Peggy Moreland - Billionaire Bridegroom

Forrest smiled when the mare snuffled his hand, looking for a treat. He rubbed a palm up her face to scratch her between the ears, his smile growing. “She’s a sweetheart, all right.” He angled his head toward Becky and his smile slipped down into a scowl. “Unlike some females I know.”

Becky wasn’t crying. She never cried. She just had something in her eye was all. She sniffed and dragged her wrist across her cheek, swiping at the telltale moisture, before reaching to remove the mare’s halter. Once free, the horse turned immediately to the trough and the waiting feed. Becky watched her for a moment, her thoughts on the marriage proposal Woody had offered.

...because you’re gonna be thirty soon and destined to spinsterhood. I think it’s high time I made good on my promise.

She slapped the halter against the side of her leg. “Darn your sorry hide, Forrest Cunningham,” she swore and stomped from the stall. When she turned to lock the gate behind her, her efforts were handicapped by the hot angry tears that blinded her.

She’d waited for years to hear a marriage proposal from Woody...but not one like that. A spinster! She dashed a hand at the tears again, then hooked the halter over a nail on the barn wall. “Like I’m some kind of charity case, or something,” she muttered disagreeably. She sniffed, fighting the sting of the insult, the hurt...but finally sank onto a bale of hay, wrapped her arms around her waist, bent double and gave in to the tears. She sobbed until her head ached and her eyes swelled almost shut. She cried until there were no more tears left to cry.

When she was sure the well had run dry, she gave her face a brisk scrub, sucked in a deep, shuddering breath and told herself to buck up. There were worse things in life than being called a spinster and having a marriage proposal offered out of pity. She wasn’t sure what those things were, but, given the time, she was sure she could come up with one or two.

After all, she reminded herself, it wasn’t as if she’d ever really believed that Woody would propose to her. If nothing else, she was a realist. She knew she was no raving beauty, that she didn’t have the social graces required to mingle with the folks Woody ran with.

But the heck of it was, he had asked her...and had hurt her feelings in the process. Granted, she was no debutante, but didn’t she deserve romance as much as any other woman? Was it too much to ask to have an “I love you” thrown in there somewhere?

...say you’ll marry me.

A sigh shuddered through her.

She’d dreamed of hearing Woody say those words to her for more years than she could remember. From the time she was thirteen and had first become aware of him as more than just the boy next door, she’d wished on the first star she’d seen every night that he would fall in love with her. Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might have the wish I wish tonight. She’d even hoped to double her chances by wishing on every load of hay she’d ever seen. Load of hay, load of hay, make a wish and look away. And she’d never once looked back at the load of hay, after making her wish, for fear her wish wouldn’t come true if she did.

And now she’d blown it. Just because Woody hadn’t proposed to her with the pretty words that she’d imagined he’d use, she’d turned him down flat.

No, she corrected miserably, dropping her elbows onto her knees and her face onto her palms. She hadn’t just turned him down. She’d lied to him.

She groaned, raking her fingers through her hair. What on earth had possessed her to concoct that wild tale about having a fiancé? She didn’t have a fiance. Heck! She’d never even had a regular boyfriend!

Pride, she told herself. That was her problem and always had been. Woody often teased her, saying that when God was passing out pride, she must have thought He’d said pie and asked for a double helping.

She chuckled at the memory, then felt another swell of tears bubble up in her throat. Oh, Lord, what was she going to do? she cried silently. If only she could roll back the clock, she’d bury her pride so deep it couldn’t find her, and say yes to Woody’s proposal, even if he had offered it out of pity.

But she couldn’t roll back the clock, she reminded herself. And even if she could, she knew she’d react the same darn way, because she really didn’t want to marry Woody if he didn’t love her. She wanted his love as much as she wanted him.

A horse nickered and with a sigh, Becky pushed herself to her feet, reminded of the chores that waited. While she fed the stock, she told herself that spinsterhood really wasn’t all that bad. After all, she didn’t have a man underfoot all the time, expecting her to cook his dinner or wash his dirty clothes, as other women did. And there was nobody to demand her attention or her time. She could do what she wanted and when she wanted to do it.

The truth was, Rebecca Lee Sullivan was alone.

But, then, she always had been.

Two

“Hank, I need a wife.”

“Sorry, I’m already taken.”

“Funny,” Forrest mumbled, scowling.

Hank reared back in his chair, hooking the heels of his custom-made boots on the chair’s lowest rung, then took a quick look around to make sure Henry, the maître d‘ of the Texas Cattleman’s Club, wasn’t around. Owner, or not, even Hank Langley wasn’t allowed to abuse the club’s furniture. “Wasn’t trying to be funny. Just stating a fact.”

Sterling Churchill laughed, but quickly swallowed his amusement when Forrest directed the scowl his way. Sterling leaned to peer closely at his friend. “You’re serious about this wife business, aren’t you?”

Forrest picked up his beer. “Yeah, I am.” He took a long swallow, then set the frosted mug down with a frustrated sigh. “The hell of it is, there aren’t any single women left in the whole dad-blamed county.”

“Pansy’s still available,” Hank offered and won another frown from Forrest. “Just trying to be helpful,” he said, and gave Sterling a conspiratorial wink.

Catching Hank’s drift and ready to help him give their friend a hard time, Sterling suggested, “There’s always Martha Jo. I believe she’s between husbands right now.”

Forrest rolled his eyes. “I want a wife, not a damn bottle blond looking for another alimony check.”

Sterling pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose if you’re that picky you could put an ad in the Midland paper. Folks are doing that more and more these days.” He drew a line in the air with his finger. “It could read something like this... ‘Wife wanted. No bottle blonds need apply.”’

“Yeah,” Hank tossed in, “and you could add ‘no prior experience required’ which might cut down on the number of divorcees who respond.”

Forrest fell back against his chair in disgust. “You boys ought to take this show on the road.”

“Now, Forrest,” Hank soothed, trying to hide a grin. “We were only funnin‘ with you.”

“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.”