Читать книгу An Arranged Marriage - Peggy Moreland - Страница 10

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 bartender 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 that 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.

On his left stood the hay barn. Once it had housed the heavy bales of coastal hay his family had cut and baled to feed the cattle through the winter. Now the building stood empty, its wide doors open and sagging, its red-painted walls faded and, in some places, showing visible signs of rot. Loose panels of tin on the barn’s high roof flapped in the breeze, creating a mournful sound in the otherwise peaceful evening air.

Clay stopped in the middle of the pasture and turned slowly, silently acknowledging each sign of neglect and disrepair. As he did, he wondered what his parents would say if they could see the ranch now. Emotion clotted his throat as he realized the answer. If they weren’t already dead, he knew it would kill them.

His parents had loved this place, had put their hearts and souls into building their home and clearing the land for the cattle operation that would support their family. They’d done it for themselves, he knew, but they’d done it for him and his sister, as well. They’d wanted to leave their children a legacy, a dream to carry on.

And Clay had let them down.

At the time of the automobile accident that had taken their lives, he’d just been promoted into the Special Forces unit of the army. He was full of himself and his own importance, and eager to leave his mark on the world. Though he’d returned home for his parents’ funerals, he’d left afterward as soon as possible, leaving the handling of the estate in his sister Joanna’s capable hands. She’d wasted no time in selling the ranch. Not that Clay had blamed her. Joanna had never cared for the ranch; nor had Clay, for that matter. His love for the place and his appreciation for all that it stood for had come later. Almost too late.

It shamed him now to remember his youth. Growing up, he’d given the term “bad boy” whole new meaning. But no matter how much trouble he’d gotten himself into, no matter how many times he’d thrown his parents’ love back in their faces, they’d never given up on him. Even when he’d been accused of his girlfriend’s murder, they’d been there for him, standing firm in their belief of his innocence, their faith in him as an honorable man.

It was the memory of their unconditional love that had gotten him through the dangerous and hellish missions the army had assigned him. And it was the power of that love that had given him the strength and will he’d needed to survive mental and physical tortures unimaginable to most men. At his darkest moments, when he was sure the pain he was suffering at the hands of his captors would drive him insane, he’d focus his mind on home, on family and gird himself with the strength and peace that came from the level of unconditional love his parents had given him.

That was what had saved him.

And now he wanted to save the ranch.

Not just for himself, he thought, but for his parents. It was the only way he knew to honor their memory, to prove their faith in him, to carry on their dream. Throughout his darkest hours, the ranch had served as his light, a beacon in an otherwise bleak world, his reason for living. If he lost it now, he feared with it he would lose his last hold on all that was good and merciful.

But how could he hang on to it, he asked himself, feeling the frustration returning, when he could barely afford the monthly mortgage payments, much less take on the tremendous burden of upkeep on a place this size? The bottom line was, the ranch had to pay for itself or he’d lose it. Which brought him right back to his original question: how could he raise the cash he needed to make the ranch a profitable business again?

He dragged off his Stetson and raked his fingers through his hair. He knew the answer. Ford Carson had handed it to him on a silver platter not more than an hour ago. All he had to do was marry Carson’s daughter and the money he needed was his.

He slapped his hat against his thigh in frustration. But, dammit, he didn’t want to get married—especially not to a spoiled, rich girl like Fiona Carson. He’d been engaged to a woman who had enjoyed a privileged upbringing similar to Fiona’s, and he’d learned the hard way that that kind of woman didn’t stick and, more, that he didn’t belong in that world.

Clay didn’t believe in fate or luck. He’d been taught that a man created his own. But how else could he explain Ford Carson’s offering him a windfall right when he needed it most? All he had to do to collect the money was marry the man’s daughter.

Firming his lips, he slapped his hat back on his head and pulled his cell phone from the clip on his belt. “It’s a job,” he told himself as he punched in Carson’s private number. “Nothing but a job.”

At the sound of Carson’s voice, Clay narrowed his gaze on the dilapidated barn in the distance, imagining it as it had looked eight years before, and as he hoped it would look again.

“You’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Fiona, I need to talk to you.”

Her fingers already curled around the front door-knob of their family home, Fiona glanced over her shoulder to find her father standing in the doorway to his study. “Can’t it wait, Daddy? I’m supposed to meet Roger at the Empire Room at eight for dinner.”

“No, it can’t.”

She hesitated a moment longer, tempted to ignore the authoritarian tone in her father’s voice. She was an adult, after all, wasn’t she? She didn’t have to jump every time he snapped his fingers.

When she continued to hesitate, he lifted a brow—a slight movement, but one Fiona had learned meant business. With a huff, she dropped her hand from the knob and marched across the entry. “If this is about the car again…” she began irritably.

He stepped aside, allowing her to enter the study before him. “No. It’s not about the car.” He seated himself behind his desk and gestured toward the leather sofa opposite him. “Have a seat.”

She twisted her wrist and gave her diamond-studded watch a pointed look. “I’d rather not. I don’t want to keep Roger waiting.”

“Why not?” he asked dryly. “It’s never seemed to bother you before to keep a man waiting.”

Before she could respond, he held up a hand. “What I have to say won’t take long.” Frowning, he leaned back in his chair and studied her from beneath dark brows. “I’m worried about you, Fiona.”

She rolled her eyes, sure that she was in store for another lecture on her many shortcomings. “Daddy—”

“And about me,” he said, cutting her off. “My health, specifically.”

That silenced Fiona as nothing else could. She looked closely at her father, noting for the first time the floridity of his skin. “Is it your heart?” she asked, terrified that he might be suffering complications from the heart surgery he’d had several years before. “You’ve been taking your medicine, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I’ve been taking my medicine,” he snapped. “But I’m not getting any younger, Fiona, and neither are you. Unfortunately you aren’t showing the signs of maturity normally associated with a woman your age. You’re twenty-seven years old, unemployed and seem content to let me support you for the rest of your life.”

Fiona rolled her eyes again. “I’ve told you before, there isn’t any job that interests me.” She turned for the door. “We can talk about this later. I’ve got—”

“Hold it right there, young lady!”

When she turned, a brow arched in surprise at his angry tone, he pointed at the sofa. “We’re talking about this now.”

She hesitated, again tempted to defy him, then pursed her lips and flopped down on the sofa. “Okay,” she said, slapping her arms across her chest. “I’m sitting. So talk.”

He sank back in his chair, suddenly looking older than he should, defeated. “I’m worried what will become of you if something were to happen to me.”

She dropped her arms, tears springing to her eyes. “Oh, Daddy,” she said, scooting to the edge of the sofa. “Please don’t talk that way. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“But something could,” he insisted gruffly. “And frankly it concerns me that you are so ill prepared to take care of yourself.”

She stiffened in indignation. “I can take care of myself!”

“How?” he challenged. “Where would you live? How would you support yourself? You’ve never worked a day in your life. I doubt you have even a clue how high maintenance you are.”

She sniffed, offended. “I had no idea you considered me such a burden. I thought you enjoyed having me around.”

“I do enjoy having my children nearby,” he said in growing frustration. “And believe me, I miss Cara now that she’s gone. But I’ve made it too easy for y’all.” He leveled a finger at her nose. “Especially you. I’ve allowed you to remain dependent on me, when you should have been out on your own years ago. But I’m rectifying that mistake.”

“Rectifying?” she repeated, fearing that her father had found her a job. “How?”

“I’ve arranged for you to be married.”

She shot to her feet. “Married!” she cried.

“Yes. Married. It’s the only way I can be assured you’ll be taken care of in the event of my death.”

She laughed weakly. “You’re kidding, right? You’re just trying to bully me into getting a job and moving out.”

He shook his head. “This is no joke, Fiona. I’m serious about this. Dead serious.”

She sank to the sofa, her knees suddenly too weak to support her. “Daddy, no,” she whispered. “You can’t do this to me.” She leaped to her feet as the ramifications of his announcement fully hit her. “You can’t force me to get married! I won’t do it.”

“You will. I’ve already made all the arrangements.”

Her chin jerked up. “And who, exactly, have you chosen for me to marry?”

“Clay Martin.”

“Clay Martin!” she echoed in dismay. “But he’s so…so…”

He lifted a brow. “Poor?” he offered.

She clamped her lips together, refusing to admit that was the very word she’d been searching for. “He’s a murderer,” she said, instead. “Do you hate me so much that you would marry me off to a murderer just to get me out of your house?”

“Clay isn’t a murderer. You know as well as I do that he wasn’t responsible for that girl’s death.”

Fiona turned away, wringing her hands, trying to think of a way out of this mess. When she couldn’t, she whirled and thrust out her chin again. “I won’t marry him, and there’s nothing you can do to make me.”

He lifted a brow and leaned forward to push a folder across the desk. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Fiona stared at the cream-colored folder, her stomach doing a slow, nauseating flip as she recognized it as the one in which her father kept her financial records. “What do you mean?”

“I’m canceling all your credit cards and closing your bank account. Plus, I’m notifying the bank that, in the future, you’re not to be allowed to write any more checks on my account. You, my dear daughter,” he said, looking a little too pleased with himself, “are broke. Penniless. Poor.”

She curled her hands into fists. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, yes, I would. I’ll continue to give you a monthly allowance, but it will be deposited into Clay’s account, not yours. He will have full control of the funds and will be instructed to dispense them to you as he sees fit.”

The idea of asking any man for spending money, especially Clay Martin, made Fiona positively ill. She searched her mind for an escape hole. “What about Clay?” she asked, grasping at the first thought that came to her. “Surely he hasn’t agreed to this ridiculous plan of yours.”

Ford stood, his smile smug. “Oh, but he has. In fact,” he added, his smile broadening, “he seems as anxious as I am for this marriage to take place.”