An Arranged Marriage

by Peggy Moreland

  * * *

  CLUB TIMES

  For Members’ Eyes Only

  Bachelor Beware!

  There must be something in the water to cause all these pregnancies and marriages in Mission Creek. I’ve done some initial testing in my love laboratory, but results are inconclusive. Oh, I’m pulling your leg, members. I’m no scientist, but I have put three of the LSCC’s cleaning ladies on “Wedding Ring Watch” to smoke out the bachelors. By the way, Clay Martin, we’re giving you a head start! Some lucky gal’s gonna lasso you sooner or later!

  Isn’t Daisy Parker doing a swell job serving you all? Why, it seems only months ago we had a time of it understanding her Texas twang, and now she’s like family. Last thing, Daisy, we’d like to recommend Rosie’s hair salon near the edge of town. They do a great dye job on some of the local ladies, so you don’t have to worry so much about your roots.

  I won’t name names, but the rascally daughter of Ford Carson was found in someone’s back seat the other night. An LSCC gardener was watering the rosebushes when he heard some giggling in the north parking lot. He’s been sworn to secrecy about the identity of the lady in question, but c’mon, we all know who it was….

  As always, members, make your best stop of the day right here at the Lone Star Country Club!

  * * *

  About the Author

  PEGGY MORELAND

  published her first romance with Silhouette in 1989 and continues to delight readers with stories set in her home state of Texas. Peggy is the winner of a National Readers’ Choice Award, a nominee for the Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Award and a two-time finalist for the prestigious RITA® Award. Her books frequently appear on the USA TODAY and Waldenbooks bestseller lists.

  Though Peggy has written over thirty books for Silhouette, An Arranged Marriage is her first experience in coordinating her efforts with such a large number of talented authors. She found the process both intriguing and challenging, and enjoyed researching the duties of the Texas Rangers organization.

  When not writing, Peggy can usually be found out on her ranch, tending the cattle, goats and other critters she and her husband raise. You may write to Peggy at P.O. Box 1099, Florence, TX 76527-1099, or e-mail her at peggy@peggymoreland.com.

  PEGGY MORELAND

  AN ARRANGED MARRIAGE

  Welcome to the

  Where Texas society reigns supreme—and appearances are everything.

  They came from very different worlds…but had more in common than they ever imagined.

  Clay Martin: He’s the only man in Mission Creek who can rein in a bratty little princess. So when the great Carson patriarch makes him an offer he can’t refuse…an offer involving money, marriage and a beautiful future wife…Clay is definitely up for the challenge.

  Fiona Carson: She’s spent her entire life getting what she wants, especially from her daddy. And although men have always fallen at her feet, her “husband” is not so easily swayed. Could it be that the spoiled heiress has met her match—and fallen head over heels in love?

  Tyler Murdoch: A mercenary on a dangerous mission, he’s been sent into the jungles of Central America and must rely solely on his skills and courage to keep him safe. But will he also be able to protect the gorgeous Hispanic interpreter who’s been sent to assist him, and who has become a major distraction?

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  One

  Mission Creek, Texas, was no booming metropolis by any stretch of the imagination. Tucked between Corpus Christi and Laredo, its origins dated back more than a hundred years, when it was nothing more than a trading post for the ranches surrounding it. In spite of its modest size and humble beginnings, the town was filled with enough crime, corruption and scandal to keep the scriptwriters for Law & Order in new material for years. Perhaps even enough to justify the filming of a Godfather IV, since the mob was involved in the majority of the shady goings-on around town.

  Most of the dramas played out at the Lone Star Country Club, a two-thousand acre spread situated on land donated by the Carsons and the Wainwrights, two of the area’s earliest families to settle here. Oddly enough, the donation of the land might well have been the families’ last friendly venture, since the Carsons and the Wainwrights had been locked in a feud that stretched as far back as most folks’ memories.

  The recent marriage of Matt Carson and Rose Wainwright hadn’t ended the feud or lessened the hatred, but it had served as a momentary distraction from a six-month-old mystery—or scandal depending on the results of paternity tests a certain golfing foursome was undergoing. Or at least three of them were. The fourth, Luke Callaghan, absent from that particular morning’s round of golf, was currently in a military hospital in Central America, recovering from injuries he’d received while trying to rescue his former military commander from terrorists, and was unaware that he’d been targeted for a paternity test.

  A baby left on the ninth tee of the golf course for the father to find was shocking news even for a Peyton Place like Mission Creek. The note attached to the infant, with the only decipherable words being “this is your baby girl,” had everyone in town laying bets as to which one of the golfing foursome had sired the abandoned child and clucking their tongues over the unidentified mother’s lack of maternal instincts.

  Murder? Corruption? An abandoned baby?

  This wasn’t the Mission Creek Clay Martin remembered from his youth, and it certainly wasn’t the peaceful environment he’d sought when, disillusioned with life, he’d ended his military career early, accepted a job as a Texas Ranger and made the long trek back to Texas. But changed or not, Mission Creek was home, and Clay was determined to do his part in bringing law and order back to the town.

  At the moment, though, he was officially off duty and nursing a beer at the bar in the Lone Star Country Club’s Men’s Grill. The building itself was a temporary structure built to replace the original Men’s Grill destroyed by a bomb several months prior. In spite of its stopgap status, the bar still managed to reflect the discriminating tastes of the club’s wealthy members.

  Unfortunately Clay wasn’t one of them.

  By all rights, he knew he could be arrested for trespassing. Only card-carrying, dues-paying members were allowed admittance to the prestigious country club’s facilities, and Clay didn’t have the pedigree or the portfolio to even apply—two small details he didn’t see changing any time in the foreseeable future.

  The rich get richer, while the poor keep digging themselves deeper and deeper into debt, he thought with more than a little resentment. That was one thing about Mission Creek that hadn’t changed over the years.

  The sharp clack of pool balls being hit carried from an adjoining room, followed by a loud whoop, grabbing Clay’s attention. The Billiard Room, he thought with a huff of disgust as his gaze settled on the stained-glass sign hanging above the arched opening. Why the hell couldn’t they call it what it was, instead of slapping a fancy, five-dollar name on it? It was a pool hall, the same as hundreds of other smoke-filled rooms he’d frequented around the world, where men hung out, drinking beer and shooting eight-ball with their buddies.

  But those other pool halls hadn’t been outfitted with leather chairs, heavy brass light fixtures and etched glass, he reminded himself as he gave the room a cursory glance.

  With a woeful shake of his head, he drained his beer, then lifted a finger, signaling the bartend
er to bring him another. Within seconds a pilsner of foaming beer was sitting in front of him. Clay chuckled as the bartender moved away.

  Member or not, it seemed when a Texas Ranger asked for something, he got it. Fast.

  With the exception of the money this particular Texas Ranger needed to hold on to his family’s ranch.

  His amusement faded at the reminder of his current financial woes. Curling his fingers around the glass, he scowled at the golden liquid, wondering how in hell he was going to come up with the money he needed to turn his family’s ranch into a profitable business. Not on a Ranger’s salary, that was for sure.

  If he’d been smart, he told himself, he’d have socked away more of the money he’d earned while serving in the Special Forces branch of the army. But, no, he’d foolishly squandered his pay trying to impress Celine Simone, a wealthy heiress, whom he’d even more foolishly made the mistake of falling in love with.

  “Women,” he muttered under his breath. “Nothin’ but trouble.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  Clay glanced over to find Ford Carson sliding onto the stool next to his, his glass lifted in a silent toast of agreement. Clay tapped his glass against Ford’s. “You got women trouble, Mr. Carson?”

  Frowning, Ford plucked the skewered olive from his drink and tossed it aside. “Daughter trouble, to be exact.”

  Clay didn’t have to ask which of Carson’s twin daughters was causing him problems. Fiona’s escapades were known all over town. “And what has Fiona done this time?”

  Ford’s face, already florid, flushed an unhealthier red. “The damn girl went out and bought herself a brand-spanking-new Mercedes. Didn’t even ask my permission. Just sashayed over to the dealership, signed a check on my account and drove the blamed car right off the lot!” Dragging a hand through his thick shock of white hair, he shook his head wearily. “I tell you that girl is going to be the death of me. I don’t know what the hell to do with her anymore.”

  Ordinarily Clay would have let the comment pass without comment, but the thought of anyone frittering away tens of thousands of dollars when he was so desperately in need of money infuriated the hell out of him. “If she were my daughter, I’d cut off her access to my bank accounts, then march her butt right back down to that dealership and make her return the car.”

  Ford angled his head to peer at Clay. “You would?”

  Clay gave his chin a decisive jerk. “Damn straight. What she did was totally irresponsible and disrespectful of the privileges you’ve obviously allowed her.”

  “And you think that would teach her a lesson?”

  Clay lifted a shoulder. “Maybe. Maybe not. Fiona’s what? Twenty-seven?” At Ford’s nod, he shook his head. “Pardon me for saying so, Mr. Carson, but Fiona’s had things her way for so long it may take more than a slap on the hand to bring her around.”

  Ford’s frown deepened. “You’re probably right. A headstrong young woman like Fiona won’t break easily.”

  The two stared at their drinks, both silent as they contemplated their individual problems. After a moment Ford glanced Clay’s way. “I haven’t seen your sister, Joanna, around town lately. She hasn’t moved, has she?”

  Smiling, Clay shook his head. “No, sir. She’s in Europe for the summer, touring with a group of her French students.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’d hate for Mission Creek to lose such a fine teacher.”

  “No worse than I’d hate losing my sister,” Clay replied. “She’s only been gone a week and I already miss her.”

  Ford nodded slowly, then glanced Clay’s way again. “Didn’t I hear you bought back your family’s ranch?”

  “Yeah,” Clay replied. “Though keeping it might present a problem.”

  “How so?”

  Embarrassed to admit to his strapped financial condition, especially to a man as wealthy and successful as Ford Carson, Clay kept his gaze on his beer. “Unless I can figure out a way to raise the cash to make the improvements needed to turn the place into a profitable business again, I stand to lose it.”

  “I wouldn’t toss in my cards just yet,” Carson said.

  Feeling the intensity of the man’s gaze, Clay glanced up to find Ford studying his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

  “What if I were to give you the money you needed to get started?” Ford suggested.

  “Give me the money?” Clay repeated.

  “Well, not give,” Ford amended. “A little trade.”

  Clay snorted. “And what would you want of mine in trade? My truck? The shirt off my back? That’s about all I’ve got left, after buying back the home place.”

  Ford flattened his lips in disapproval. “Don’t sell yourself short, son. You’ve got a lot to offer in trade. You’re responsible, hardworking, honest. And you’re tough and brave, to boot. You proved that during your stint in the army, and again when you chose to move back to Mission Creek. Not many men would’ve had the guts to return to the town that was ready to hang him.”

  Clay stiffened at the reminder of the charges filed against him for the murder of his girlfriend when he was twenty-three. “I have nothing to be ashamed of. I didn’t kill Valerie. That was proved in court before I ever left town.”

  “Just the same,” Ford maintained, “it took guts to come back here.”

  Not liking the direction the conversation was taking, Clay asked impatiently, “What does all this have to do with you giving me money, anyway?”

  “A trade,” Ford reminded him, then softened the reminder by clapping a hand on Clay’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “You have traits I admire, son. Traits I’m willing to pay for.”

  Clay shook his head, wondering if the beer was clouding his thinking, or if Ford Carson truly wasn’t making a lick of sense. “Sorry, but I’m afraid I’m not following you.”

  “I want you to marry my daughter,” Carson said, then held up a hand when Clay choked a laugh. “This is no joke, son,” he warned. “I’m willing to pay you a hundred thousand dollars if you’ll agree to marry Fiona and teach her the meaning of responsibility and commitment. Two months,” he said, before Clay could interrupt. “You have to remain married for two months—although it would probably be best if we kept that time restriction from Fiona. I’ll give you half the money once you’re legally married. The other half when the two months are up. At that time, if you choose, you’ll be free to file for a divorce and resume your bachelor life.”

  Clay stared at Carson, unable to believe the man was serious. A hundred thousand dollars? he thought, trying to absorb the magnitude of the offer. A hundred thousand dollars would go a long way toward rebuilding his family’s ranch. And all he had to do to get the money was agree to marry Fiona Carson and stay married to her for two months?

  It was insane, he told himself. Ludicrous. Fathers didn’t arrange marriages for their daughters anymore. Especially not when the daughter was Fiona Carson. She’d never agree to this, he told himself. Fiona was wild as a march hare and stubborn as a mule.

  She was also Clay’s only viable hope of holding on to his family’s ranch.

  “And Fiona will go along with this?” he asked doubtfully.

  “She won’t have a choice,” Ford replied confidently, then chuckled. “Of course, she won’t know the real purpose of the marriage. She’s stubborn. Takes after her old man in that way. If she knew that I’d arranged for you to marry her to teach her responsibility, she’d dig in her heels so deep it would take a team of Clydesdales to drag her to the altar.”

  “If not the truth, then what do you intend to tell her?”

  Ford puckered his lips and thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Beats the hell out of me. But I’ll think of something.”

  When Clay’s expression remained skeptical, Ford shot him a wink. “Don’t worry about Fiona, son. She’ll play along. I’ll see to that.”

  Though probably a fool for not accepting the offer on the spot, Clay continued to hesitate. He’d always believed t
hat a man made his own way in the world, never seeking the easy way out of a tight situation. And marrying a woman for money was definitely the coward’s way out of his current cash problem.

  Frowning, he shook his head. “I don’t know, Mr. Carson. I need to give this some thought.”

  Carson rose and tossed a business card onto the bar. It landed face up beside Clay’s hand. “Take all the time you need,” he said. “That’s my private number. Give me a call when you’ve made your decision.”

  Dusk was settling over the countryside by the time Clay arrived home later that evening. Instead of going inside as he’d intended, he detoured to the gate that led to the back pasture. Bracing his arms along its top, he stared out across the land. Not so long ago, a herd of registered Brangus cattle would have been grazing there on fertile coastal grass. Now the pasture was empty but for the knee-high weeds that swayed gently in the soft evening breeze, and a scattering of young cedar and mesquite trees.

  It hadn’t taken nature long to reclaim the land, he thought sadly. Eight years to be exact. He remembered well the backbreaking work it had taken to clear the pastures. Chopping down the cedars and mesquite trees that were such a nuisance to ranchers in this region of Texas. Shredding native brush high and thick enough to conceal a grown deer. Hauling away truck-loads of rock to clear the land for the equipment he and his father had used to prepare the soil for planting.

  But most of all he remembered all the bitching and moaning he’d done because he’d been forced to help with the work.

  With a regretful shake of his head, he opened the gate and started across the field, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. As he walked, weeds slapped at his legs, leaving the sticky seed pods of beggar’s lice clinging to his starched jeans. In the distance a line of fencing marked the back boundary of his family’s ranch. Choked with vines, the fence was held upright by an occasional mesquite or cedar tree that had woven its way up through the tangled strands of barbed wire.