days to get the blood tests and license required by the state.”
“Mexico doesn’t require those things?”
“Depends on who you know.”
Fiona strode back to the lounge chair and ripped off the towel. “Fine,” she said tersely, and snatched up her pants. “The sooner we get this over with, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”
Clay shifted in the leather bucket seat, trying to find a more comfortable position for his backside. It was impossible. Compared to his truck’s roomy bench seat, the bucket seats in Fiona’s car seemed the size of peanut shells.
He should have insisted on taking his truck, he told himself. But one look at his mud-splattered pickup and Fiona had refused to put a foot inside and had demanded that they take her car to Mexico, instead.
The Mercedes, he thought bitterly, flexing his fingers on the luxury automobile’s leather-wrapped steering wheel. How ironic. Here he was driving the very car whose purchase had put Ford Carson over the edge, provoking him into arranging a marriage for his daughter and sentencing Clay to a two-month stint as her warden.
He glanced across the console at Fiona. She still assumed the same angry posture she had throughout their trip, with her face turned to the passenger window, her arms folded across her chest and her left shoulder hunched high against him, warding off any attempt he might have made at conversation.
Fine, he told himself, as he turned his gaze back to the road ahead. Let her sulk. His job was to teach her responsibility, not to entertain her. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he pulled his cell phone from the clip on his belt and quickly punched in Benito’s number again.
“We’ve cleared the border,” he told his contact, whom he’d called earlier that night to make the necessary arrangements for the marriage. “What’s your twenty?” He listened, scanning the dark road ahead, then said, “Yeah. I see you. Lead the way.” He pressed the disconnect button, then clipped the phone back at his waist.
A truck swerved onto the highway from a side road ahead, its headlights slicing through the darkness as it fishtailed onto the lane in front of them. Clay slowed, giving Benito the lead. He followed the rattletrap truck through the quiet streets, down a narrow alley and braked to a stop behind it. He climbed out of the car, giving Benito and the man who accompanied him a nod of greeting as the two approached the car.
“Hey, amigo,” Benito said, grinning and giving Clay a slap on the back. “Long time no see.”
Clay nodded. “Yeah. It’s been a while. Is everything ready?”
“Sí,” Benito assured him. He gestured toward a heavy door, set into the adobe wall. “The magistrate, he is waiting inside.” Clay glanced at the shadowed entrance, then braced a hand on top of the car and leaned to peer inside. “Okay, Fiona. This is it.”
Without sparing him a glance, she pushed open her door.
Somewhere along the way, she’d primped a little, removing the telltale signs of her skinny-dipping adventure. Probably when she’d gone into the service station where he’d stopped for gas, Clay decided. Her hair was dry now and wound on top of her head, a silver comb holding it in place. She’d also removed the mascara streaks from beneath her eyes and had slicked her lips with some glossy kiss-me color.
But if she’d made the effort for Clay, she’d wasted her time. It would take a hell of a lot more than a hairstyle and makeup to impress him.
But Benito didn’t seem to need anything more. He watched her climb from the car, his mouth gaping. “Mi Dios,” he murmured, unable to tear his gaze away. “This one, she is beautiful.” He glanced at Clay. “How did you ever talk a beautiful señorita like this into marrying an old hombre like you?”
Scowling, Clay started for the front of the car to meet her. “It was her father’s idea.”
He took Fiona by the elbow, intending to escort her inside, but she jerked free of his grasp. After giving him a scathing look, she strode toward the heavy wooden door, her nose in the air.
Chuckling, Benito moved to stand beside Clay, as he watched Fiona storm away. “She is a wild one, sí, señor?”
With a grunt, Clay followed her. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”
The room they entered was small, the only illumination provided by two fat columns of wax set in iron sconces on the far wall. A long wooden table stood beneath the flickering candles, a silver crucifix jutting from its center. To the right of the crucifix lay a couple of sheets of paper—the official marriage documents, Clay assumed. On the wall to Clay’s left, a colorful drape of fabric covered an arched doorway.
As he noted the covering, the drape was pushed aside and a short, dark-skinned man entered the room. Benito quickly made the introductions. Clay shook the magistrate’s hand, but Fiona kept her arms stubbornly folded across her chest and her gaze fixed on the wall, refusing to acknowledge the introduction.
With a weary sigh, Clay said, “Let’s get this over with.”
The magistrate gave him a curious look, but moved to stand before the table and gestured for the others in the room to gather around him. Once again Clay took Fiona by the elbow to guide her into place. This time, surprisingly, she didn’t pull away.
The magistrate slipped a small leather-bound book from the folds of his serape and began the ceremony. Clay focused his gaze on the crucifix, trying not to think about the promises he made, as at the magistrate’s prompting, he offered the appropriate “I do’s.”
“Usted puede besar a su esposa.”
Clay snapped his gaze to the magistrate, then stole a glance at Fiona, wondering if she understood enough Spanish to realize that the magistrate had just given Clay permission to kiss his bride. He didn’t have to wonder long. She seared Clay with a look that would have stopped a herd of stampeding cattle in their tracks, then pushed past the magistrate and snatched the papers from the table.
“Where do I sign?”
After indicating the place for her signature, the magistrate quickly moved out of her way. She scrawled her name, tossed down the pen, then marched from the room, slamming the door behind her.
Benito crossed himself, then looked at Clay, his brown eyes soft with sympathy. “May God be with you, my friend.”
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