An Arranged Marriage

by Peggy Moreland

  She shook her head. “No. In fact, she couldn’t be happier.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  She dropped down from the sawhorse. “No, it’s not good!” she cried. “I was sure Mom would be furious with Daddy for arranging this stupid marriage and she’d make him get it annulled.”

  “And she’s not?”

  “Are you kidding? She’s already planning a reception in our honor!”

  “A reception?”

  “Yes. A big one. And if I know my mother, which I do, she’ll invite half the town.”

  “A reception,” he repeated, beginning to feel a little sick himself.

  “Yes, and we’ll be on display for all the town to gawk at. The happily married couple,” she said bitterly. “What a joke.”

  “Do we have to go?”

  Fiona slowly lifted her head. “We don’t if we’re not married.”

  “But we are married,” he said in frustration. “That’s the problem.”

  “Yeah, but we don’t have to stay married.” She paced, anxious to make him see things her way. “You don’t want to be married to me any more than I want to be married to you, so why not end the charade?”

  He scowled at her. “We can’t. Remember? Your father and I made a deal. It’s just for two months. Besides,” he said, waving away her suggestion, “he’ll cut you off without a cent if we end the marriage.”

  “But Daddy only wanted us to marry because he was worried that I wouldn’t be able to take care of myself if something were to happen to him. If you were to convince him that I am capable of taking care of myself, he’d let us get an annulment. I just know he would.”

  Clay listened, tempted. She made it sound so easy. The two-month stipulation he’d agreed to didn’t matter, not if Carson was getting what he’d wanted from Clay. Granted, everything Clay would tell Carson about Fiona would be a lie, but Clay was living a lie as it was, so what difference would it make if he told another to void the first?

  As far as the money went, her father had already deposited the entire amount into Clay’s account, so Carson would have to sue Clay to get it back, and the burden of proof would be on Carson’s back, not Clay’s. And if Carson did sue, the case would probably be tied up in court for years, which would give Clay plenty of time to turn the ranch into a profitable business and save the money he needed to pay Carson back the original hundred thousand, plus interest.

  He shook his head, unable to believe he was even considering this. “No,” he said, turning his back to her. “I won’t do it.”

  Fiona stomped her foot. “Why not?” she cried. “You don’t want to be stuck in this miserable marriage any more than I do.”

  He glanced over his shoulder and lifted a brow. “Who says I don’t?”

  Armed with tweezers, Fiona leaned as close to the bathroom mirror as she could without climbing into the sink while searching her eyebrows for any strays that needed to be plucked. Finding one, she fitted the tweezers over it, squeezed her eyes shut and gave a yank.

  Yelping, she dropped the tweezers and hopped up and down, holding her hand to her brow until the stinging subsided. When it had, she squared her shoulders and approached the mirror again, muttering under her breath, “I’d give my right arm for the money to have my eyebrows professionally waxed.”

  “Fiona?”

  At the sound of Clay’s voice coming from the other side of the closed door, she added under her breath, “Make that his right arm,” then called in a louder voice, “What?”

  “Are you okay?”

  She inspected her brow, frowning. “I’m fine.”

  “I thought I heard you yell. Sounded like you were in pain or something. What are you doing in there?”

  She sighed in frustration, then turned and twisted open the door. “Going crazy,” she snapped, then pushed past him. Snatching a brush from her bedside table, she bent at the waist, dropping her head to let hair fall around her face. She dragged the brush from her nape to the ends of her hair in fast, jerky strokes.

  Clay watched, a frown creasing his forehead. “Are you mad about something?”

  She snapped upright, her dark hair flying back to fall behind her shoulders. “Mad?” she repeated, her eyes wild. “I’m bored out of my mind!”

  Though he was sure she wouldn’t appreciate the humor, Clay couldn’t help but laugh.

  She wagged the brush at him. “Don’t you dare laugh at me, Clay Martin. This isn’t funny.”

  He held up a hand, trying his best to hide his smile. “I’m sure it’s not. So why don’t you do something if you’re bored?”

  “Like what? I’m broke, remember? This week’s allowance went to pay my fines.”

  “There are things you can do that don’t cost money.”

  “Oh, really,” she said dryly. “And what would you suggest I do?”

  “You could watch television.”

  Scowling, she turned away, tossing the brush to the bed. “I’m sick of watching television.”

  “You could cook.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “Read?”

  “Puts me to sleep.”

  “I guess that rules out taking a nap.” He hesitated a moment, sure he would regret the offer, then decided, what the hell. She probably wouldn’t accept, anyway. “I’m going outside to work on the fence. You could come along and help if you want.”

  She sent him a withering look. “Tempting, but I think I’ll pass.”

  He shrugged and turned for the door. “Suit yourself.”

  Fiona listened to the sound of his footsteps fading, then the slam of the back door. Panicked at the thought of spending another afternoon in the house with no one but herself for company, she ran after him. “Clay, wait!”

  Seven

  Fiona sat in the shade of the truck, her back pressed against the rear tire, her legs stretched out in front of her, lazily fanning herself with her wide-brimmed straw hat while she watched Clay work. Though she’d never admit it, she found watching him string barbed wire much more interesting than anything daytime television had to offer. Not that the conversation was particularly stimulating, she reminded herself. He hadn’t said more than two words to her in the hour they’d been outside. But she certainly couldn’t fault the view. And since he was absorbed in his task, she was free to look all she wanted.

  He’d dressed for the work at hand and had traded the khaki slacks and white, starched shirt he wore while on duty for a faded chambray shirt, worn jeans and scuffed boots. In deference to the heat of the midday sun, he’d rolled the cuffs of the long-sleeve shirt to his elbows, exposing dark, hairy forearms that glistened with perspiration. Stained leather work gloves covered his wide hands to his wrists, protecting his palms and fingers from the wire’s sharp barbs. A leather belt cinched his jeans at his waist. Another wider belt holding an assortment of tools rode low on his hips. Beneath it all lay rippling muscle.

  With years of experience to back her claim, Fiona considered herself a connoisseur of the male anatomy. Clay Martin definitely met her high standards for the perfectly formed man.

  He bent to unroll another length of wire from the spool and his shirt stretched taut across his back. The fabric clung to his skin, damp with perspiration. She didn’t know how he stood it.

  “Wouldn’t you be cooler if you took off your shirt?”

  He pulled a staple from between his teeth and drove it into the post, securing the wire. “Probably.”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  He straightened and shoved back his hat to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Skin cancer.”

  “You have skin cancer?” she asked in alarm.

  “No. And I don’t intend to get it, either.”

  She frowned at his back as he strode to the next post, then called after him, “You can die from heat stroke the same as you can from skin cancer.”

  “Bring me another handful of those staples.”

  Huffing out a breath at his stubbornness, she d
ug a handful of staples from the sack and pushed to her feet. “Mule-headed man,” she muttered, then thrust her hand at him. “Here’re your staples. I hope you choke on them.”

  Grinning at her, he plucked a few from her palm and popped them into his mouth. “And who would look after you if I choked to death?” he teased.

  “Me,” she said emphatically.

  He laughed as he fitted one of the staples over the wire. “How? Last I heard, bitching wasn’t a career.”

  She dropped her jaw. “Bitching!” she repeated. “Is that all you think I’m capable of doing?”

  He pulled another staple from his mouth and hunkered down, centering it over the wire. “That’s all I’ve seen or heard you do.”

  “I’ll have you know I can do a lot of things,” she said indignantly.

  He turned on the balls of his feet to look up at her. “Name one.”

  “I can…” She stopped and frowned, unable to think of a single skill to offer in her defense.

  He turned back around and lifted the hammer to drive in the staple. “That’s what I thought.”

  Fiona grabbed the tool and wrenched it from his hand. “I may not have a lengthy résumé of marketable skills, but I can swing a hammer as well as you any day of the week.”

  He held up a staple. “Prove it.”

  Jutting her chin, she snatched the staple from his hand, then pushed past him and positioned it over the wire. Catching her lip between her teeth, she raised the hammer and brought it down, putting all her strength in the effort.

  Smug, she stepped back and gestured toward the post. “See? I told you I could do it.”

  He held up another staple. “Beginner’s luck.”

  Accepting the challenge, she drove in a second. This time it took two swings to bury the staple. By the time she finished, perspiration beaded her brow.

  He held up a third.

  Scowling, she snatched it from his hand. She missed on the first swing, then firmed her lips and took two more, sinking it on the third.

  “Wouldn’t you be cooler if you took off your shirt?”

  She shot him a look that let him know what he could do with his suggestion.

  He lifted a shoulder. “What’s good for the goose…”

  In spite of her frustration with him, Fiona found herself laughing. She touched the head of the hammer to her temple in a salute. “Touché.”

  He stood and took the hammer from her hand. “Thanks. You just proved the point I was trying to make earlier.”

  “And what was that?”

  He slipped the hammer into a loop on his tool belt, then slung a companionable arm around her shoulders and headed her for the next post. “That there are things you can do that don’t cost money.” He bumped his hip against hers, laughing when she stumbled sideways, off balance. “And have a little fun while you’re at it,” he added.

  He ducked, laughing, when she took a swing at his head.

  Groaning, Fiona crawled into bed and rolled to her side, pulling the covers over her head. She couldn’t remember being this tired in her entire life. She ached in places she didn’t know could ache. Her arms, her legs, her back, her hands. Even her butt muscles hurt from all the stooping and squatting required to pound all those stupid staples in place.

  But she’d done it, she thought proudly. She’d matched Clay swing for swing, working alongside him throughout the rest of the day. And she’d done it without bitching even once. Well, maybe once, she amended reluctantly, remembering when she’d missed the staple and hit her thumb with the hammer. But that was understandable. Clay had grumbled a few times himself when barbs had pierced his gloves and pricked his skin.

  The biggest surprise of all, though, was that she’d had fun. Imagine that, she thought, marveling at the oddity. Fiona Carson actually enjoying manual labor. If her father knew how she’d spent the afternoon, he’d probably have another heart attack.

  Her amusement faded at the thought.

  She couldn’t imagine her life without her father in it. She loved him. Adored him. In spite of the fact that he’d forced her into this ridiculous marriage. Though she didn’t agree with his methods, she knew he’d only done what he’d thought best for her. But if something should happen to him, as he feared, and she was left on her own, she knew she could take care of herself. She didn’t need Clay Martin or any other man looking after her.

  Her thoughts segued to Clay. She frowned, trying to remember something he’d said to her the week before. They’d been talking about the reception her mother was planning in their honor, and Fiona had suggested that they end the charade, claiming that he didn’t want to be stuck in this miserable marriage any more than she did.

  Who says I don’t?

  She stiffened as his words pushed into her mind. Did he want to be married to her? she wondered. At the time he’d posed the question, she’d been upset and hadn’t really paid attention to his reply. Now she wondered…

  She tried to rebuild the scene in her mind, capturing his exact expression and mood at that precise moment. He’d been working in the barn when she’d sought him out, but had stopped his work when she’d told him about the reception. She distinctly remembered his expression then. His face had gone slack and the color had drained from his skin. He’d looked as if the idea of attending a reception in their honor sickened him as much as it did her.

  But what about when he’d made the reply? she asked herself. What was his expression then? She squeezed her fingers against her temples, trying to remember. He’d had his back to her when she’d made the comment about him wanting out of the marriage as much as she did. He’d looked over his shoulder at her then, raised a brow in challenge and said, “Who says I don’t?”

  Had he been serious? Or was he just being his normal contrary self? As hard as she puzzled over both his words and his expression, she couldn’t decide.

  With a sigh of defeat, she nestled her cheek deeper into the pillow and closed her eyes.

  As her mind grew fuzzy with sleep, vignettes of her time with Clay drifted behind her closed lids. Clay standing with his boot propped on Roger’s chest the night he’d caught them skinny-dipping, looking all macho and tough. Clay standing as stiff as a soldier beside her while they’d repeated their vows, his hand gripped tightly around her elbow. Clay hunkered down on the ground, looking up at her, a brow arched in challenge, as he offered a staple to her. Clay walking with his arm slung around her shoulders, his stride long, bumping his hip playfully against hers.

  Being married to Clay wasn’t so bad, she told herself. Things could be a lot worse.

  Her daddy could have arranged for her to marry Roger Billings.

  The door to the interrogation room opened and a young dispatcher stuck her head inside. “Sorry to interrupt, Ranger Martin, but your wife’s on line one. She said it was an emergency.”

  Clay bit back his irritation at the interruption. “Probably broke a fingernail,” he muttered under his breath. He shoved the legal pad he’d scribbled his notes on in front of the officer sitting next to him. “I’ll be right back.”

  He strode from the room and snatched a phone from the first desk he passed. “What?” he snapped into the receiver.

  “Clay, where are you? You were supposed to be home more than an hour ago.”

  He groaned, having completely forgotten about the reception. “What time is it?”

  “Almost six, and the party starts at seven.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at the closed door to the interrogation room. “Listen, Fiona. Something’s come up.”

  “What? But, Clay, we’re the guests of honor, for God’s sake! We have to be there.”

  He rubbed at the headache that throbbed to life between his eyes. “Fiona, I’m in the middle of an interrogation,” he said, struggling for patience. “I can’t leave now. Go on without me. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.”

  “Oh, my God! I can’t! What will people think if I arrive alone?”

  Her hyst
erics broke the last thin hold he had on his patience. He closed his fingers in a chokehold on the receiver. “Listen and listen good,” he said through clenched teeth. “That slimeball in the other room is a three-time sex offender who’s walked every damn time because we never had enough evidence to nail him. I’m not leaving here to attend some damn party until I’ve sweated a full confession out of him. Understand?”

  Before she could reply, he slammed the phone down in her ear.

  By the time Clay had his confession, drove home and changed clothes, then made the long drive back to town to the country club, the party was in full swing.

  Fiona hadn’t exaggerated, he thought as he stood in the doorway, searching for her in the crowd of people who filled the Empire Room. If anything, her claim that her mother would invite half the town had been on the conservative side. Guests filled every inch of the expansive room and spilled out onto the adjoining gardens through the open French doors.

  The elaborately set dining tables normally found in the restaurant were gone, replaced with smaller linen-topped round tables strategically arranged around the room’s outer edges to create a dance floor in its center. Between the twin sets of French doors that opened to the garden, heavily laden buffet tables formed an elongated T. In the cross of the T, a silver punch bowl the size of a small lake served as a roost of sorts for two lovebirds carved from ice. Champagne spilled in a never-ending waterfall from around the sculpture’s base and into the silver bowl.

  Carrying his gaze farther, Clay caught a glimpse of Fiona surrounded by a large group of male admirers to the left of the buffet table. He hesitated a moment longer, trying to gauge her mood. He knew he’d been a little rough with her on the phone. No, he amended, he’d been downright ruthless. But she’d pushed him to the end of his rope with her hysterics about what people would think if she showed up alone. To Clay, it was just one more indication of her selfishness.

  As he continued to stare at her, one of the men in the circle turned away, exposing her fully. The sight of her was like taking a bullet in the chest. Dressed in an ankle-length column of shimmering white, she looked like an angel, a queen… Hell, he thought, she looked like a bride.