Billionaire Bridegroom

“Well, I’m not laughing. I need a wife, dammit.” He leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table and curling his hands around his mug. He stared at his beer a moment, then cocked his head and narrowed an eye at Sterling. “Has Becky said anything to you about getting married?”

“Becky? Becky Sullivan?”

“How many Becky’s do you know?”

Sterling shrugged. “Just the one.”

“Well, has she?”

“No.” Sterling grinned sheepishly. “But then I didn’t say anything to her before I got married, either.” He shook his head slowly as he absorbed what Forrest had just revealed. “Becky getting married. I’ll just be damned.”

“I didn’t say she was getting married. I simply asked you if she’d said anything to you about it.”

“Well, hell, Forrest,” Sterling complained. “Is she getting married, or not?”

Forrest frowned. “I don’t know, but earlier this afternoon, she told me she had a fiancé. Personally I think she was lying.”

“Why would she he about a thing like that?”

His gaze on his beer mug, Forrest turned the glass slowly between his hands. “Probably because she was mad at me.”

A longtime friend of Becky’s, Sterling leaned forward in his chair, ready to defend her if necessary. “What did you do to her?”

“I asked her to marry me.”

Sterling’s eyebrows shot up. “The hell you say!”

“Damn sure did, but she refused me. Said she was already engaged. Of course, she told me that after she knocked me down.”

Hank held up a hand. “Whoa, hold on a minute. Let me get this straight. You asked Becky to marry you, and she knocked you down?”

“Well, she didn’t exactly knock me down. She shoved me and my boot heel hooked on a rock and I fell down.”

“Why’d she shove you?”

“How the hell would I know? She’s a woman, isn’t she? Women do crazy things all the time.”

Sterling and Hank shared a knowing look, both men aware of their friend’s lack of finesse with women. Though never short on female companionship, Forrest had never learned the finer points in courting a woman. Probably because he’d never had to. Women just naturally flocked to him, without him having to put forth much effort.

“Maybe you better tell us how you worded this proposal,” Sterling suggested.

“All I did was remind her of a promise that I made to her years ago about marrying her myself if she hadn’t hooked up with somebody by the time she turned thirty. Since her thirtieth birthday is less than six weeks away, I told her that I was ready to make good on my promise.”

Having already heard about this pact from Becky just a few weeks before, Sterling asked, “Is that all?”

Forrest furrowed his brow, trying to remember the exact conversation. “No, I believe I mentioned something about saving her from spinsterhood.”

Hank let his head fall back. “Oh, Lord,” he groaned.

“And what was wrong with my proposal?” Forrest wanted to know.

“Hell, Forrest, you insulted her,” Hank told him. “No woman likes to be referred to as a spinster.” He sighed heavily. “Sterling, looks like you and me are gonna have to give Forrest here some lessons on how to properly court a woman.”

Forrest’s chest swelled in indignation. “Just because the two of you have each walked the aisle twice, doesn’t make y‘all experts on the subject.”

“We have wives, don’t we? And you don’t,” Sterling reminded him.

Forrest waved a hand in dismissal. “Forget it. Becky’s already engaged—or at least she says she is.”

“Maybe she is getting married,” Sterling said in his friend’s defense. “Becky’s not one to lie.”

“She is this time,” Forrest argued stubbornly, “and I intend to prove it.”

Forrest didn’t waste any time in trying to prove Becky was lying. As soon as he finished his beer, he left the Texas Cattleman’s Club and headed straight for the Rusty Corral. As he drove over the cattle guard at the ranch’s entrance, he noted the barbed-wire fence was sagging in a couple of places and made a mental note to send one of his men over to repair it.

He knew Becky would pitch a fit when she discovered what he’d done. He’d fought similar battles with her before when he’d meddled in her business. But he couldn’t very well sit by and let her ranch fall down around her. God knew the poor woman was doing all she could to keep the place going.

He frowned as his thoughts shifted to Becky’s daddy, Shorty Sullivan. The man ought to be horse-whipped and dragged across Ozark Salt Lake naked, letting the salt burn his raw wounds, he thought angrily. Leaving a woman alone to do a man’s work. And the old goat had been doing it for years.

Forrest remembered the first time he’d discovered that Shorty had taken off and left his daughter alone on the ranch. Becky couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen at the tune. Forrest had called late one evening to ask her if she’d help out with a roundup, and, when no one had answered the phone, he’d decided to just drive over. He’d found her in the barn wrapped up in a blanket and huddled in a corner of her horse’s stall. The poor kid had been scared to death...but wouldn’t admit it. She was that stubborn.

And she hadn’t changed much over the years. He couldn’t count the times that he and his family had tried to help her out when times were hard. But she wouldn’t accept their assistance, considered it charity. Forrest himself was the one who had finally come up with the idea of offering her the job of checking daily on the windmills that dotted the Golden Steer to make sure they were still pumping the water that was so vital for their herds.

A job Becky could accept. Charity she wouldn’t.

The job had grown over the years to include Becky riding Golden Steer horses while she made the windmill circuit. When he’d offered her the first string of horses, he’d used the excuse that he needed her to keep the horses in shape for roundups and was willing to pay her for nding them. It wasn’t long before he’d added the job of Becky training the horses, too. Thus, Becky had ended up on the Golden Steer payroll, and the Cunninghams had all slept easier, knowing that the girl wasn’t going to starve to death right beneath their noses.

Forrest gave his head a rueful shake as he parked his truck in front of the barn on the Rusty Corral. Stubborn. That’s what Becky Lee Sullivan was. And her saying that she couldn’t marry him because she was already engaged was just another example of that stubbornness.

Anxious to pump her for information on this fantasy fiance of hers, he climbed from his truck and headed for the barn, suspecting he’d find Becky inside with the new mare. Sure enough, he found her in the stall, talking softly to the horse while she brushed her down.

“How’s she doing?”

Startled, Becky jumped at the sound of his voice, then, with a huff, went back to her grooming. “Fine. Doesn’t seem to have suffered any ill effects from the trip.”

Forrest opened the stall door and stepped inside. “Good.” He ran a hand along the horse’s neck, letting the mare know he was there, then rested his arm along the animal’s spine as he watched Becky brush tangles from the horse’s tail. “Spoiling her already,” he teased.

“She likes the attention.”

By the defensive tone in her voice, he knew she was still angry with him and was spoiling for a fight. But Forrest didn’t want to argue with her. He wanted the truth and was determined to get it.

“I’m sure she does,” he replied placidly. He gave the horse’s rump a pat then moved to the side of the stall and leaned his back against it to watch Becky work.

“Saw Sterling earlier,” he offered conversationally.

She grunted an acknowledgment, but didn’t respond.

“He seemed surprised to hear that you were engaged.”