Marriage On Demand

“You can’t marry a stranger for a piece of land.”

Rena shook her head as she continued, “Marriage ought to mean more than that.”

The sternness on Ford’s face didn’t change by a flicker. “It should mean more than that, but often doesn’t. It ought to mean more than lust and bringing a new generation into the world. But most times it is about convenient sex and having kids.”

“What about…love?” The question had come out almost without Rena’s permission. She knew Ford wanted the land and he’d marry her without a second thought to get it.

A wedding dilemma:

What should a sexy, successful bachelor do if he’s too busy making millions to find a wife? Or if he finds the perfect woman, and just has to strike a bridal bargain…

The perfect proposal:

The solution? For better, for worse, these grooms in a hurry have decided to sign, seal and deliver the ultimate marriage contract…to buy a bride!

Will these paper marriages blossom into wedded bliss?

Strategy for Marriage (#3707)

by Margaret Way

Marriage on Demand

Susan Fox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For my good friend and fellow author, Kathy Carmichael:

Thanks for your friendship, sense of humor and insight.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

EVEN for a woman who’d endured emotional hardship her whole life in hope of at last gaining her father’s affection and approval, it was an incredible mandate: You’ll marry Ford Harlow.

Rena Lambert stood on the open porch that morning at the back of the Lambert Ranch house, so stunned by her father’s terse decree that she felt light-headed. Dread gripped her insides. Disbelief made it hard to speak in the quiet, careful way she always had to the bitter, volatile man who’d never shown a smidgen of tenderness. If he’d ever felt any.

“Years past time for you to marry,” he said, then let his hard gaze slice critically over her from head to boot before it shifted dismissively away.

“I have no interest in ma—”

Her father’s impatient words cut her off. “Folks already talk. You’re a mannish female with no natural feelings. Men don’t want a woman who’s better at being a man than she is at being female.”

The blunt words sent a wave of pain and humiliation through her that made her face feel stiff and on fire. All Rena’s life, Abner Lambert had scorned any show of femininity or weakness in his daughter. To berate her now for repressing the natural inclinations he’d always been so vocal and unsparing about was the height of cruelty.

She recognized the familiar sting of frustrated tears, but the rigid emotional control she’d practiced since early childhood kept her eyes dry. Heat gathered behind them until they burned.

Rena Lambert had grown up with the knowledge that her birth had caused the death of the only woman her father had ever cared for. And she’d been born female, which meant Abner had no son to carry on his legacy. A son might have earned her father’s love, or at least his respect, by virtue of being male and capable of carrying on the family name her father was so rabidly proud of.

The fact that he’d never chosen to remarry and have other children who might have been sons was beneath his consideration. Blaming Rena had been much more satisfying to his twisted sense of justice than assigning himself responsibility for his own choices.

But what about her choices? Perhaps she’d become as twisted as he. How else could she account for her lifelong pursuit of approval and acceptance?

Dimly she realized that her craving for her father’s approval was connected to the guilt he’d instilled in her. Guilt craved redemption, but false guilt craved it more obsessively.

Rena stared at her father’s harshly carved profile as he went on, each word just as cruel and devastating as the others.

“Won’t let a female inherit Lambert. Your first son’ll get all that’s mine. Harlow’ll oversee it till the boy’s old enough to take over. If you can’t bear sons, the ranch’ll go to Frank Casey or one of his boys.”

Now he aimed a hard glance at her shock-frozen expression. “That happens, you’d better have something Harlow’ll want to keep you around for, ‘cause he’ll already have what he bargained to get.”

And he won’t need you. It was some surprise that he hadn’t actually said it out loud, but he knew he’d communicated his meaning precisely.

“Harlow wants you at his place tonight at seven. Informal supper, he said.”

Shame and hurt roared so high then that it was a miracle she could stand so quietly and keep her composure. Her tone was carefully mild.

“The two of you have it all worked out,” she dared softly. “But why saddle him with me? Let him buy the west section. Will the ranch to Frank and his sons. They’ve worked hard for you and they’re loyal.”

She’d worked just as hard, labored harder than any man who’d ever given his sweat and blood to Lambert land. She’d hoped to someday inherit the ranch she loved, but suddenly the last true hope behind every effort in her life vanished in this new toxic flood of her father’s relentless bitterness.

How could she have believed that his grudge against her would someday ease? Or that she’d ever been worth more to him than an extra pair of hands to do the work? Her father went on and she felt herself sway with dizziness.

“Figure I owe you that much, since you can’t seem to get a man’s interest on your own.”

Old fury burst up and burned wildly for several hot moments, but she rigidly held it back, though the very pressure of it made her feel strangled. Rena didn’t care that the faint curve of her lips revealed the depth of her own bitterness and disillusionment.

Without a word, she turned away to cross the porch and let herself into the house. Her throat pounded so hard that she wondered dazedly if she might faint.

Like a robot, she walked up the back stairs, the sound of her boots as subdued as she felt. Once in her room, she methodically set about the task of packing her things.

She should have left this place the day she’d turned eighteen. She should have left this hell. What kind of female could have lived so long with this? How many men would have?

Men don’t want a woman who’s better at being a man than she is at being female.

Her father was wrong. She wasn’t truly better at being a man. Most men wouldn’t have put up with such treatment, much less borne up under the weight and agony of it. Most men had more self-respect. All men had more pride.

Her own stubborn refusal to relinquish hope suddenly seemed pitiful. How many times did you let someone smash your fingers with a hammer before you had sense enough to move your hand?

Though she’d realized the truth long ago, she’d not let herself acknowledge it. Her days—years of them—had amounted to little more than waking up in the morning and pushing herself through each day, weathering the blistering desert of rejection and frustrated hope until exhaustion drove her to bed at night to dream foolish dreams of better times.

How many men who were worth a damn to anyone or to themselves would have been reduced to that?

The sudden need to put an end to that insanity—to at last show some spine and pride—sent a fierce new fire through her as she got boxes from the attic and put stack after stack of clothing from her dresser into them.

Ford Harlow was surely under the impression that he was shackling himself to a female no one else would want so he could get access to a piece of land he’d coveted for years. Just the idea that her father had gone to him to propose such a bizarre notion sent a fresh surge of humiliation scorching over her from scalp to toe.

What kind of man was Ford Harlow? She’d thought better of him than to fall in with the twisted plans of a hateful old man out to buy a husband for his “mannish” daughter. How had he taken her father’s proposal? Had he laughed?

In the end, he’d evidently accepted it. But to get a piece of land, not a wife. She wondered if he’d truly agreed to the part about fathering a son.

The delicate shame she recognized as purely female was the next agony she had to endure. For years, she’d taken vigilant care to never reveal that she had a crush on Ford Harlow. Her father would have verbally savaged her for showing interest in any man, particularly a man of Ford Harlow’s caliber.

And it would have mortified her if Ford himself had ever detected it. The few times he’d had occasion to speak to her, he’d been kind, almost gentle, though his rugged looks and terse manner intimidated her. She’d responded coolly to him and kept herself aloof, but her wounded ego had been soothed by his attention, and profoundly flattered. That her heart would respond to him had been as natural as it had been impossible to prevent.

She couldn’t bear for a man like him to think she’d been a willing—no, an eager—party to her father’s scheme. She knew worldly, compelling men like Ford Harlow barely noticed that sexless females like her existed. It was shocking to think he might have taken her father’s scheme to marry her off to him seriously. At least seriously enough to accept the deal and set a time to speak to her about it.

She had to see him now, she had to put a stop to this. But, oh God, how could she face him?

Not giving herself time to shrink from the task of countering the excruciating shame of what her father had done, Rena abandoned the growing collection of belongings and walked shakily out of her room to do just that before she lost her nerve.

The new stallion Ford Harlow had spent a fortune on was fractious and volatile, with a host of surly habits that had been tolerated and indulged by his last owner.

The shout that went up at the stud barn had drawn his attention and he left the colt he was about to work to head down the alley that bisected that section of corrals. He’d nearly reached the stud barn, when the blood-red stallion burst from the open doors into the sunshine, defying the efforts of the two men who were trying to get a hand on his lead rope. Two more men rushed from their work to block the animal’s path, but the wily stallion dodged them and shot away.

Obviously the qualities that made him a standout—brains, ability and speed—had facilitated his escape. Ford rushed to intercept the powerful horse, but the red devil charged on, boldly knocking him out of the way. The lead rope he’d managed to snag burned through his palm and fingers before it snapped free.

Ford swore, but as he started after the stallion, he caught sight of the slender female who’d apparently just walked through the stable from the driveway on the other side.

Rena Lambert was a striking presence against the shade-darkened interior of the stable behind her. Tall and slender, her body had the sort of feminized athletic fitness beneath her plaid shirt and jeans that spoke volumes about how hard she worked.

She was also all female, though she acted anything but. She probably never suspected the prurient thoughts men had about her lushly rounded attributes and her long, leanly muscled legs.

Her move to intercept the runaway was as graceful as the woman herself, but Ford felt a jolt of alarm as she stepped calmly into the stallion’s path.

The animal reacted instantly, as if he’d been startled by something in her movement, though Ford had detected nothing. The red animal skidded wildly to a stop and shifted direction only to nearly run through the board fence on one side of the alley, before he feinted back to catch Rena off guard or to bully her into letting him pass.

Ford was running now to intervene, but the big horse suddenly reared, practically on top of the slim woman who didn’t so much as flinch.

It was over in those next tense seconds. Rena Lambert never showed even a flicker of fear or hesitation as the stallion’s front hooves started down only a few inches from her right shoulder. She merely shifted to the side to catch the flipping end of the lead rope.

The stallion squealed as his hooves hit the dirt, but before he could bunch his powerful hindquarters to bolt, Rena used her grip on the lead rope to haul his big head around and force him to circle.

Caught off guard, the stallion whipped around her as if eager to participate. Ford halted within a few feet of the pair, watching tensely as Rena used nothing but her grip on the heavy lead and her hand on the stallion’s flank to urge him to keep moving in the small, tight circle. The low-level cloud of dust they kicked up quickly obscured Ford’s ability to keep track of the fast-paced dance.

Seconds later, the horse dramatically slowed then abruptly came to a halt. The stallion lowered his head and let out the kind of long snort that signaled surrender and calm. Rena gave him a firm pat on his damp neck and murmured a few quiet words.

Not once had she shouted, not once had she done anything to cause the big animal pain. In essence, she’d merely taken over and redirected the animal’s energy while neatly demonstrating her own authority over him until he’d let her know he’d had enough.

The pleasure of seeing her do that sharpened Ford’s interest. He’d not expected to see her before tonight, but he knew right away why she’d shown up early. The high, hot color that surged up her cheeks as he approached confirmed it.

“Much obliged.” He took the lead rope she passed him. Her incredible blue gaze with its thick fringe of black lashes shifted from his and the color in her face deepened.

For another woman, that would have been coy and flirtatious. But Rena Lambert was neither of those. She was aloof—painfully aloof—and quiet in a way that fairly shouted proof that her father frequently berated her.

It was no secret that the old man was an SOB, and that he treated his only child like dirt. Ford wondered why she took it. Did she think she deserved it or had Abner undermined her so much that she was afraid to go out into the world on her own?

Ford had only tolerated Abner’s visit yesterday because Rena intrigued him. He’d learned nothing that truly satisfied his curiosity, but he’d been shocked by what Abner Lambert meant to do to his daughter. The injustice of that was far sharper for Ford than the personal insult of having a crazy old man use a piece of land to buy a husband for his daughter.

And why the hell would he need to? Rena was beautiful. Her dark, glossy hair came down just past her collar, but it was thick and lustrous and straight. Her face was an intriguing mix of high cheekboned beauty and common symmetry. Her nose was fine and straight and her mouth had a vulnerability to it that asked a man to go slow.

Combined with a close-up view of the rest of her, Rena Lambert was a pleasure to look at. The lustful feelings he’d felt toward her in the past impacted him more deeply and forcefully than ever now. The notion that he might have to marry her wasn’t exactly distasteful.

But instinct warned him to conceal that. She was already here to put a stop to her father’s scheme. Any hint of personal interest from him would scare her away, and he wasn’t yet certain what he truly wanted, other than a parcel of land.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you until tonight,” he said, unable to take his eyes from her.

Her blue gaze shifted to his when he spoke, but dropped away almost instantly.

“I can’t…have supper with you. I—” She cut herself off as the two ranch hands from the stud barn arrived to collect the stallion.

Rena’s nerves were jumping painfully high now that the moment had come to speak to Ford Harlow. She was tall for a woman, but Ford made her feel petite and feminine. He wasn’t peacock handsome, but he was rugged and compelling. So compelling that she felt the power of his dark gaze on her every second.

The long-repressed femininity she rarely acknowledged was clamoring at his nearness. Men didn’t normally affect her, but something about Ford’s masculinity pulled at her.

A peculiar feeling that was half excitement, half fear sparkled sweetly through her and she tried desperately to suppress it. She was terrified her reaction to him would show, because something in his nearly black gaze hinted at unerring perception. She wasn’t used to men like him. The men she worked with every day accepted her presence, but nothing in their manner or in the way they spoke to her had ever seemed personal.

Every look Ford gave her, every word he spoke, somehow seemed intensely personal, as if he meant to catch her notice, as if he was either probing for something or trying to coax it out of her. It was terrifying, it was flattering, it was profoundly confusing.

It dawned on her then that she’d let several moments go by without finishing the sentence she’d cut off when Ford’s men had led the stallion away. Her gaze shot back to see the calmness in his. He was waiting for her, watching her steadily and the peculiar feeling of excitement and fear soared higher.

“Pardon me,” she said hastily to apologize for the brief wait, then struggled to keep from fidgeting as she went on, determined to get it out. “My father just told me about…”

Her heart quailed with dread. She glanced away from him, seeking relief from the sharp search his dark eyes made of hers.

“About what my father asked, I had nothing to do with that,” she told him. “I refuse to let him…”

The frustration of wanting to declare her intentions without saying too much about her true relationship with her father made it difficult. Her gaze shifted back to Ford’s just in time to see him step toward her and reach for her arm.

“Let’s go to the house, Miz Lambert, get something cool to drink. We can talk there.”

Rena froze that second before his strong fingers closed warmly around her arm. She tried not to flinch, but she couldn’t seem to control that. She couldn’t control the sudden, baffling weakness of her legs as she turned with him to start through the stable to go to the house.

She’d had no fear of the runaway stallion, no worries about standing her ground and catching his lead to calm him down, but she was terrified of this, so terrified. And the grimness about Ford now further unsettled her.

Could he feel the small earthquake his touch set off? The pleasure-fear of his warm grip surged so strongly that the moment they were through the stable, she pulled her arm away. Horrified that the awkward movement suggested she couldn’t bear his touch another moment, she faltered to a halt. So did he, and his calm gaze fastened on hers.

Her mouth went dry with bad nerves and it was a struggle to get the words out.

“I mean no offense to you, Mr. Harlow. What my father suggested…I won’t be part of that. Good day.”

She cringed inwardly at the stiff way it had come out, particularly the clumsy formality of that last. Good day. Fake-sounding and pretentious in a way that sent heat to her face and a sick feeling to her stomach. And she’d meant to say it then walk to her pickup and leave, but her legs were trembling and she couldn’t seem to move.

The sick feeling deepened as Ford’s expression went grim. Her worked up emotions felt the shock of the sudden change all the way to her feet.

“The drought’s getting worse, Ms. Lambert. I need the water on that west section.”

The drought of the past two years had depleted water resources in that part of Texas. Lambert Ranch had also been affected, but it was still water rich. Enough so that her father could let that west section go to Ford Harlow and still have plenty.

“Make my father an offer, but ask to lease the land. He’s cutting back on stock, so the cash will come in handy.”

It was a confidential bit of information that caused her a strong pang of guilt, but the truth was Abner was growing more difficult to work with, and he now had trouble keeping good ranch hands. Hence the cutback in livestock.

Ford’s stern expression hardened even more and for the first time, Rena got a clear glimpse of harshness and implacability. The kindness she’d seen in him before suddenly seemed as much a rippling mist above hard pavement as any other mirage.

She realized then that her secret fantasies about this man had been just as foolish and naive as her hope that her father would at last approve of her. She should have guessed that Ford Harlow was a harsh, implacable man. He was successful and he ruled his own small Texas empire. There could be no true softness in him, no sign of anything that wasn’t domineering and driven for him to be able to rule over so much and several other business interests as well. She’d always been intimidated by him, but she’d not thought it was due to more than his rugged good looks or his terse, no-nonsense manner.

She’d been wrong. Particularly after what she’d grown up with, she should have been able to see Ford Harlow for what he was: a man like her father. Not emotionally twisted like Abner—at least she hoped not—but hard and driven to have the world bow down at a finger snap. A man who felt entitled to get his way however it affected lesser mortals.

Nothing changed on Ford’s stern face, so she added more. “Ask him to lease you the land. He’ll will Lambert Ranch to Frank Casey, and Frank will likely need to sell off that section to pay inheritance taxes. There’s no reason for…” Her voice choked to a whisper and she felt her face heat. “No reason for you—”

She cut herself off and glanced away to finish it. “People don’t do that kind of thing anymore. At least, not where it’s civilized.”

The silence between them thundered in her ears. God help her, she didn’t have the courage to both wait for his comment and watch his stern face while he said it.

“People do still do it, Ms. Lambert. Your father and I aren’t quite done negotiating, but I expect you and I could join the ranks of the uncivilized any day now.”

Rena’s gaze shot back to his solemn look. Her soft, “No,” was as choked with disbelief as it was spontaneous.

“The forecast is skimpy on rain and I’m tired of hauling in water at a premium price.”

Rena shook her head, now unable to tear her gaze away from the rocky sternness of his rugged face. “You can’t marry a stranger for a piece of land. Marriage ought to mean more than that.”

The sternness on his face didn’t change by a flicker. “It should mean more than that, but often doesn’t. It ought to mean more than lust and it ought to mean more than bringing a new generation into the world. But most times it is about convenient sex and having kids.”

“What about…love?” It was a bold and intimate question for her to ask, but it had come out almost without her permission.

Now his stern mouth relaxed into a faint curve. “You are young, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question. “And naive. Besides which, Abner’s in an almighty hurry and I’m not sure the drought gives us time for more than an agreement and a ceremony.”