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
