Peggy Moreland - Billionaire Bridegroom

“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.