Fallow Fields

“Do you, Imogen Anne Rossi, take Willa Elaine Hayes to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold, for better or for worse—”

The county clerk’s voice drones on, a flat, uninterested monotone that does nothing to calm the frantic drumming of my heart against my ribs. I swallow hard, the dusty courthouse air catching in my throat.

“I do,” I rasp out.

The words feel foreign, like they belong to someone else. My hands tremble at my sides, and I clench them into fists, the bite of my nails into my palms a welcome distraction. I risk a glance at Willa beside me.

She’s a study in calm, her shoulders relaxed, her gaze steady on the clerk. Only the slight tightening of her jaw betrays any hint of tension. When it’s her turn, her “I do” rings out clear and confident, no hesitation.

The clerk pronounces us married, and just like that, it’s done. The whole ceremony takes less than five minutes. We sign the license, our signatures – Imogen Rossi, Willa Hayes – stark black ink on the crisp white page. Willa produces a simple gold band, sliding it onto my finger. The metal feels cold, heavy, and utterly alien.

I don’t have a ring for her. It didn’t occur to me until this moment.

“Congratulations,” the clerk says, already turning away, clearly eager to move on to the next item on her Tuesday morning agenda.

Willa thanks her politely, then turns to me, her brown eyes unreadable. “Ready?”

I nod, not trusting my voice. We walk out of the courthouse side by side, not touching, the space between us feeling like a chasm. The late spring sun is bright, almost harsh, after the dim interior of the building. I squint against the glare, feeling exposed and strangely vulnerable.

This is a mistake. The thought pounds through my skull, a relentless drumbeat. What have I done?

But I know exactly why I’m here. Why I just pledged my life to my childhood best friend in a five-minute ceremony as romantic as a root canal.

It all started a week ago, with a phone call that turned my world upside down.

* * *

The farmhouse kitchen is cavernous, the silence pressing in from every corner. Dust motes dance in the late afternoon light slanting through the grimy windows. I sit at the scarred oak table, a half-empty beer bottle sweating in my hand, staring blankly at the legal documents spread out before me.

“I mean, what the actual fuck, Willa?” I gesture wildly with my beer bottle, sloshing amber liquid onto the deed. “Who puts a marriage clause in a property deed? In this century?”

Willa leans against the counter, arms crossed over her chest. She’s still in her vet scrubs, her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. There’s a smudge of something that looks suspiciously like cow shit on her sleeve.

“The kind of person who holds a grudge for thirty years,” she says dryly. “You know how your grandfather was. Stubborn as a mule.”

“He cut my mom off for marrying my dad,” I grumble. “And now he’s trying to control me from beyond the grave. I barely even knew him.”

I’d met my grandfather exactly twice. Once when I was five, a vague memory of a gruff voice and the smell of tobacco. And again when I was ten, the summer I stayed with him on the ranch while my parents tried to salvage their imploding marriage.

That was the summer I met Willa. She lived on the neighboring ranch, a wiry, wild-haired girl with a menagerie of rescued animals and a no-nonsense attitude that fascinated shy, bookish me.

We’d been inseparable for those three months. And then my parents had divorced, and Mom had taken me back to Chicago, and that was that. Willa and I had stayed in touch, sporadic letters and emails over the years, a week spent together here and there. But it wasn’t the same.

And now, here I am. Thirty years old, unemployed after being laid off from my soul-crushing corporate strategy job, and the brand new owner of a dilapidated Montana ranch I didn’t even know existed until the lawyer called.

A ranch I can only keep if I’m married.

“I just…” I rake a hand through my hair, frustration bubbling up. “I can’t lose this place, Willa. I can’t. It’s all I have left of him. Of… of any of it.”

I don’t even know why it matters so much. It’s not like I have fond memories of the man. But it’s land. Real, tangible land. Something that could be mine.

Willa pushes off the counter and crosses to the table, picking up one of the documents. “It’s a lot to take on, Immy,” she says gently, using the nickname only she still uses. “This place is a mess. And running a ranch… it’s not a solo job.”

“I know that,” I snap, then immediately feel guilty. Willa’s been nothing but supportive since I showed up on her doorstep three days ago, shell-shocked and clutching a folder full of bombshells. “Sorry. I’m just… overwhelmed.”

She nods, letting it go. “Have you considered selling?”

I flinch. “I can’t. The deed says if I don’t meet the marriage condition within six months, the land goes to some distant cousin I’ve never heard of.” I sigh, rubbing my temples. “I don’t even know any single men I could ask to fake a marriage with me.”

The words hang in the air between us. Willa goes very still.

“What if you didn’t have to ask a man?” she says slowly.

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“What if you married me?”

I stare at her. “You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” She meets my gaze evenly. “Think about it, Immy. I’m single. I’m right next door. I know ranching inside and out. And I’m not looking for anything… complicated.”

I shake my head, trying to wrap my brain around what she’s suggesting. “Willa, I… I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering.” She leans forward, bracing her hands on the table. “It’s a practical arrangement. A business deal. We get married, you keep the ranch. We live together, run the place together. Separate bedrooms, separate finances. No… entanglements.” Her cheeks flush slightly at the word, but her voice stays steady. “Once the ranch is solvent and the conditions of the deed are met, we can quietly divorce. No muss, no fuss.”

I take a long swig of my beer, my mind racing. It’s crazy. Insane. But… is it any crazier than losing my grandfather’s ranch before I’ve even had a chance to make it something?

“You’d really do this?” I ask quietly.

Willa looks around the shabby kitchen, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “It’s not like I have a lot of other prospects beating down my door,” she says. “And honestly, it would be nice to have some help around here. Running my place and covering for old Doc Henderson is kicking my ass.”

I chew on my lip, considering. It could work. Willa’s right. She’s perfect for this. She knows ranching, she knows the land, she knows me. There’s no one I trust more.

But marriage. To Willa.

“What about… you know… dating?” I ask awkwardly. “What if you meet someone?”

Willa snorts. “Immy, the last date I went on was two years ago. With Hank Miller. Who spent the entire dinner talking about his prize-winning heifers.” She shakes her head. “My expectations are firmly in check, trust me.”

I take a deep breath. “Okay,” I hear myself say. “Okay, let’s do it.”

Willa’s eyes widen fractionally, then she nods. “Okay.”

She grabs two fresh beers from the fridge, twists off the caps, and hands one to me. We clink the necks together in a clumsy toast.

“To saving the ranch,” I say.

“To a mutually beneficial arrangement,” Willa counters.

We drink, the cool liquid doing nothing to settle the butterflies suddenly swarming in my stomach.

One week later, we’re standing in the county courthouse, exchanging vows that feel like a death sentence.

Seven days later, I’m standing in the middle of my new bedroom, surrounded by cardboard boxes and the overwhelming scent of lemon-scented wood polish. Willa’s already been through the room like a tornado, scrubbing and dusting until the old oak furniture gleams.

“It’s not much,” she says from the doorway, wiping her hands on the seat of her jeans. “But it’s yours.”

I look around at the sparse furnishings – a double bed with a faded quilt, a rickety dresser, a single nightstand. My entire adult life, condensed into half a dozen boxes and a couple of suitcases.

“It’s fine,” I say, and I mean it. After months of couch-surfing and living out of a suitcase, any space that’s mine feels like a luxury.