Billionaire Bridegroom

It was all just a matter of him popping the question.

Forrest parked his truck about fifty feet from the round pen where Becky was working a colt and settled back to watch. The colt was one of Forrest’s, bred and raised on the Cunningham ranch, the Golden Steer. He’d hauled the horse over to the Rusty Corral, Becky’s family’s place, just before leaving on the mission to Europe so that Becky could begin training him while he was gone. By the look of things, she’d made good use of the time. The colt was trotting smoothly along the wall of the pen, moving in and out of the obstacle course Becky had set up, while Becky turned a tight circle in the middle, her attention fixed on the young horse. Her arms were outstretched, forming a widemouthed V, one hand gripping a longe line clipped to the colt’s halter and the other dragging a whip along the ground aimed at the colt’s rear hooves.

Forrest pursed his lips thoughtfully and watched, his gaze focused not on the colt, but on the woman. He assessed her as he would a brood mare he was thinking of buying, or a registered cow he was thinking of adding to his herd—one eye narrowed, his brow furrowed in concentration, while he studied her conformation.

Though she was skinny as a rail, she was built tough; Forrest knew that for a fact. And tough was important when a man was thinking of taking on a wife who would be required to live on a ranch as big and isolated as the Golden Steer. He moved his gaze on a slow journey from her battered, sweat-stained hat, down her spine and settled it on the seat of her faded jeans. A frayed tear just below one cheek of her butt exposed a strip of olive-toned skin.

When he realized that he was staring and what he was staring at, he forced his gaze back up to her hips. They were a little narrow, he acknowledged with a frown, trying not to think about that strip of bare skin, but seemed wide enough to handle a birth without much trouble. And though her breasts were small, he didn’t figure size counted much when it came to nursing a babe...and Cunningham women always nursed their young. The natural way, Forrest’s dad had always insisted, whether discussing animals or humans, was the only way. Like his father, Forrest believed that nature knew best and lived by her rules.

She’ll do, he told himself confidently and shouldered open the door of his truck. Standing, he paused a moment to stretch out the kinks in his legs, then slammed the door and headed for the round pen. Becky glanced up at the sound.

A smile bloomed on her face when she saw him. “Hey, Woody!” she called, shoving her hat farther back on her head.

“Hey, yourself,” he returned, not even wincing at the nickname she’d assigned to him years before. He propped a custom-made boot on the corral’s lowest rail, his forearms along the rail at shoulder level, and gave her a nod of approval. “He’s lookin‘ good.”

“Better than good,” she corrected. “Watch this.” Taking a firmer grip on the longe line, she gave the whip a snap in the air and ordered, “Lope.” The colt stepped easily into the faster gait, his head high, his tail streaming behind him. Becky turned slowly in the center of the ring, her gaze fixed on the animal as he circled the pen, weaving a path around the barriers she’d set up, and pushing his way through a tarp she’d strung between two poles. “Whoa!” she called suddenly and followed the command with a slight tug on the line. The colt sank bank on his haunches, churning dust as he slid to a stop.

Pleased with the demonstration, Becky moved to the colt’s head and rubbed the white star that ran from his forehead to his nose. “Good, boy,” she murmured, pressing her cheek against his. “Good, boy.” He turned his head slightly and gave her a playful nudge. She laughed as she coiled the longe line in her gloved hand, then led the colt to where Forrest stood. “Better than good, right?”

Though he knew she was looking for praise, Forrest couldn’t resist teasing her a little. “Depends on a person’s definition of good.”

Becky shot him a sour look, then turned to tie the colt at the rail. “How many green horses have you seen that wouldn’t have spooked at that flapping tarp?”

“A few.”

Her scowl deepened and she gave her slip knot a yank, testing it, before she headed for the gate. Forrest opened it for her and waited while she stepped through.

“Ingrate,” she muttered darkly as she passed by him.

“Show-off,” he returned, grinning, then locked the gate behind her.

“Where’ve you’ve been keeping yourself?” she said irritably. “I haven’t laid eyes on you since before you took off on that vacation in Europe you were so hushhush about.”

Though he knew exactly where he’d been—wining and dining the female population of Ward County while ruling out all the possibilities as candidates for the position as his future wife—Forrest thought it best not to tell Becky that. She was a woman, after all, and might not like the idea that she wasn’t his first choice. “Oh, around,” he said vaguely.

She snorted and pulled off her hat. “When are they delivering the mare?”

“Anytime now,” he replied, watching as her red hair settled around her shoulders. He’d never noticed how thick her long hair was, or the golden highlights hidden in it, until that moment when the sun hit the red mane, panning the gold from its depths. But then he’d never really thought much about the feminine side of Becky. To him, she was a buddy, same as Sterling and Hank.

While he watched, fascinated by this new side of her he was discovering, she bent at the waist and scrubbed her fingers through her hair, separating the damp locks, then straightened, flipping her hair back over her head and behind her shoulders. The sun caught the red and gold highlights and turned them to fire.

Redheaded kids. Forrest pondered the idea for a moment, wondering if Becky’s red gene would dominate his black one... then decided a redhead might be a welcome change among the traditionally black-headed Cunninghams.

Yep, Rebecca Lee Sullivan would do just fine as the future Mrs. Forrest Cunningham. Trying to think of a way to pop the question to her, he draped an arm along her shoulders and guided her toward the barn and the only strip of shade in sight. “Did you miss me while I was gone?”

“‘Bout as much as I’d miss a toothache.”

He bumped his hip against hers. “Aww, come on now, Becky. You know you missed me.”

She stopped once they reached the shade and folded her arms over her breasts as she turned to look up at him. “Did you miss me?” she returned pointedly.

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

Her brows shot up at his unexpected response, then down into a frown. “Yeah, right,” she muttered and slapped her hat against her thigh to shake the dust from it. She turned her back to the barn and propped a worn boot heel against its side as she settled her shoulders against the weathered wood.

“No, I really did,” he insisted. “In fact, I was thinking about you just this afternoon while I was eating lunch at the Royal Diner.”

She glanced up at him. “Why?” she asked dryly. “Did you have indigestion, or something?”

Forrest laughed and reached over to tousle her hair. “Naw. I was just thinking about you—us. You know,” he said, suddenly feeling awkward, “how long we’ve known each other, and all.”

She peered at him closely. “You didn’t get hit in the head, or anything, while you were in Europe, did you?”

Forrest snorted and pulled off his hat, slowly turning it by its brim as he studied it. “No. There’s nothing wrong with my head.”

Becky gave her chin a quick jerk of approval. “Good. You had me worried there for a minute.”

Forrest moved to stand beside her, mirroring her posture—boot heel and shoulders braced against the barn wall. He stared out across Sullivan land to the fence that marked the border of the Golden Steer. “How long have you and your dad lived here?” he asked. He was close enough to feel her shoulder move when she lifted it in a shrug.

“I don’t know. ‘Bout twenty years or so, I’d guess.”

“Twenty years,” he repeated, then shook his head. “That’s a long time. A mighty long time.”

Becky gave him a curious look. “Yeah, I suppose.”

“You have a birthday coming up, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” she replied slowly, then scrunched up her nose and leaned to look more closely at him. “Are you sure you didn’t get hit in the head?”

Frustrated, Forrest pushed himself away from the wall, and whirled to face her. He’d forgotten how aggravating Becky could be at times. “Why do you keep asking me if there’s something wrong with my head?”

She lifted a shoulder again, then slid down the wall until she was sitting on the ground. Dropping her hat over her upraised knees, she brushed dust from its crown. “I don’t know,” she mumbled. “I guess it’s because you’re not usually this sentimental.”

He hauled in a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He couldn’t very well propose marriage while they were arguing. “No, I’m not. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think about things now and again.” He hunkered down in front of her. “Do you remember the time we were out rounding up steers? You would’ve been eighteen or so at the time, and you were crying because no one had invited you to the Cattleman’s Ball.”

Her lips thinned at the reminder and she looked up at him, her green eyes sparking fire. “I don’t cry,” she informed him coldly. “And I don’t give a hoot about going to any old ball. Never have.”

Forrest had to count backward from ten to keep from debating the issue with her. He knew damn good and well she’d cried. He remembered the day well, because he’d never seen her cry before...and not once, since. “Yeah, well, anyway, you said something that day—or rather asked me something—that I’ve never forgotten. You said to me, ‘Woody, do you think I’ll ever get married?’” He gave his head a rueful shake as he turned his gaze to his hat. “Damn near broke my heart.” He cocked his head to look at her. “I promised you right then and there that if you weren’t married by your thirtieth birthday, that I’d marry you myself.”

He watched her eyes grow as big as half-dollars and her throat convulse as if she was having trouble swallowing. Her lips moved a couple of times, but no sound emerged. Finally she managed to get out, “W-whγ are you telling me all this?”

Forrest pushed himself to his feet and looked down at her as he settled his hat back on his head. “Well, Becky,” he said, swelling his chest a bit and giving the waist of his jeans a confident hitch, “it’s because you’re gonna be thirty soon and destined to spinsterhood. I think it’s high time I made good on my promise.”

She was up and off the ground so fast that Forrest wasn’t sure she’d ever been sitting. Then her finger was stabbing into his chest and he was backing up and she was pressing forward, her eyes narrowed to slits and her mouth thinned to one white line of fury. “Marry you!” she all but screamed at him. “You egotistical, thickheaded mule I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth!” She gave him a shove that sent him stumbling backward. Another shove and his boot heel hooked on a rock and he went sprawling, arms flailing. He landed flat on his back, knocking the breath from him and making him see stars. When his vision cleared, Becky was leaning over him, her face as red as her hair. “A spinster, huh? Well, let me tell you something, buster. I’d rather—”

Forrest had heard enough. He caught her ankle and gave it a tug, jerking her off her feet. She landed in the middle of his chest with a thud and a muffled whoomph. Before she could catch her breath, he locked both arms around her back, holding her against him. They were chest to chest, their noses inches apart. “Now, you listen to me, Rebecca Lee Sullivan,” he warned. “I’m offering you marriage, the opportunity to be my wife. There are women all over Wade County who would give their eyeteeth for a chance to become Mrs. Forrest Cunningham.”

“Who?” she demanded angrily. “Name one.”

The question caught Forrest off guard, and it took him a minute to come up with a name. “Fanny Lou Farmer,” he blurted out.

Becky snorted her opinion of Forrest’s choice. “That pie-faced bimbo?”

“And there’s Marylee Porter.” Warming to the challenge, he added, “And Pansy Estrich.” He knew how much Becky hated the phony, silicone-inflated blonde.

Becky squirmed, trying to break free of his hold. “If you’re even considering marrying a one of them, it just proves that your brains are located somewhere south of your belt buckle.”

Though he was sure she’d meant to insult him, the accusation drew a smile. “What’s wrong, Becky? Jealous?”

She immediately stilled, then shot him a look that would melt creosote off a fence post. “As if a one of those women has anything that I’d be jealous of.” She humphed, then gave his chest a frustrated shove. “Let me up.”

“Not until you say you’ll marry me.”

She stilled again, her gaze going to his. Something he saw there—was it fear? Hope? Whatever it was, it scared the hell out of him...but not nearly as much as her next words.

“Why, Woody?” she asked, her voice a raw whisper. “Why do you want to marry me?”

It was Forrest’s turn to squirm. The truth was that he was in desperate need of a wife, but he wasn’t a man who liked to expose his vulnerabilities. A shrewd negotiator from the top of his Stetson to the tips of his custom-made boots, when working a deal, whether in oil leases or cattle futures, he made it a rule to never reveal his weaknesses. “Because I promised I would,” he said instead. “Besides,” he added irritably, “it’s not as if men are knocking down your door with offers.”

Angrily Becky twisted free of him and jumped to her feet. She planted her fists on her hips as she glared down at him. “Well, I won’t marry you.”

Slowly Forrest sat up, locking his arms around his knees as he returned her angry look. “Give me one good reason.”

“I...I—I’ve already got a fiancé.” She immediately stooped to scoop her hat from the ground and, in doing so, managed to hide her face from him.

“You’re lying.”

She popped up faster than a jack-in-the-box. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“Damn straight. If you had a boyfriend, I’d know it.”

She made a production of dusting off her hat... and avoiding his gaze. “You don’t know everything about me,” she mumbled.

“Well, you sure as hell didn’t have a boyfriend when I left town!”

“This was—well, it was rather sudden.”

Forrest braced a hand on the ground and levered himself to his feet, then stooped to retrieve his own hat. “Sudden, hell. I’d call it a damn miracle.”

She shot him a dark look, which he ignored.

“So who is this mysterious fiancé of yours? Anybody I know?”

She headed for the barn, her chin tipped high enough to catch water. “I doubt it.”

Forrest followed close on her heels. “Well, who is he, then?”

“He’s just a guy I met.”

“Where?”

Her steps slowed for a moment, then sped right back up as if she was trying to outrun him and his questions. “At a...at a cattle auction.”

“Is he from around here?”

She stopped in front of a stall and unlatched the gate. “No. He’s from—Wichita.”

“Kansas?”

“Yeah,” she agreed a little too quickly, and ducked inside the stall, “Kansas.”

His eyes narrowed in suspicion, Forrest watched her as she checked the level of water in the bucket. “So how long have y‘all been engaged?”

“A week.”

“When’s the wedding?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied vaguely. “We haven’t set a date.”

“What’s his name?”

She whirled to look at him, her eyes wide and unblinking. “His name?” she repeated dully.

The look on her face was the same one she’d worn the time Forrest’s mother had cornered the two of them, furious because someone had eaten the pecan pie she’d baked for the church social that evening. She’d been sure that he and Becky had eaten it. Though Forrest had spun a convincing tale in an attempt to escape a sure whipping, when his mother had turned to Becky to verify his story, her guilty look had given them both away.

“Yeah,” he muttered, watching her carefully, “his name. You know, how he signs his checks.”

“Oh. His name’s...John. John Smith.”

Forrest pursed his lips as she stepped from the stall. Yep, she was lying. He was sure of it. Becky never had been any good at maintaining a poker face. And John Smith. Even the name sounded made-up. “Sure it isn’t Doe?” he goaded. “As in John Doe?”

She glanced at him, frowning, then scooped feed from the bin into a bucket. “No. It’s Smith. Withayinstead of an i.” Then, as if as an afterthought, she added, “And with an e at the end.”

“John Smythe.” Forrest tossed back his head and laughed. Smythe with a y instead of an i and an e tacked on at the end. That’s prime, Becky. Really prime.“

She stormed past him and back into the stall, refusing to look at him. “You got a problem with my fiancé’s name?” she snapped.

“No.” He stepped back as she dumped the oats into the stall’s bin, dodging the dust that shot into the air. “But I think you’re making all this up.”

She caught the bucket’s handle in one hand, and smiled sweetly at him. “What’s the matter, Woody? You jealous?”

He reared back, amazed that she would suggest such a thing.

“Hell, no!”

Her smile turned smug. “Yes, you are.” She swung the empty bucket at her side as she retraced her steps to the feed bin. “Your male ego is showing. You don’t want to believe that I might actually prefer marrying someone other than you.”

Before Forrest could form a response, a horn honked outside.

Becky glanced up, then quickly dropped the bucket back into the feed bin when a truck pulled past the door. “There’s your mare,” she said, heading for the opening.

Frustrated by the interruption, Forrest trailed her. “We aren’t through with this discussion, yet,” he warned.

“You may not be, but I am,” she returned, then yelled, “Hey, Slick! Whatcha got in there?”

Slick Richards slid from behind the wheel of his dually, grinning. “The prettiest little mare this side of heaven.”

Becky clapped a hand on Slick’s back as she walked with him to the rear of the trailer. “Heck, Slick, that’s what you say every time you deliver a horse over here.”

Slick gave his chin a jerk in Forrest’s direction by way .of greeting as he swung open the rear doors. “Have I ever lied?”

Laughing, Becky hopped up inside the trailer while the two men waited outside. When she got her first look at the mare, she whistled low under her breath. “Ho-le-e-ey smoke.” She took a cautious step deeper into the trailer’s shadowed interior. “How far along is she?”

“She’ll be dropping her foal within the next two or three weeks.”

Becky laid a hand on the mare’s swollen side, then smoothed it over her shoulder and up along her neck. “She’s a beaut, Slick. A real beaut.” She untied the lead rope and gently backed the mare from the trailer, clucking softly. The horse balked a bit when she reached the rear door and her hoof hit nothing but air. “Easy, mama,” Becky soothed. “You’re doing just fine.”

Forrest stepped back, giving them room, then moved to Becky’s side once she and the mare had safely reached the ground. “She give you any trouble?” he asked Slick as he took the lead rope from Becky’s hand.

“Sweetest little lady I’ve ever had the privilege to haul,” he replied.

Forrest smiled when the mare snuffled his hand, looking for a treat. He rubbed a palm up her face to scratch her between the ears, his smile growing. “She’s a sweetheart, all right.” He angled his head toward Becky and his smile slipped down into a scowl. “Unlike some females I know.”

Becky wasn’t crying. She never cried. She just had something in her eye was all. She sniffed and dragged her wrist across her cheek, swiping at the telltale moisture, before reaching to remove the mare’s halter. Once free, the horse turned immediately to the trough and the waiting feed. Becky watched her for a moment, her thoughts on the marriage proposal Woody had offered.

...because you’re gonna be thirty soon and destined to spinsterhood. I think it’s high time I made good on my promise.

She slapped the halter against the side of her leg. “Darn your sorry hide, Forrest Cunningham,” she swore and stomped from the stall. When she turned to lock the gate behind her, her efforts were handicapped by the hot angry tears that blinded her.

She’d waited for years to hear a marriage proposal from Woody...but not one like that. A spinster! She dashed a hand at the tears again, then hooked the halter over a nail on the barn wall. “Like I’m some kind of charity case, or something,” she muttered disagreeably. She sniffed, fighting the sting of the insult, the hurt...but finally sank onto a bale of hay, wrapped her arms around her waist, bent double and gave in to the tears. She sobbed until her head ached and her eyes swelled almost shut. She cried until there were no more tears left to cry.

When she was sure the well had run dry, she gave her face a brisk scrub, sucked in a deep, shuddering breath and told herself to buck up. There were worse things in life than being called a spinster and having a marriage proposal offered out of pity. She wasn’t sure what those things were, but, given the time, she was sure she could come up with one or two.

After all, she reminded herself, it wasn’t as if she’d ever really believed that Woody would propose to her. If nothing else, she was a realist. She knew she was no raving beauty, that she didn’t have the social graces required to mingle with the folks Woody ran with.

But the heck of it was, he had asked her...and had hurt her feelings in the process. Granted, she was no debutante, but didn’t she deserve romance as much as any other woman? Was it too much to ask to have an “I love you” thrown in there somewhere?

...say you’ll marry me.

A sigh shuddered through her.

She’d dreamed of hearing Woody say those words to her for more years than she could remember. From the time she was thirteen and had first become aware of him as more than just the boy next door, she’d wished on the first star she’d seen every night that he would fall in love with her. Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might have the wish I wish tonight. She’d even hoped to double her chances by wishing on every load of hay she’d ever seen. Load of hay, load of hay, make a wish and look away. And she’d never once looked back at the load of hay, after making her wish, for fear her wish wouldn’t come true if she did.

And now she’d blown it. Just because Woody hadn’t proposed to her with the pretty words that she’d imagined he’d use, she’d turned him down flat.

No, she corrected miserably, dropping her elbows onto her knees and her face onto her palms. She hadn’t just turned him down. She’d lied to him.

She groaned, raking her fingers through her hair. What on earth had possessed her to concoct that wild tale about having a fiancé? She didn’t have a fiance. Heck! She’d never even had a regular boyfriend!

Pride, she told herself. That was her problem and always had been. Woody often teased her, saying that when God was passing out pride, she must have thought He’d said pie and asked for a double helping.

She chuckled at the memory, then felt another swell of tears bubble up in her throat. Oh, Lord, what was she going to do? she cried silently. If only she could roll back the clock, she’d bury her pride so deep it couldn’t find her, and say yes to Woody’s proposal, even if he had offered it out of pity.

But she couldn’t roll back the clock, she reminded herself. And even if she could, she knew she’d react the same darn way, because she really didn’t want to marry Woody if he didn’t love her. She wanted his love as much as she wanted him.

A horse nickered and with a sigh, Becky pushed herself to her feet, reminded of the chores that waited. While she fed the stock, she told herself that spinsterhood really wasn’t all that bad. After all, she didn’t have a man underfoot all the time, expecting her to cook his dinner or wash his dirty clothes, as other women did. And there was nobody to demand her attention or her time. She could do what she wanted and when she wanted to do it.