“Well,” Becky began slowly, “I don’t think he believed me, because he started asking me all these questions about where I met him, what his name was. He was shooting questions at me so fast, that I don’t remember half of what I told him.” She sank back against her chair in disgust. “Then, this evening, he came over and told me that he wanted to run a trace on my fiancé, just to make sure the guy was on the up-and-up. And the worst of it is,” she added, her voice rising in frustration, “he’s been telling it all over town that I’m engaged.” Becky closed her fingers around the edge of the table and pulled herself forward. “What am I going to do, Miss Manie?” she cried. “I’ve dug myself so deep in the lie, I can’t see the light.”
“Before I can advise you, I need to know why you told the lie.”
“I told you, I was mad.”
“Yes, I imagine you were,” Miss Manie agreed readily, “and justifiably so. But why did you tell Forrest that you were engaged? Why not just refuse his proposal outright?”
“Because he made me sound like a charity case, and I wanted to prove to him that I wasn’t.”
Miss Manie arched a pointed brow, waiting. “And...”
Becky ducked her head. “Well, I suppose I might have wanted to make him a little jealous, too.”
“Now we’re getting to the crux of the matter,” Miss Manie said, pursing her lips in smug satisfaction. “And did you succeed?”
Becky slowly shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“I do,” Callie piped in, then quickly pressed her fingers to her lips, blushing a pretty shade of pink as she glanced Becky’s way. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stick my nose in where it’s not welcome.”
Becky waved away the apology. “Stick your nose in as far as you want. I need all the help I can get.”
Callie leaned forward, obviously enjoying being a part of the conversation. “In that case, I think Forrest’s curiosity about your fiancé was a sure sign of jealousy. Otherwise, he wouldn’t care enough to ask questions. Wouldn’t you agree, Aunt Manie?” she asked, looking to her aunt for approval.
“I would.”
Becky tossed up her hands. “Great. So he’s jealous. What do I do now? Just tell him the truth and suffer the consequences?”
“Eventually,” Manie said thoughtfully while she stirred her tea. After a moment, she set aside her spoon. “But first, he needs to stew for a while. It’ll do the boy good.”
“I don’t think I follow you,” Becky said, puzzled.
“Play this fiancé of yours up for a while,” Miss Manie suggested. “Let Forrest go on thinking you are already taken. See how he reacts. It might force his hand.”
“Force his hand?” Becky repeated, more confused than before. “In what way?”
“If Forrest thinks he’s going to lose you to another man,” Miss Manie explained, “he might just decide to put up a fight for you. A fight,” she added, chuckling, “that you’re going to let him win.”
Three
Yawning, Forrest dropped down in the leather wing chair, then swung his legs up and propped his boot heels on his oversize mahogany desk. Taking a careful sip of his coffee, he glanced toward the darkened window, a reminder that he was up before the sun again. Not that he needed the reminder. He hadn’t gotten a full night’s rest since he’d returned from the mission trip to Europe. This wifepicking business was beginning to wear on his nerves, he thought irritably.
Out of habit, he picked up his little black book, thumbed through a couple of pages, studying the names listed there, then tossed down the worn book with a muttered curse. There was no use in looking through the names again. He’d already ruled out every woman he’d ever had a date with.
And the one woman he hadn’t ever dated had ruled him out.
He frowned, rubbing a hand at the sudden stab of pain in his chest. He wasn’t suffering from a broken heart, he told himself firmly. Hell, it wasn’t as if Becky had jilted him or anything. His proposal to her had been more like a business deal. Yeah, that was it, he thought, warming to the idea. He needed a wife and children, and Becky needed a husband and someone to take care of her. A fair exchange to his way of thinking.
Only the deal hadn’t gelled, he reminded himself grimly.
Becky was engaged to somebody else and Forrest was right back where he started, needing a wife.
He took a careful sip of his coffee, then laid his head back with a sigh, feeling the first kick of caffeine to his system. Balancing his mug on his belt buckle, he settled his gaze on the far wall and the framed pictures hanging there—pictures of family and friends, favorite horses, a couple of prized bulls the Cunningham’s had raised over the years. Though twenty or more photographs hung there, one in particular caught his eye—a portrait of the Cunningham family taken twenty years before.
As he stared at the family portrait, memories of the day he and his parents had posed for the photograph pushed aside his concerns about finding himself a wife.
He’d just turned sixteen when his mother had insisted they needed a family portrait to commemorate the event and had arranged for a photographer from Midland to drive to their ranch so the pictures could be taken in their home. She had strong-armed Forrest into getting a fresh haircut for the occasion, and had even laid out the clothes she had wanted him to wear for the sitting. He chuckled, recalling the fight that had ensued over her selection.
More comfortable in jeans and boots, he had balked at the idea of putting on the coat and tie she had chosen, claiming that suits were reserved for marrying and burying. Since nobody had died, he’d informed her, and since he wasn’t planning on getting married anytime soon, be didn’t see any reason why he should have to wear the dang thing. They had argued for half an hour or more before his mother had finally stormed out of his room, muttering that he wouldn’t have to worry about wearing a suit to get married in because no woman in her right mind would ever have him, but that he might very well be wearing a suit to a funeral—his own—because she was about a hair away from strangling him.
He chuckled again as he focused in on his mother’s image. Kathleen Cunningham might look like a spapampered woman, but she was a tough old bird, and could give as good as she got. Her one disappointment in life, by her own admission, was that she hadn’t been able to fill the house her husband had built for her with the children she’d wanted so badly. Though she loved the only son she’d been blessed with, and never hesitated to demonstrate that affection whether in public or private, she doled out discipline in the same open manner. From the day she’d given birth to Forrest, she’d sworn that he wouldn’t be spoiled, and she’d personally done everything in her power to see that he wasn’t. As soon as he was big enough to prop up in a saddle, she’d insisted that her husband take Forrest with him when he rode out over their ranch, checking the cattle and the windmills.
Remembering those rides, Forrest shifted his gaze to the man who stood beside his mother, one broad, tanned hand resting on her slender shoulder. A tall man, solidly built, Newt Cunningham had done his own part to see that Forrest wasn’t coddled. He’d demanded a full day’s work from his son, the same as he did from the wranglers on his payroll, and would accept nothing less. In the process, he had instilled in Forrest a strong work ethic, a love for the ranch that would be his one day, and had taught him everything he’d need to know about running it.
Though he’d never received more than a high school degree himself, Newt Cunningham had insisted that Forrest go to college. He had also been instrumental in Forrest’s decision to serve a stint in the military, having taught his son from an early age that it was a man’s duty to serve his country when the time came. As a result, after college, Forrest had traded his Stetson for a green beret and served his time in the armed forces gathering military intelligence in foreign countries.
The knowledge and experience he had gained both at the university and abroad came in handy eight years earlier when his parents had suddenly announced that they were retiring and were
turning the management of the ranch over to him. With nothing more than a pat on the back and a wave goodbye, they’d moved to Midland and their new home there, leaving Forrest alone in the big rambling house he’d grown up in.
Alone.
Frowning at the reminder, he rubbed a thoughtful thumb along the side of his coffee mug. In the beginning, being alone had suited him just fine. Then, he’d been busy...okay, maybe a little obsessed, he amended at his conscience’s nudging...in proving that his parent’s trust in him was well-placed. But his hard work had paid off. He’d taken an already successful cattle ranch and parlayed it into a billion dollar corporation by investing its profits in oil and real estate, making him one of the wealthiest cattle barons in the world.
But he didn’t want to be alone any longer. He wanted a wife and kids.
Feeling the blue mood edging its way back over him and determined to fight it off, he forced his gaze to another picture, this one taken at one of the annual barbecues held on the Golden Steer. Linen-covered tables were scattered all around the flagstone patio that fanned from the ranch house at the Golden Steer’s headquarters. Above them, strings of miniature lights twinkled from the patio’s ivy-draped lattice roof. Smoke billowed from the oversize grill built into the patio’s low rock wall, where a much younger Forrest and two wranglers tended slow-cooking briskets, prime beef raised and butchered right on the Golden Steer.
The photographer had captured the guests, smiling and talking in small groups, just as the sun was setting. Forrest recognized a United States senator among them, a New York Times bestselling author, a professional football player, as well as neighbors and family friends. He chuckled when he singled Becky from the crowd, dressed in her usual attire of jeans and boots, her mane of hair a flame of red against the darkening Texas sky.
He moved his gaze from one picture to another, lost in the memories each drew...and slowly became aware that one person appeared in nearly every one of the framed shots.
Becky Sullivan.
He shifted his gaze back to the family portrait. She wasn’t in that picture, but he remembered her being there that day, standing off to the side, making faces at him and trying to make him laugh.
His throat tightened as he stared at the wall of pictures and the events and the memories each represented. Becky as a young girl, standing beside him in front of the Cunningham family Christmas tree, the sorrow over the loss of her mother still evident in her big, green eyes. A teenaged Becky with a ponytail and an attitude all decked out in Western finery, riding one of the Cunninghams’ cutting horses in a state competition. Becky on her twenty-first birthday, grinning and holding her first legal beer high in the air.
He rubbed a hand across his chest, the ache returning with a vengeance. Becky Sullivan was as much a part of his life as his parents were.
But she wouldn’t be for much longer. She was getting married. And she’d be moving away, leaving him behind, just as his parents had.
Groaning, he dropped his boots to the floor, then leaned to set his coffee mug on his desk. With his elbows braced on his knees, he buried his face in his hands. He didn’t want to lose Becky. Hell, she was like a sister to him. A best friend.
You can take your friendly offer to run a trace on my fiancé, get the heck off of my land, and stay off.
Remembering her angry command, he collapsed against the chair’s soft leather back, realizing that he might very well have already lost her friendship, if not her physically. Instead of offering her congratulations on her engagement and upcoming marriage, he’d all but called her a liar and belittled the man she’d chosen to marry. And what kind of person would do a thing like that to a friend?
A selfish one, he told himself in disgust.
An apology was due, but admitting a wrong had never come easy for Forrest. Firming his lips, he pushed out of the chair and to his feet. He’d apologize this time, though, he promised himself as he reached for his hat. And maybe—if he was lucky—Becky would find it in her heart to forgive him his callous behavior. And if she didn’t...
He slammed the back door behind him with a little more force than was needed. Well, she would forgive him, because he wasn’t leaving the Rusty Corral until she did. Becky dumped feed into the mare’s trough, then crossed back to the bin and filled the bucket again.
Woody fight for me?
She snorted as she tossed the scoop back into the bin, remembering Miss Manie’s prediction from the night before. Miss Manie was a wise woman, and one whom Becky loved dearly, but this time she was wrong. Dead wrong. Becky couldn’t imagine Woody fighting another man for her hand in marriage.
Especially an invisible man.
She grimaced at the reminder of the lie she’d told. A fiancé. Of all the reasons she could have offered to Woody for not marrying him, why did she have to fabricate a fiancé? Huffing a disgusted breath, she lifted the bucket, carried it to the last stall and dumped the feed into the trough.
With all the livestock fed and her morning chores done, she hooked the bucket’s handle over a nail and headed for the house and her own breakfast, cursing her stupidity every step of the way.
“A fiancé,” she muttered. “Of all the stupid, harebrained things to come up with.”
On the back stoop, she faltered, one hand clasped around the door handle. The thought of entering the house and eating another solitary meal had her dropping her hand and sinking down on the top step in dejection. She was tired of eating alone. Of sleeping alone. Heck, of just being alone!
But, by the look of things, she was going to be alone for a long, long time.
She wrapped her arms around her legs, hugging them to her chest. With her chin propped on her knees, she watched the sky bleed with dawn’s awakening colors. In the distance, she could hear the low call of cattle, the lonesomeness in the sound intensified by her own melancholy mood.
It was at times like this that she missed her mother the most, she thought sadly. The quiet times, the lonely times. The times when a hug and an encouraging word were needed most. Though her mother had died when Becky was only seven, she still remembered her. The way she smiled. Her laugh. Her scent. The hugs she passed out like cookies that were just as sweet and twice as filling.
But her mother was gone. And for all practical purposes, so was her dad. She snorted a laugh as she thought of Shorty Sullivan. A dreamer. That’s what her father was. Always chasing after the horse that would put him on easy street. The one that would earn him the reputation as the best horse trainer in Texas, or the long shot that crossed the finish line first. After years of chasing, Shorty still hadn’t found that horse, but he’d never quit looking, never quit dreaming.
A wet nose bumped against her arm and she glanced over to find Rowdy, Woody’s cow dog, beside her.
“Hey, Rowdy,” she said, reaching to scruff him between the ears. “How ya doin‘, buddy?”
He barked, then butted his nose against her arm. He whined low in his throat and looked at her expectantly, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.
She laughed. “Wanting some breakfast, are you?”
“Don’t beg, Rowdy.”
Becky snapped her head around to find Woody standing at the side of the house, holding the reins of his favorite gelding loosely in his hand. She had been afraid that he wouldn’t show up today—or any day in the future, for that matter—since she’d so rudely ordered him off her land the night before.
But there he was, bigger than life, and looking more handsome that any man deserved. He was dressed in his work clothes—jeans and leather chaps, a faded chambray shirt and boots with more scuff than shine. A battered cowboy hat set low over his forehead shadowed his face. In the haze of dawn’s early light, he looked like a cowpoke straight out of the Old West who’d made a wrong turn along the way and somehow wound up in the twentieth century.
Though Woody was a wealthy man and had closets full of custom-made shirts and suits, and boots of every color and description, Becky always prefe
rred seeing him dressed this way. For some reason, it made her feel on more equal footing with him. She supposed that it was ridiculous to feel that way, since Woody’s family owned the biggest ranch in West Texas and had more money than they could spend in a lifetime, while her own family lived more a hand-to-mouth existence.
While she stared at him, he cleared his throat and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. Embarrassed, she quickly pushed to her feet and dusted off the seat of her jeans. “It’s my fault Rowdy was begging. I gave him biscuits every morning while you were gone. I guess he’s grown to expect them.”
Without bothering to reply, Woody tied his horse to a hitching post set near the back porch, then turned, pulling off his hat. He held it between his hands as he met her gaze. The graveness in his expression and the fact that he didn’t draw any closer had Becky’s stomach tightening in dread.
Had he come to fire her? she wondered as a new worry jumped to life to gnaw at her. Not that she’d blame him, if he did, considering the way she’d yelled at him and ordered him off her land. She gave herself a swift mental kick. If she lost her one sure source of income, it would be her own darn fault. But, dang it! She needed the paycheck she drew from the Golden Steer each month, and wasn’t sure how she’d make ends meet if she no longer had that income to rely on.
While she mentally castigated herself, he cleared his throat again as if what he was preparing to say pained him somehow.
“I don’t believe I ever got around to offering you my congratulations yesterday,” he said gruffly.
The relief Becky should have felt when he didn’t fire her wasn’t there. Guilt over the lie she’d told slipped in to replace it. Knowing full well she should be the one doing the apologizing, she stammered, “N-no, you didn’t.”
“Well, I’m sorry about that, and my rudeness.”
“No apology needed.”
She watched the tenseness ease out of his shoulders as he settled his hat back on his head. Warily she watched him as he walked toward her, sure that he had more to say “Is that all?”
Billionaire Bridegroom Page 5
