Without money, where could she go? What could she do? How would she pass the time? Her gas tank registered dangerously close to empty, a circumstance she’d tried to remedy on the way home from the spa the afternoon before. But when she’d swiped her card through the pay-at-the-pump device at the service station, the machine had refused the charge. Her father had even canceled her oil company cards!
Feeling her panic rising, she caught herself just short of screaming and tearing at her hair and made herself draw three slow, deep breaths. She could do this, she told herself. She wasn’t some weak-kneed female who had to depend on a man for her existence, her happiness. She was strong, healthy, intelligent. It was just a matter of thinking through her problems and finding workable solutions.
She sat up and scooted from the bed. She’d take a bubble bath, she told herself, as she headed for the bathroom. A nice, long soak in the tub always calmed her, plus it would improve her perspective.
But a search through the bathroom cabinets for bath oils or salts, produced only a mildewed can of toilet bowl cleaner and an icky-looking plumber’s helper. Determined not to let the lack of toiletries deprive her of a much-needed soak in the tub, she squared her shoulders and marched for the kitchen. She snatched the bottle of dishwashing liquid from the back of the sink, returned to the bathroom, twisted on the taps, then squirted a generous stream of soap beneath the water. Within seconds bubbles churned in the tub.
Congratulating herself on her cleverness, she quickly stripped off her clothes and stepped into the tub, purring her contentment as she slid chin-deep into the water. When she climbed out an hour later, her skin the wrinkled texture of a dried prune, she felt calmer, much more capable of handling her problems. Toweling off, she glanced at the pile of clothes she’d dropped to the floor and curled her nose. She would not put those rags back on, she told herself, eyeing with distaste the black tank and capris that she’d literally been forced to wear twenty-four hours a day since her date with Roger. But what other choice did she have?
Arching a brow, she wrapped the towel around her and headed for Clay’s room. She experienced only a slight pang of guilt as she entered his bedroom, but resolved it by telling herself that, since it was his fault she didn’t have any clean clothes to wear, he certainly had no right to complain about her borrowing an item or two from his wardrobe.
But as she stepped inside, she slowed, startled by the starkness of the room. The walls were painted the same dreary, uninspired beige as the room he’d stuck her in, and the same cream-colored miniblinds, grayed by a thick layer of dust, covered the windows. Tangled across a king-size bed were jet-black sheets and a quilt that appeared homemade and faded from years of use. On an adjacent wall stood a long oak dresser.
Her attention captured by a picture propped on the corner, she crossed to the dresser. Frowning, she picked it up and moved to the window for a better look. Framed within the rectangle of dull pewter was a snapshot of Clay’s family: his father and his mother in the middle, and Clay and his sister, Joanna, at either of their sides. Though the picture was years old—at least seven or eight, Fiona decided, judging by the style of the women’s clothing and hair—she recognized Clay immediately.
Clutching the towel between her breasts to hold it in place, she sat down on the edge of the bed to study the photo more closely. The picture was taken just before Clay had shipped out for overseas duty, she guessed, since he was dressed in his army uniform. His hair was sheared short, painfully so, his scalp white beneath the strict military haircut. But it was his face that held her attention—or rather his expression did. He looked bored, impatient, as if anxious to have the picture taken so he could be on his way.
But she saw bitterness there, as well.
Resting the picture on her lap, she lifted her head and stared out the window, trying to think back to that time. He would have been about twenty-two, maybe twenty-three, when he’d enlisted in the army. Her frown deepened as she tried to recall the circumstances behind his enlistment. Her brow smoothed as she remembered both the situation and the cause for his bitterness. Valerie’s murder, she thought. That was it. Clay had enlisted shortly after the murder charges against him were dropped.
Was that the reason for his bitterness? she wondered, glancing back at the photo. If so, she could certainly understand not only his bitterness, but his impatience to leave Mission Creek behind.
So why had he returned? She frowned again as she puzzled over that oddity. What with the town’s animosity toward him before his departure, and his parents both being deceased, what could possibly have drawn him back to Mission Creek?
Giving herself a shake, she rose and replaced the picture. Whatever the reason, she told herself, he was back and doing his best to make her life miserable.
Reminded of his less-than-compassionate response to her restricted finances, she snatched open a drawer and began digging through its contents, searching for something of his to wear.
She pulled out a drab, olive-green T-shirt, shuddered at the army insignia emblazoned across its front, then dug around some more until she found a lightweight pair of sweatpants to complete the outfit. Dropping the towel, she dragged the T-shirt over her head, then stepped into the pants and drew the drawstring tight around her waist. She straightened and looked at her reflection in the dresser mirror…and shuddered.
“It’s clean,” she told herself, and turned away from her unflattering reflection. Besides, who would see her? With no gas in her car and no money to fill the tank, it appeared she was stuck in Nowhereville until she could either persuade Clay to give her an advance on her allowance or her fairy godmother showed up.
Personally she was betting on the fairy godmother. She figured her chances of squeezing even one red cent out of Clay ranked somewhere between slim and none.
Clay looked at the account balance listed at the bottom of his ATM receipt, rubbed his eyes to clear his vision, then looked again. Damn, he thought a little shakily, as he stared at the six-figure amount printed there. He’d never had that much money in his bank account at one time in his entire life.
Which could only mean Carson had kept his word and deposited not just the first installment of the amount he’d agreed to pay Clay once he and Fiona were married, but the second installment, as well.
Releasing his breath on a low whistle, he tucked the receipt into his wallet, then steered his truck out of the bank and onto the street, already thinking of all the things the money would buy. Fertilizer and seed to improve his pastures. The fencing supplies he needed to make the pastures secure for cattle again. Twenty or more heifers and a bull to service them. A stock trailer to haul the animals. Paint for the barn and tin to repair the roof. A squeeze chute to use when working the cattle.
But the first expense he had to cover, he reminded himself, was Fiona’s debt at the country club, which was why he’d stopped at the bank in the first place. He shook his head, reminded of the astronomical amount she’d charged. Hell! he thought irritably. Entire families lived for a month on less than what she’d selfishly spent during one frivolous day at the spa.
Carson was right, he told himself. Fiona was totally irresponsible. The woman didn’t have a clue about the value of money or what it took to earn it. But she’d learn, he promised himself. Carson had upheld his end of the bargain, and Clay was sure as hell going to uphold his.
Resolved to his fate, he pulled his truck into a parking space at the country club and climbed out.
“Body Perfect,” he muttered under his breath, pushing open the frosted glass door to the spa. Wonder what marketing genius had come up with the name, one that was sure to make a woman bite. There wasn’t a female alive who didn’t yearn for the perfect body. Few ever realized their dream.
Ginger glanced up as he stepped inside.
“Well, hello, Clay,” she said in surprise, then bit back a smile. “What can we do for you today? A facial? A pedicure?”
Clay shuddered at the very thought. “No, ma’a
m. I’m just here to pay Fiona’s bill.”
She stood as she accepted the cash he offered her. “I hear congratulations are in order.”
“Congratulations?” he repeated.
She rang up the sale, laughing at his confused look. “Your marriage, silly. Fiona told me about it yesterday.”
“Oh…yeah…our marriage.” Clay felt the heat rising to his cheeks. “Thanks.”
She gave him a curious look as she counted out his change. “Rather sudden, wasn’t it?”
He quickly pocketed the money. “Yes, ma’am, it was.” He tipped his hat in farewell, anxious to get out of there before she asked him any more questions he didn’t know how to answer. “I better get on down the road. See you later.”
He was out the door before she had a chance to question him further. Once he made it to the parking lot, he stopped and released a shaky breath. That was a close one, he thought. And before he found himself faced with another situation in which he was expected to respond to questions about his marriage, he intended to nail down a few details with the parties involved. He’d start with Carson, he decided, get their stories straight, then confirm it all with Fiona later.
He made a detour around his truck and headed for the Men’s Grill, figuring that was as good a place as any to find Carson at this time of day. Ford and his cronies usually huddled up there both before and after their morning round of golf. Personally Clay had never seen the man swing a club, but figured a golf game was a good excuse to get Ford out of the house and out from under his wife’s watchful eye. Everyone in town knew Ford had a bad heart and a fondness for cigars and liquor, which Grace Carson was known to monitor like a hawk.
Sure enough, he found Ford in the grill, sitting with three of his buddies at a table near the door. Not wanting to discuss his business in front of the other men, Clay caught Carson’s eye and signaled him to join him at the bar.
He settled on a stool and ordered a cup of coffee, watching Carson’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar as he excused himself from the group.
Carson slid onto the stool next to his. “Mornin’, son,” he said, giving Clay an exuberant clap on the back. “Don’t tell me you’re already wantin’ to throw in the towel.”
Relieved to find that Carson wasn’t still angry, Clay snorted a laugh and shook his head. “No, sir. Not yet.”
“How are things going? You and Fiona gettin’ along all right?”
Clay felt a stab of guilt, remembering his discussion with Fiona the previous night concerning her spending habits. “We’re doing okay,” he replied vaguely.
“Good. Good. I deposited the money into your account.”
Clay nodded. “Yes, sir. I noticed that you did. And that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” he added, lowering his voice so as not to be overheard. “Specifically the details of our arrangement. Fiona told one of the girls at the spa about the marriage. And you know how women like to talk. Before long, everybody in town is going to hear about it and start asking questions.”
“Questions?” Ford repeated in confusion.
“Not questions so much as comments. Like how unexpected it was, what a surprise. That kind of thing. I need to know how you want me to respond.”
Ford shrugged. “I’d say that’s for you and Fiona to decide, not me. I’ll go along with whatever the two of you agree on.”
A little after noon Clay was able to squeeze some time out of his schedule to run out to the ranch to discuss with Fiona the best way to handle questions concerning their marriage.
But when he entered the house, he stopped cold two steps inside the door. He blinked once, then again, unsure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. Sure enough, it was Fiona who lay sprawled on the sofa, one bare foot on the floor, the other hooked over the sofa’s back, her eyes glued to the television set. She had a sack of microwave popcorn propped on her stomach and a half-empty bottle of beer cradled between her breasts. Two more bottles lay empty on the floor. Cookies spilled out of the open end of a bag of Oreos. Beside it lay a crumpled sack of potato chips.
“Fiona?”
When she didn’t respond, he said more loudly, “Fiona!”
She tore her gaze from the screen to frown at him. “What?”
“Isn’t it a little early in the day to be drinking beer?”
She gave the bottles on the floor a disinterested look, then returned her gaze to the television. “I was thirsty and that’s all I could find to drink.”
“You might have considered water,” he said dryly. “You can get it fresh from the tap with very little effort.”
“Shh!” she hissed, flapping a hand to silence him.
Hearing the screams and shouts coming from the television set, Clay stepped into the room so he could see the screen, certain some new tragedy had struck the world. But instead of finding the set tuned to a news report, he saw three women locked in a hair-pulling, nail-scratching wrestling match, while two thick-necked bouncers tried to separate them.
“What in hell are you watching?” he asked in dismay.
“Shh!” she hissed again. “It’s a talk show. The two on the right are sisters. The chick on the left is their cousin. Supposedly the cousin’s been sleeping with the redheaded sister’s husband.”
Clay couldn’t have said what it was in her explanation that made him snap. Perhaps it was the hours he’d spent with the county medical examiner in the morgue that morning, reviewing the autopsy reports on a Jane Doe, whose badly decomposed body had been found by a local rancher. But whatever fueled his fury, he stalked across the room and angrily switched off the television.
“Hey!” Fiona struggled to sit up. “What did you do that for? They’re about to bring out the husband and make him choose between the two women.”
Balling his hands into fists at his sides in an effort to control himself, he turned to face her. “And you find that interesting?”
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact I do.”
“Then you’re as sick as they are. What’s for lunch?”
She dropped back against the cushions in a pout. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
“You haven’t cooked anything?”
She glanced down at the snacks scattered on the floor, then up at him. “That was all I could find to eat.”
He braced his hands on his hips. “What the hell have you been doing all morning? Lying around watching TV and drinking beer?”
She curled her fingers around the bottle as if considering throwing it at him. “As I said, I couldn’t find anything else.”
“And I suppose it would’ve been too much trouble for you to go to the store and buy some groceries?”
“With what?” she returned acidly. “You’re the one with all the money.”
Afraid if he stayed a moment longer in the room with her he’d say something he’d regret, he turned to leave, but tripped over one of the beer bottles she’d discarded. He gave the bottle an angry kick that sent it spinning across the floor. The sound of it smacking against the opposite wall echoed in the quiet room.
Bracing his hands on the door frame, he sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. “I’m going back to work,” he said, his voice as tight as the grip he had on the door. “When I get back tonight, I expect you to have this damn mess cleaned up.”
Without a backward glance, he dropped his hands and strode out the door.
Fiona cleaned up the mess—but not because Clay had ordered her to do so. She cleaned it up because her mother had taught her the importance of picking up after oneself when a guest in someone else’s home. Even if the hosts had household staff, her mother had maintained that one should never burden the staff unnecessarily. She’d also taught her children to leave a monetary gift for the staff member who’d seen to their personal needs, as compensation for whatever additional work their stay might have added to the staff member’s normal duties.
Though Fiona was married to Clay and technically the mistress of his home, she considered he
rself nothing more than a guest. Her current living arrangements weren’t permanent. She intended to leave the moment she was able to prove to her father that she was capable of taking care of herself.
After double-checking that the den was in order once again, she headed straight for her room and locked herself inside.
She wasn’t hiding, she told herself as she curled up on the unmade bed. And she wasn’t sulking, either. She just didn’t want to chance bumping into Clay should he return.
And who could blame her? she asked herself with a sniff. The man was mean to the bone and as bad-tempered as a horse with a burr under its saddle. Was it her fault that she’d had nothing to do all morning but watch television? Was it her fault that there was nothing in this miserable house to drink but beer? She’d done the best she could with what was available to her. Where was the crime in that?
Hearing the sound of an engine outside, she rolled from the bed and to her feet. Lifting the blinds a crack, she peered outside. She frowned when she saw Clay’s truck parked in front of the detached garage. As she watched, the nose of a tractor appeared in the open garage doorway, with Clay behind the wheel.
She stepped quickly to the side, not wanting him to see her, and watched as he climbed down from the ancient-looking machine. He pulled a rag from the back pocket of his khaki slacks, lifted the engine cover, then stuck his head inside, restricting her view of him to his backside. She pressed a hand to her throat, her mouth going dry. He may be mean and bad-tempered, she thought weakly, but he was built like a brick wall. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, a nicely rounded and muscled derriere.
She watched him poke around a bit at the engine, then pull something out. He dropped the cover back into place and took a step back.
An Arranged Marriage Page 6