Billionaire Bridegroom

Her hand froze for a split second, then she tossed down the brush, trading it for a metal comb. “And they say women gossip,” she muttered.

Forrest bit back a grin. “I wasn’t gossiping. Just shootin‘ the breeze with friends over a beer at the Cattleman’s Club.”

“Gossiping,” she repeated firmly.

Forrest lifted a shoulder. “I figured you’d have told him about this fiancé of yours, being as y‘all are such good friends, and all.”

She gave the comb a hard tug, yanking at a stubborn tangle. “Didn’t see that it was all that important,” she mumbled.

Forrest widened his eyes, feigning shock. “Why, Becky Lee, I’m surprised at you. Marriage is one of the most important steps a person takes in life.”

She grunted again and tossed aside the comb. Turning her back to him, she bent over and lifted the mare’s rear leg to inspect her hoof. “Make yourself useful and hand me that pick.”

Her position offered Forrest a perfect view of her backside. In all the years he’d known Becky, he’d never once given her figure a second thought...but he did now. Heart-shaped, the cheeks of her butt filled out the denim jeans nicely. Without meaning to, he found himself lowering his gaze and looking for the tear he’d noticed earlier and that strip of exposed flesh.

Unfortunately she’d showered and changed since he’d last seen her and had put on a clean pair of jeans. This pair sported no tears or frays, no peeks at what lay beneath.

Disappointed, he plucked the hoof pick from the tack box and moved to hand it to her. “Getting married is serious business,” he said, watching her closely. “I certainly hope that you aren’t rushing into anything.”

Setting her jaw, she strained as she worked a clump of caked mud and stones from the horse’s hoof. “I’m not rushing into anything. Like I said, we haven’t set a date yet. ”

“A long engagement, huh?” He nodded his approval. “That’s probably wise. Too many people rush into marriage without giving themselves a chance to really get to know each other first.”

She lowered the horse’s leg and straightened, then slowly turned to face him. “And I suppose you consider yourself an expert on the subject of marriage?”

“I never claimed to be an expert.”

“Then why are you offering me advice?”

Forrest took a steadying breath. He wouldn’t argue with her, he told himself. Once they got started, they’d wind up in a spitting contest for sure. They usually did. Instead he took the hoof pick from her and dropped it back in the tack box. Draping an arm around her shoulders, he guided her from the stall. “Because I’m your friend, and friends worry about each other.”

“I don’t need you worrying about me. I can take care of myself.”

In the alleyway, he placed both hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face him. Bending his knees a little, he looked directly into her eyes. “I know that, Becky. Your independence is one of the things that I admire most about you.” He gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “But I’d feel a whole lot better if I knew something about this fiancé of yours. In fact,” he said, and tucked her beneath his arm, aiming her for the barn doors and the outside, “I’d like to run a trace on him. You know, find out a little about his past. Hank’s got a few contacts that I can take advantage of.”

She stopped so fast, dust churned beneath her boots. “Run a trace on him!”

“Well, yeah,” he said, trying his best to look innocent. “Just to make sure that he’s on the up-and-up. All I need is his full name, his address. If you have his social security number or his driver’s license number, though, it would help.”

He watched her face redden, her lips tremble, and was sure that she was near breaking point. Any second now she would admit that she didn’t really have a fiancé, that she’d made the whole thing up. Then Forrest could pop the question again, offering to marry her himself. By November he’d have himself a wife.

A second ticked by, then two, and Becky’s face turned redder and redder until it was as bright red as her hair. Too late Forrest realized that it wasn’t guilt that was turning her face colors. It was anger.

“Now, Becky,” he said, backing up a cautious step.

“Don’t you ‘now, Becky’ me,” she warned, closing the distance right back up. “I don’t need you or anybody else running my life for me. I’ve been taking care of myself for years, and doing a darn good job of it, I might add. So you can take your friendly offer to run a trace on my fiancé and get the heck off of my land, and stay off!”

Realizing that she had him retreating again, Forrest stopped and braced his hands on his hips. “Dang it, Becky! I’m not trying to run your life. I’m just trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need protecting.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” he shot back, then huffed a frustrated breath when her chin went up. “Aww, Beck,” he said softening his tone, “I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Then what do you want?” she cried. “You come over here and insult me by suggesting that my fiancé is some sort of con man.”

“I didn’t say any such thing.”

“You wanted to run a trace on him, didn’t you?”

“Well, yeah, but that was just so I could... well, so I could find out a little more about him.”

“You don’t need to know anything about him. I’m the one who’s marrying him, not you.”

Hearing her claim she was getting married so emphatically did something to Forrest’s ability to breathe. He was so sure that this engagement business had all been a lie. For the first time, he wondered if this fiance of hers might really exist. “You’re serious about marrying this guy, aren’t you?”

She wheeled around, turning her back to him, and folded her arms across her breasts. “Yes, I am.”

He stared at her back while his heart sunk lower and lower in his chest. He thought he’d been blue earlier, but that particular shade of blue didn’t hold a candle to his current state of mind. Becky had always been in his life. His buddy. His friend. Hell, she’d been like a kid sister to him.

And now she was getting married.

Without a word of farewell, he turned and headed for his truck.

As soon as Forrest left, Becky hopped in her own rattletrap truck and headed straight for Miss Mame’s, the one woman in town to whom she ran when she was troubled about something. It wasn’t until she’d turned onto the woman’s street, that she remembered that Miss Manie had married and was living in Midland now, which was an indication of just how distraught Becky was.

But as she passed by the house, she saw a light on in the kitchen. Hoping the light wasn’t just a security measure, she whipped her truck onto the driveway, hopped out and jogged to the porch. She rapped twice on the screen door, then rammed her hands deep into her pockets and rocked back on her boot heels, waiting.

The sound of voices drifted from the back of the house and Becky realized that Miss Manie wasn’t alone, a prospect she hadn’t considered before. Not wanting to discuss her troubles in front of Miss Manie’s new husband, she was ready to turn tail and run when the porch light blinked on and the door opened. A young woman stepped into the opening.

“Well, hi...Becky, isn’t it?” the woman asked uncertainly.

Becky yanked off her cowboy hat, and nodded. “Yes, ma‘am. Becky Sullivan.”

The woman smiled. “I thought so. I’ve heard quite a bit about you.” She extended her hand. “I’m Callie Langley, Hank’s wife, and Miss Manie’s niece.”

Becky had heard about Hank’s marriage, and had heard, too, that his wife was a good deal younger than he was. But nobody had mentioned how pretty she was, or how fragile-looking. Feeling clumsy and boyish in comparison, Becky shook the offered hand. “Pleased to meet you.” She glanced behind Callie. “I saw the light and was hoping to catch Miss Manie at home.”

Callie opened the door wider, gesturing for Becky to come inside. “She’s here. We were just about to have a cup of tea. Why don’t you join us?”

The idea of a tea party with the two women had Becky backing up. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to disturb y‘all or anything.”

Callie caught Becky’s hand before she could escape. “You aren’t disturbing a thing, and I know that Aunt Manie will be glad to see you.”

“Who’s that at the door, Callie?”

Callie called over her shoulder, “Becky Sullivan, Aunt Manie.”

Miss Manie appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Rebecca Lee Sullivan,” she warned sternly, “you better hope your boots are clean.”