what they were thinking.

  "Yes," I replied. "Four brothers. But the way it works in his family is only one inherits the ranch. They don't break it up."

  "And how do they decide who inherits?"

  "The oldest son," I continued, reaching somewhat desperately for my wine glass. "Just like the royal family."

  I thought I might get a laugh for that line about the royal family but neither of my parents even cracked a smile.

  My mother muttered something about sexism and shot my dad a look. But my dad was still intent on drilling right down into the facts of the Devlin family fortune.

  "So this boy you've married – he's the oldest son"

  "He's 26," I replied defensively. "He's not a boy. And yes – I mean no, he's not technically the oldest son. But his older brother left the family so for all intents and purposes Cillian is the oldest. He will be the one who inherits the whole –"

  "I'm sorry," my mom cut in. "His brother 'left the family?' What does that mean?"

  "I don't know!" I replied. "There was some kind of rift or fight – I don't know the details but he left years ago. Cillian is the one who will inherit."

  My parents exchanged another look, hardly bothering to conceal it from me. It made me feel like a misbehaving little girl – which is arguably what I was if you take out the 'little' part.

  The conversation died away for a few minutes after dessert arrived. I knew what my mom and dad wanted. They wanted me to admit that marrying Cillian was a huge mistake, and then agree to have their lawyers get started on rectifying it – drafting divorce papers, in other words.

  It wasn't like I thought they were totally wrong. I didn't even know if Cillian and I were still talking – which is just slightly ridiculous when you remember the part that we were married. I just didn't want to be patronized. I didn't want to be told what to do. I wanted to be trusted to handle my own life for once – even if I myself would have admitted I hadn't done very much to earn that particular privilege.

  My mom's phone chimed and she took it out of her purse to check it.

  "The car's sorted out," she told my dad, swiping through a message. "Straight from the airport to the boat. It'll be there when we land."

  "Where are you going?" I asked, hoping for a less fraught topic to discuss.

  "Brazil," she replied, putting her phone away again. "Sailing down the Amazon on a riverboat – Daisy Fletcher says it's the best trip she's taken for years."

  "And we're leaving tomorrow at 6 a.m." my father added, "so it would be helpful if you –"

  "If I decided what I want to do with the rest of my life before then?" I asked, immediately regretting the petulant tone in my voice.

  But instead of being annoyed my dad just laughed. "Actually, Astrid – yes. Yes that would be very helpful."

  "We know you're smart," my mom picked up where her husband left off. "So we know that you know the odds of this going anywhere are slim. You do know that, don't you?"

  Both of them stared at me, waiting for an answer.

  "Yes," I replied. "I know. I know the odds are slim. But I – I'm just not ready to let you make this decision for me, OK? Cillian didn't want me to come back here alone, you know. He wanted to come with me – he wanted to meet you. But I told him I had to talk to you – and that I had to think. By myself, I mean. And I'm sorry but I'm not done thinking yet – and I'm not going to make any decisions until I am."

  "Well," my mother said, shaking her head. "I hope it doesn't take long, Astrid. I really hope it doesn't. How long do you think you can keep this under wraps, anyway? It'll get out sometime. It'll get out that you're married, and then it'll get out that you're divorced and I'm not sure you understand how that will affect your prospects."

  "Oh my God," I rolled my eyes. "Mom, it's not the olden days anymore."

  "You're right," my dad said. "It isn't. But your mother is right, too. A divorced woman – especially a young divorced woman – is not the same thing as a never-married woman. You may not like it, you may think it's old-fashioned, but it happens to be true – especially in our circles. This isn't good, you know. Your mother and I talked about this before we came here tonight. We agreed to listen to what you had to say, to respect your thoughts and feelings – as we always have. But this isn't good. You don't know this man at all! You don't know he'll even inherit the family ranch – what if his brother comes back from California tomorrow? What then? You spend the rest of your life supporting him? Is that what you want for yourself? Is that what –"

  "William," my mother said gently, reaching out and putting her hand on my dad's as his voice got loud enough to cause a couple of people at the next table to look our way.

  They were disappointed. And they were upset, even though they were trying to hide just how much.

  "I'll figure it out," I said, looking first my dad and then my mom in the eye. "Alright? I'll figure it out. I know you're not happy about this and I feel like crap about it. I didn't do this to hurt you – I hate that this hurts you! But you need to let me decide what I'm going to do. Please. Please trust me to do that."

  If my parents trusted me to make decisions, though, we wouldn't have been having that dinner in the first place.

  We parted ways at the restaurant and a car brought me back to my condo.

  I gazed out the window during the drive, imagining what Cillian would think of Miami. What he would think of the palm trees and the heat and the pastel-colored buildings. What he would whisper in my ear if he was sitting right next to me at that very moment. What we would do when we got back to my place...

  But he hadn't called – or messaged – since I got back. And I couldn't get that 'screw you' out of my head, couldn't erase the coldness of his tone from my memory.

  Back home, as I was walking slump-shouldered towards the elevators, Jackie called out to me from the front desk.

  "Miss Walker! Don't forget this!"

  Oh yeah, the envelope. I tucked it under my arm and made my way back up to my apartment. Inside, everything looked the way it always looked when I came home from a night out: dark, because I didn't leave lights on. Empty, because I lived alone and did not have any pets. Clean, because my cleaning service was ruthlessly efficient.

  I flicked on the light in the kitchen and stood there, shivering slightly despite it being a warm evening. My kit
chen reminded me of Darcy Devlin's but on a smaller scale. It had the same unlived-in spotlessness to it, the same shiny, expensive, never-used appliances. I kicked off my shoes and walked into the living room, setting my purse and the envelope down on the coffee table and stepping out onto the balcony. In the bay, the water was calm. A single yacht was headed back to the dock, and I could see a few people on deck. If I listened very carefully, I could hear the sounds – but not the individual words – of their conversation.

  Your body can actually ache from loneliness. Physically, I mean. It's a real, physical sensation. I didn't know that before I met Cillian Devlin. During those first days back in Miami I kept doing this thing where my mind would assume I was coming down with something – a flu or a cold – and it would take a few seconds for my consciousness to kick in and remind me that no, I wasn't sick. I was just lonely.

  Eventually I walked back inside and flopped into one of the white leather Barcelona chairs my mother had insisted upon, even though they weren't really my style. I took my phone out of my bag to check, once again, that I hadn't missed a call or a message from Cillian in the ten or so minutes I'd been on the balcony.

  I hadn't. There was nothing from him. A flash of anger ran through my heart. That last day with him was so perfect. And it was already, only a few days later, starting to feel almost as if none of it really happened. The bear on the mountain, the sex afterwards in the stables. Surely I imagined it? Surely the man who took such good care of me, who made love to me like there was no one else in the world except the two of us – surely that was not the same man who spoke so heartlessly only a few hours later?

  But it was. It was the same man.

  I put my phone back down on the table and picked up the brown envelope, tearing it open not because I was interested in what was inside but because it was a very minor distraction from how awful I felt.

  At first, I actually thought it was empty. I reached inside and didn't feel anything. I then peered inside and spotted, tucked into the very bottom, a piece of paper folded in half. I pulled it out and unfolded it and right away, almost before my brain had time to register what I was reading, my heart rose into my throat.

  Typed at the top of the page – each word capitalized and bolded – was the following sentence:

  Cillian Devlin Is Not Who You Think He Is

  I skimmed my eyes down to the bottom, looking for a signature, or for any clue as to who the sender might be. There were none. No signature, no identification at the top, not even a date. I grabbed the envelope itself and examined it. No postmarks, no stamps, nothing. Someone delivered it by hand.

  Under the headline, typed out in two paragraphs, was a short letter:

  Cillian Devlin is not a good man. Cillian Devlin drugged his own brother (Jackson Devlin) and broke up his relationship with his pregnant girlfriend.

  Cillian Devlin is the reason Jackson Devlin left Sweetgrass Ridge and his family. Cillian Devlin was always jealous of Jackson. He ruined his life and forced him to leave his Home. Do not stay with Cillian Devlin if you want to be Happy. He is an evil man. He is a Liar.

  There was nothing else. I flipped over the piece of paper and checked the back, but it was as blank as the space where there should have been a signature. At first, I almost laughed. It was a joke – right? It had to be a joke. The awkward wording, the strange capitalization? Cillian probably had some enemies in Sweetgrass Ridge. It wouldn't be surprising at all, a man like that having enemies. Not all people feel fondly predisposed to those who seem blessed with everything: looks, money, status etc.

  I set the piece of paper down on the coffee table the way you might set down a cup of too-hot coffee that is starting to scald your fingers.

  Who else could it be but someone holding a grudge against Cillian?

  I drew my knees up to my chest, though, as I remembered the conversation with Séan on the night of the awful meet-the-family dinner. I recalled his odd tone, the insistent questions about whether or not Cillian told me what "happened" with Jackson.

  There was also that one-word enquiry when I confirmed that I had, indeed, married his brother:

  "Why?"

  I reached out and picked up the letter again. The paper shook slightly in my hand as I re-read it.

  Something did happen between Cillian and his older brother. I realized, as I sat there alone in my condo, that I already knew that. Cillian was so obviously avoidant of the topic. I remembered his anger in the truck on the way to the airport, when I tried to bring it up.

  That doesn't mean the letter is true, though. You don't know what happened. And you have no idea who sent this.

  I clung to that possibility. The possibility – indeed, the probability, at that point – that the information in the strange letter was simply a lie. Perhaps by sent by some jealous boyfriend of a girl Cillian hooked up with – or maybe from one of the girls themselves. He never told me how many there were, but I knew the number wasn't low.

  Suddenly thirsty, I got up and went into the kitchen to get a glass of water. And as I did so, something my dad said during dinner suddenly came back to me. I remembered him saying it – I think I even remembered noticing him saying it – but then being too distracted by the rest of the conversation to question him.

  "What if his brother comes back from California tomorrow?"

  I stopped stock still in front of the fridge.

  What if Cillian's brother comes back from California tomorrow? How does dad know Jackson Devlin is in California?

  I know what my parents do. I know what my dad does. I know how he – how they – earned their fortune. I know he borrowed money from a well-off uncle to build his first block of condos. I know he paid it back 2 years later when he sold the building and built another bigger, more expensive one in a better neighborhood. And I know he kept doing that until 1 building became 2 and then 3 and then he added a luxury tower in Sydney and another in Toronto and I found myself being driven to school in an armored SUV with blacked out windows.

  I'm not saying my dad is shady – as far as I know everything is perfectly above board. But I do know he has a ruthless side he tries to keep hidden from me. I know he has been sued many times. I also know there is more than one person out there who deeply regrets ever crossing paths with William Walker.

  There was one man in particular, when I was in ninth grade, who sued my dad for a huge amount of money. Enough money that, had he won the case, well, let's just say I would have gone back to riding the school bus to school.

  My parents didn't tell me about that man – or the lawsuit. I found out about it entirely by coincidence, flipping through one of those boring grown-up magazines at my dad's office as I waited for him one day after school.

  It was a short piece – just a mention, really. But it was the headline that caught my eye:

  Rumors of Blackmail Swirl Around William Walker Lawsuit

  I was so naive back then I actually had to look up the definition of 'blackmail.' And then, after we got home that night and I was alone in my room, I looked into the 'rumors' on the internet.

  That's all they were. Rumors. Nothing was ever proven. The man suing my dad, who dropped the lawsuit at the last minute, hinted that he had been threatened – but he never went further than that. There were reports for a year or two, always attributed to anonymous sources, that my dad paid someone to dig up dirt on his opponent. I knew about those reports because I followed the story – secretly, obviously – for a few years, until it died away.

  And then I forgot all about it until I was 16 and my dad moved into a new office – at the very top of one of his own brand new towers in downtown Miami. The office was close to my school and once or twice a week I would walk there after class and wait for my father to finish work so we could grab a secret fast food burger – which my mother would not have approved of – together.

  I arrived one afternoon to find the door to my dad's office open and no one – not my dad, not his secretary, none of his team – arou
nd. It wasn't anything too unusual, it wasn't like I wasn't allowed into his office. When I got in there, though, I noticed another door was open – and that door, made of steel and requiring a fingerprint scan to open – was never open. I didn't have any idea what was behind it.

  So of course I immediately peeked.

  It was boxes. Just boxes, piled up from the move. And a few cabinets, all with the same fingerprint scanners as the one on the door. I remember the feeling of disappointment at the lack of piles of gold bars, the dearth of chests filled with colored gems and treasure. I remember taking a few steps into the room, and then examining some of the boxes. They had stickers on them – stickers from the company in charge of the move into the new office. One of them was peeling off. I reached out, took the curling edge between my fingers, and pulled it. When it came off in my hand I quickly glanced behind me, to make sure I was still alone.

  I was. The office was still deserted – except for me. I took another step inside the box-filled room and reached out once more. That time, I took the lid off one of the boxes. Inside, there was a stack of papers. I looked over my shoulder one more time and then took the top paper off the stack. It was blank. So was the second, and the third. The fourth was a photocopied image of the man I immediately recognized as the one who sued my dad years ago. The man my dad was rumored to have blackmailed.

  The man wasn't alone in the image. There was another man with him, standing right behind him. The photo was only of the two of them from the waist up, but both were shirtless. And the man behind, from what I could tell from the position of his arm, was reaching down, around my dad's legal rival, and doing – something – to him.

  My cheeks began to tingle as I looked at the next piece of paper. It was another photo. In that one, one of the men was bent over a table, and the other was – my eyes flicked downwards. I'm pretty sure I know what I saw. I was 16. A pampered, protected and innocent 16? Yes. But I had the internet. And I knew all about what adults got up to with each other. It wasn't what I think I saw on that black and white photocopy that bothered me. It was what the existence of the image said about my dad.