Billionaire Bridegroom

Hell! Becky was the perfect woman for a rancher like him!

He quickly fished money from his pocket, tossed it on the table and grabbed his hat. As he strode for the door of the diner, he recalled a conversation that he and Becky had had years before, and a promise he’d made to her at the time.

If you’re not married by your thirtieth birthday, hell, I’ll marry you.

The good news was that Becky hadn’t married and, if memory served him right, her thirtieth birthday was in November, less than six weeks away.

It was all he could do to keep from kicking up his heels as he headed for his truck. If he had his way—and Forrest usually did—he and Miss Rebecca Lee Sullivan would be married by the time her birthday rolled around.

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.”