Billionaire Bridegroom. Peggy Moreland
pat. “Thank you, Forrest. For everything,” she added in a whisper, before turning away.
Forrest watched her cross back to the bar, his eyes going unerringly to the seductive sway of her hips. He gave his head a shake and forced his gaze back to the window. Don’t even think it, he warned himself. Even if he didn’t suspect that Greg had a prior claim on the princess, he knew that Anna wasn’t the woman for him.
So who is? he asked himself, his frustration returning with a force stronger than the wind outside that was currently sandblasting his truck in the diner’s parking lot. He’d already ruled out every eligible woman within a three hundred mile radius of Royal. There wasn’t a single woman left with whom he’d want to share his name, much less his life.
Frowning, he glanced at his wristwatch and saw that it was almost two. He had promised to meet Becky at twothirty and inspect a mare that he was having delivered to her ranch.
He started to rise, then slowly sank back down in the booth, his eyes going wide. “Rebecca Lee Sullivan,” he whispered under his breath. Why hadn’t he thought of Becky before now?
Becky as his wife. He toyed with the idea for a moment, weighing the possibilities. She’d lived next door to him for as long as he could remember and was as good a friend as a man could ask for. She liked ranching and horses and wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty, unlike most of the women he knew. She wasn’t hard to look at, was self-reliant, and could rope and ride as well as any man, himself included.
Hell! Becky was the perfect woman for a rancher like him!
He quickly fished money from his pocket, tossed it on the table and grabbed his hat. As he strode for the door of the diner, he recalled a conversation that he and Becky had had years before, and a promise he’d made to her at the time.
If you’re not married by your thirtieth birthday, hell, I’ll marry you.
The good news was that Becky hadn’t married and, if memory served him right, her thirtieth birthday was in November, less than six weeks away.
It was all he could do to keep from kicking up his heels as he headed for his truck. If he had his way—and Forrest usually did—he and Miss Rebecca Lee Sullivan would be married by the time her birthday rolled around.
It was all just a matter of him popping the question.
Forrest parked his truck about fifty feet from the round pen where Becky was working a colt and settled back to watch. The colt was one of Forrest’s, bred and raised on the Cunningham ranch, the Golden Steer. He’d hauled the horse over to the Rusty Corral, Becky’s family’s place, just before leaving on the mission to Europe so that Becky could begin training him while he was gone. By the look of things, she’d made good use of the time. The colt was trotting smoothly along the wall of the pen, moving in and out of the obstacle course Becky had set up, while Becky turned a tight circle in the middle, her attention fixed on the young horse. Her arms were outstretched, forming a widemouthed V, one hand gripping a longe line clipped to the colt’s halter and the other dragging a whip along the ground aimed at the colt’s rear hooves.
Forrest pursed his lips thoughtfully and watched, his gaze focused not on the colt, but on the woman. He assessed her as he would a brood mare he was thinking of buying, or a registered cow he was thinking of adding to his herd—one eye narrowed, his brow furrowed in concentration, while he studied her conformation.
Though she was skinny as a rail, she was built tough; Forrest knew that for a fact. And tough was important when a man was thinking of taking on a wife who would be required to live on a ranch as big and isolated as the Golden Steer. He moved his gaze on a slow journey from her battered, sweat-stained hat, down her spine and settled it on the seat of her faded jeans. A frayed tear just below one cheek of her butt exposed a strip of olive-toned skin.
When he realized that he was staring and what he was staring at, he forced his gaze back up to her hips. They were a little narrow, he acknowledged with a frown, trying not to think about that strip of bare skin, but seemed wide enough to handle a birth without much trouble. And though her breasts were small, he didn’t figure size counted much when it came to nursing a babe...and Cunningham women always nursed their young. The natural way, Forrest’s dad had always insisted, whether discussing animals or humans, was the only way. Like his father, Forrest believed that nature knew best and lived by her rules.
She’ll do, he told himself confidently and shouldered open the door of his truck. Standing, he paused a moment to stretch out the kinks in his legs, then slammed the door and headed for the round pen. Becky glanced up at the sound.
A smile bloomed on her face when she saw him. “Hey, Woody!” she called, shoving her hat farther back on her head.
“Hey, yourself,” he returned, not even wincing at the nickname she’d assigned to him years before. He propped a custom-made boot on the corral’s lowest rail, his forearms along the rail at shoulder level, and gave her a nod of approval. “He’s lookin‘ good.”
“Better than good,” she corrected. “Watch this.” Taking a firmer grip on the longe line, she gave the whip a snap in the air and ordered, “Lope.” The colt stepped easily into the faster gait, his head high, his tail streaming behind him. Becky turned slowly in the center of the ring, her gaze fixed on the animal as he circled the pen, weaving a path around the barriers she’d set up, and pushing his way through a tarp she’d strung between two poles. “Whoa!” she called suddenly and followed the command with a slight tug on the line. The colt sank bank on his haunches, churning dust as he slid to a stop.
Pleased with the demonstration, Becky moved to the colt’s head and rubbed the white star that ran from his forehead to his nose. “Good, boy,” she murmured, pressing her cheek against his. “Good, boy.” He turned his head slightly and gave her a playful nudge. She laughed as she coiled the longe line in her gloved hand, then led the colt to where Forrest stood. “Better than good, right?”
Though he knew she was looking for praise, Forrest couldn’t resist teasing her a little. “Depends on a person’s definition of good.”
Becky shot him a sour look, then turned to tie the colt at the rail. “How many green horses have you seen that wouldn’t have spooked at that flapping tarp?”
“A few.”
Her scowl deepened and she gave her slip knot a yank, testing it, before she headed for the gate. Forrest opened it for her and waited while she stepped through.
“Ingrate,” she muttered darkly as she passed by him.
“Show-off,” he returned, grinning, then locked the gate behind her.
“Where’ve you’ve been keeping yourself?” she said irritably. “I haven’t laid eyes on you since before you took off on that vacation in Europe you were so hushhush about.”
Though he knew exactly where he’d been—wining and dining the female population of Ward County while ruling out all the possibilities as candidates for the position as his future wife—Forrest thought it best not to tell Becky that. She was a woman, after all, and might not like the idea that she wasn’t his first choice. “Oh, around,” he said vaguely.
She snorted and pulled off her hat. “When are they delivering the mare?”
“Anytime now,” he replied, watching as her red hair settled around her shoulders. He’d never noticed how thick her long hair was, or the golden highlights hidden in it, until that moment when the sun hit the red mane, panning the gold from its depths. But then he’d never really thought much about the feminine side of Becky. To him, she was a buddy, same as Sterling and Hank.
While he watched, fascinated by this new side of her he was discovering, she bent at the waist and scrubbed her fingers through her hair, separating the damp locks, then straightened, flipping her hair back over her head and behind her shoulders. The sun caught the red and gold highlights and turned them to fire.
Redheaded kids. Forrest pondered the idea for a moment, wondering if Becky’s red gene would dominate his black