The Devil in the Saddle

by Julia London

“He offered to go,” Nick clarified. “He said he could see the handwriting on the wall. He was looking at retirement anyway. He was seventy-four.”

  Rick, long and lanky, with a face like creased leather after a life spent outdoors, had taught Nick and Rafe how to ride and cut cattle back when they’d been strapping teens and free labor. There was no such thing as a cowboy school around here—you learned it on the job. At Three Rivers, you learned it from the best. “I am really sorry to hear it,” Rafe said genuinely.

  “Last I saw him, he was heading up to Colorado to fish. Hey, you need a job?” Nick asked, smiling again. “I can hook you up. Pay sucks, but there’s work.”

  Rafe laughed. “I’m good, thanks. I told Dad I’d help out until the end of the year. I’ve got one more final, and then I’ll have my degree, and then I’m out of here.”

  “Dude,” Nick said with a shake of his head. “I can’t believe you’re getting a degree in social work. Who would have guessed it?”

  Rafe thought Nick might have guessed it if he’d thought about it. Rafe’s longest part-time job in high school had been working with underprivileged kids. And then, in the army, he’d been lucky enough to meet a couple of like-minded buddies who were also into martial arts. Buddies who, like him, had watched more young adults wash out of the army than should have. It seemed like so many of the young guys coming into the service were ill prepared. They’d been brought up on video games. Rafe and his best friends Jason and Chaco wanted to give back. They wanted to start a program for underprivileged kids, to give them alternatives to gangs, to drugs, to poor choices in general. To make them strong.

  “I always thought you’d go into martial arts,” Nick said. “I still have a headache from that kick to the teeth you gave me,” he said, rubbing his jaw. “Hurt like hell.”

  “I don’t remember why I kicked you, but I’m sure you deserved it,” Rafe said with a grin. “And I am going into martial arts. But with a degree.”

  “Chicago, right?” Nick asked.

  Rafe nodded. Their plan was to open a gym on the south side of Chicago. They’d consulted with one of Rafe’s professors and designed a program that would teach boxing and martial arts. They would partner with organizations to provide life-skills training. Rafe was a firm believer in the practice of martial arts, and he credited it with keeping him away from bad influences when he was a teen. His younger brother, Rico, had not been so lucky. Rico had run with the wrong crowd and had worked for a time as a petty thug. He’d matured out of that scene, but was left with what had all the markings of a lifelong battle with alcoholism if he didn’t get it together.

  Rafe’s buddy Jason Corona was from Chicago. His dad was some muckety-muck in construction there, and he and Jason had secured grant funding from the city’s parks and recreation department to get their program up and running. Jason, Rafe, and Chaco Jones, the third Army Ranger, were all putting in their savings to renovate an old office space that Jason and his dad had found. Rafe had lived lean the last few years and had saved everything he’d made from the army, and then, after he retired from the service, he’d saved what he’d made from his work at an organization for the intellectually and developmentally disabled. The GI Bill had paid for his schooling. When it was all said and done, the three of them managed to scrape together what they needed to get started. But it was apparent to Rafe that fundraising would have to be a top priority for them, and that was not something any of them had any experience with.

  “That’s awesome, Rafe,” Nick said. “I have to admit, I’m a little envious that you’re leaving the ranch to pursue something you like. This place can turn into a millstone around your neck if you’re not careful,” he said, and smiled as if that were a joke. But Rafe knew it wasn’t. “I’d like to see more of the world than this seventy thousand acres, but it’s not looking good,” Nick added with a rueful smile.

  Nick had wanted to be a pilot since they were kids. The ranch had a private airstrip for Nick’s two private planes. Well, one now. Rafe’s dad said Nick had sold one recently.

  Nick glanced down at Rafe’s clothes. He still had on the jeans he’d worn to herd those cows back through the fence. They were dirty, and his shirt was rumpled from where Hallie had been sleeping on him. “What did you say you were doing here so early?”

  “Oh,” Rafe said, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I thought I’d check in on Hallie.” It was a small lie, but a necessary one.

  “Why?” Nick said.

  “Last night, Dad and I rode out to round up the Creedy cows—”

  “They got out again?” Nick asked, and sighed wearily.

  “Yep. When I came back, your sister was trying to get in her car. I say ‘trying’ because she’d been at the bottle and had in mind she was going to drive to Houston.”

  “What?” Nick looked confused. “Hallie doesn’t drink,” he said, as if Rafe were very wrong about this, as if Rafe had completely misunderstood.

  Rafe shrugged. “She did last night.”

  Nick groaned heavenward. “She’s been a wreck since her engagement was called off. She was totally in love with that asshole.” He paused a moment. “I guess you heard about that.”

  “I hadn’t until last night.” But then he’d heard about it, all right. Hallie announced that she’d walked in on her doctor fiancé pumping away into one of her bridesmaids. She told him that the doctor had begged her not to call it off, apparently sans pants and with his limp penis on display.

  Admittedly, Hallie’s recounting of it was half sloppy drunk and half jilted bride, but Rafe gathered that the doctor had tried to convince Hallie that his infidelity was a one-off, that he’d been stressed, that she’d been away at the ranch for long periods of time, and what was he supposed to do? It was a dick move for the guy to try to tie his cheating to Hallie’s absence in some way. Rafe had never even laid eyes on this man and hated him.

  “She’ll be all right,” Nick said. “Hey, we should grab a beer and catch up.”

  “That would be great,” Rafe said.

  “I’ll call you.” Nick clapped his shoulder again, and then walked on.

  Rafe watched him disappear into the shaded path to the house before turning toward the stables, where he’d left his truck.

  He and Nick used to be close, but they’d drifted apart when Rafe joined the army, and Rafe hadn’t felt the need to repeat everything Hallie said last night. He recalled her pretty face, red and splotchy from all her crying. “I’m going to Houston right now, and I’m going to tell him how he’s ruined my life while it’s all clear in my mind,” she’d said, jabbing a finger into her temple, in case Rafe was uncertain where her mind was.

  He’d had to put his hand on her elbow to steady her. “I don’t think anything is clear to you right now,” he’d said. “Why don’t we get something to eat? You’ll need all your energy to tell him off, right?”

  “You don’t get it, Rafe!” Hallie had shouted angrily, and grabbed his shirt with both fists, shaking him. “Luca is getting married before me! Luca!”

  Rafe had not understood the significance of that. “Okay,” he’d said cautiously, holding his arms wide, because he’d had no idea which way she was going to sway next. “How about that sandwich?”

  “No,” she’d shouted, and shoved him hard, stumbling backward when she did, then swaying toward him again. “What kind of sandwich? Not peanut butter.”

  “Ham?”

  She’d glared at him as if she’d suspected some sort of trickery. “Okay,” she’d said at last, and pointed at him. “But then I’m going to Houston.”

  “Got it.” He’d steered her inside—no small feat given her shoe situation and her general inability to navigate at that point—and poured her into one of the high-backed chairs at the kitchen island with the gleaming marble top. He’d called out to her mother twice before Hallie told him to stop yelling. “She’s not here. N
o one is here. They are all out living their fabulous lives while mine is crumbling.” And then she’d put her head down on the bar.

  She’d continued to mumble while Rafe opened the fridge and rummaged around until he found some turkey. He’d made her a sandwich, one guaranteed to soak up some of the alcohol, but he’d ended up eating that sandwich, because by the time he’d finished making it, Hallie was melting off the barstool, dissolving into tears.

  So he’d picked her up in one arm, had the sandwich in the other hand, and he’d taken her up to her room and laid her on her bed. He’d put the sandwich on the nightstand beside her. He’d turned to leave, but her hand had shot out and she’d gripped his thigh. “Don’t go,” she’d said, her hazel eyes pleading with him. “Please don’t go.”

  Rafe had stood there, his pulse ratcheting up. He’d stared at her hand on his thigh. He shouldn’t have been there in her room, and yet, he hadn’t had the heart to leave her like that. “You know I can’t stay here with you, Hallie.”

  “I don’t want to be alone right now,” she’d pleaded with him. “I think too much when I’m alone. Look what happens when I think too much,” she’d said, waving a hand at herself.

  He’d studied her a moment. “You raise a valid point,” he’d agreed. And he’d stayed.

  Rafe reached his truck, got in the driver’s seat, and started the engine. But he didn’t drive on—he stared into space, thinking about last night. Thinking about how he’d sat up in bed beside her, and she’d snuggled in next to him like he was a stuffed animal. It was nothing. They were friends. They’d been friends a very long time.

  But also, they were not friends.

  Frankly, it had been very uncomfortable for Rafe, but only for him, because he hadn’t known what to do. He didn’t like that feeling. He always knew what to do. Until it came to Hallie, and in that respect, he was always going blind. She was passed out on him, her head on his chest, her strawberry blond hair spilling over his arm, a tear or two still leaking from her eyes as she slept off her drunk.

  For years, it had been like this with the two of them. Hallie turning to him for help.

  And him quietly, privately, and desperately in love with her.

  Chapter Three

  “What in the Sam Hill are you still doing in bed, Hallie?”

  Hallie forced her eyes open and met her grandmother’s blue-eyed gaze through the frames of her red and purple eyeglasses. Those glasses were a little jarring next to the pink and blue hair. “Grandma, I told you—one color at a time,” Hallie croaked.

  “It’s almost eleven, girl! You need to get up. And what are you doing in that dress?”

  Hallie blinked the sleep from her eyes. Her grandmother was wearing a T-shirt that said “Make love, not war.” Also jarring. “It’s a long story,” she said, and managed to push up to sitting.

  “Dolly!”

  Hallie froze. That bellowing voice belonged to her mother.

  “Oh boy, here we go,” Grandma muttered.

  A moment later, Hallie’s mother appeared at the threshold of her room, wearing a pinched expression that clearly telegraphed her displeasure with something.

  Cordelia Applewhite Prince presented a stark contrast to Hallie’s grandmother. She had collar-length blond hair that she wore slicked back in a very stylish manner. She wore slim capris that showcased her very trim ankles, and a crisp white shirt tucked artfully into only one side of her capris. It was supposed to be a casual sort of look, but on her mother, it looked like she’d been done up by fashion editors.

  Her mother looked at Hallie, then at her grandmother. Then at Hallie again. “Why are you still in bed, and why are you sleeping in your wedding dress?”

  “It’s not my wedding dress, it’s one of the reception dresses, obviously,” Hallie protested.

  “You smell like whiskey,” Grandma offered. “Not that I’m judging. I like a two-finger pour now and again.”

  “I smell like tequila,” Hallie corrected her as she rubbed her eyes. They felt so sticky. Oh, right—she still had on makeup.

  “I don’t understand,” her mother said, and walked into her room, tripping over something on the floor and quickly righting herself. She gracefully folded her arms over her middle and glared at Hallie.

  Hallie wondered briefly what she’d done in a previous life to deserve this family at this moment. “There’s nothing to understand, Mother, other than I accidentally drank too much.”

  “I didn’t think you drank at all,” her mother said. “And certainly not in formal wear.”

  “Well, Mom, what is the appropriate attire for tying one on?” Hallie asked weakly. “I don’t drink. Hence the bed,” she said, gesturing around her. “Hence the massive headache,” she added, pointing to her head.

  Her mother frowned. And then she turned her attention to Hallie’s grandmother. “Dolly? May I please ask what is the meaning of the two potted cedars that you forced Martin to drag up to the family cemetery?”

  “You may,” Hallie’s grandmother said graciously. “After Thanksgiving, I’m going to decorate them for Christmas.”

  Hallie’s mother gasped loudly. “Over my dead body.”

  “People decorate roadside cedars all the time,” Grandma responded.

  “My husband’s grave is not a roadside attraction.”

  “Well, my son’s grave is,” Grandma countered.

  “Guys? My head is throbbing,” Hallie reminded them.

  They were talking about a grave in a small family cemetery, a short walk up the hill from the house, where generations of Princes had been buried on a grassy little mesa beneath a copse of live oak and pecan trees competing for space. For reasons no one understood, Hallie’s mother had taken to going up there after they’d buried the ashes of Hallie’s father earlier this year. She sat next to his grave for long periods and talked to him, as if he were sitting right there. She’d gone up there so often that she’d installed a couple of lawn chairs, a patio umbrella, and an old cooler that Martin kept stocked with water and wine coolers. It was bizarre, especially because Hallie’s parents had been separated at the time of his passing.

  It was even more bizarre now that Grandma was tagging along and making it a really weird threesome.

  “I will not allow it, Dolly!” her mother said, her voice rising with indignation.

  “Who made you queen of Christmas?” Hallie’s grandmother snapped.

  “Not the queen of Christmas, the queen of the cemetery!” her mother declared, and, as far as Hallie could tell, was quite serious.

  “Could you please stop arguing?” Hallie put her hands to her ears.

  “What’s going on in here?”

  Well, call the drum major, because the marching band was assembled in her room. Hallie’s twin, Luca, sauntered in like the sheriff at the OK Corral arriving to break up a bar fight. He paused, wrinkled his nose, and looked around. “What’s that smell?” When no one answered him, he looked at Hallie and asked, “Why do you look like that?”

  Hallie loved her twin more than most anyone, but sometimes he could be a little obtuse. “Why do you think?” she asked darkly.

  He studied her. Then he shook his head. “I don’t . . . I’m not getting it.”

  “She’s hungover, Lucas,” Hallie’s grandmother said with great exasperation. She had long insisted on calling him Lucas, despite that not being his name. She liked the name Lucas better, she said, but they all knew that the only reason she called him that was to annoy Hallie’s mother, who had never gotten over a cousin naming her baby Lucas a month or two before Hallie and Luca were born.

  “Hungover?” Luca snorted. “Hallie doesn’t drink.”

  “But I did, and now I look and apparently smell like this,” Hallie said. “So now that we’ve established what is wrong with me, could everyone please leave and let me die in peace?”

  “I
t’s not the Prince way to let people die in peace,” Grandma said matter-of-factly.

  “I’m worried about you, Hallie,” her mother said. “This drinking is troublesome.”

  Hallie’s indignation came out half bark, half laugh. “Are you kidding me right now, Mom? I drink too much one night, and you’re going to lecture me when we all know your happy hour generally starts at noon?”

  “That is a gross exaggeration,” her mother said defensively.

  “Mom, give her a break,” Luca said. “She’s going through some stuff.”

  “If you ask me, Christopher Davenport is just winning this thing left and right,” Grandma offered, referring to Hallie’s ex-fiancé. “If Hallie drinks herself near to death in her wedding gown, that bastard is winning.”

  “I’m not . . . it’s not—why are you all in my room right now?” Hallie cried.

  Not one person moved.

  There was no getting through to these people. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she announced. Still, no one moved. So she gave them a couple of good preludes to a full-blown dry heave.

  “Oh no,” her grandmother said, and hurried to the door, pushing Hallie’s mother out before her. “Luca, get her a bowl or something. Let us know if you need anything, sweetie!”

  “I’m going to heat up some soup for you!” Hallie’s mother said as she hurried out with Grandma.

  Luca looked at Hallie. She looked at him. His eyes narrowed. She made an exaggerated gagging sound. “Yeah, okay,” he said, throwing up a hand. “I know when I’m not wanted.” He walked out.

  When they’d gone, Hallie rolled over to the edge of her bed. Something thudded to the floor, and when she leaned over to see what, she spotted the book Sideways. She’d read the book a long time ago. Rafe must have taken it down to read last night. She leaned over and picked it up and laid it on the bed. Then she gingerly moved her legs over the side and stood up, testing her stability. Okay, she could stand without the room spinning.

  That’s when she realized she was standing on something soft and looked down again—this time, she spotted a pair of leather work gloves peeking out from beneath her toes. She moved one foot and stared down at them. They weren’t hers—those gloves were very large and well-worn. She picked them up and put them on top of the book. And then she slowly, carefully, made her way into the bathroom and ran a hot bath.