Billionaire Bridegroom

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.”