He stopped, his brow furrowing in puzzlement. “Well, yeah, unless there’s something else I need to apologize for.”
“No!” she said quickly. “No, there’s nothing else.”
“I’m forgiven, then?”
“Yeah,” she said uneasily, that guilt eating a little deeper, “I guess so.”
He grinned then, and pressed a hand against the small of her back and aimed her for the door. “Good, ‘cause Rowdy and me were hoping we could talk you into fixing us some breakfast.”
She frowned at him over her shoulder as she opened the back door. “Times must be hard over at the Golden Steer if both you and your dog are begging.”
“Nope,” he said, his grin widening. “You’re just a better cook than me.”
Becky bit back a smile. “A fact that you take advantage of every chance you get.”
“My mama didn’t raise a fool,” he said with a wink.
Once inside, he took off his hat and hung it on the pegged rack by the door. “So what’s for breakfast?”
“Whatever I decide to put on the table, and no complaning.”
“Have I ever?”
“No, but there’s always a first time.” She washed her hands and dried them as she headed for the refrigerator. “You’re out early this morning.”
He pulled out a chair at the table and made himself at home. “Thought I’d ride along with you today while you check the windmills.”
She glanced his way as she cracked eggs. “Don’t trust me to do the job?”
“I didn’t say I was going to double-check your work. I just said I was going to ride along. We lost a couple of steers last week.”
Grease popped as she poured the egg batter into the hot skillet. “Coyotes?”
“Probably.” He reared back in his chair, tipping it back on two legs, and watched her. “I thought I’d check for tracks, see how many we’re dealing with.”
“Are you going to organize a hunt?”
“Not if I can handle it myself.”
She shrugged, knowing that was Woody’s way. He seldom sought the help of outsiders when he could do the work himself. “I’ll help out, if you want.”
“I was counting on it.”
She tossed a teasing grin over her shoulder. “It’ll cost you, though.”
Relieved that Becky seemed to harbor no ill feelings toward him, Forrest slipped easily into the game, one that they had played often over the years. They always dickered over the value of her services, with Becky suggesting items in exchange for her labor, while Forrest groaned and complained about how she was going to send him to the poor house. In the end, he usually gave her what she wanted. “How much?”
Becky turned back to her stirring. “Oh, I don’t know. That new mare’s foal ought to about cover my expenses.”
“What!” All four legs of his chair hit the floor with a thump. “That mare’s a registered quarter horse and that foal she’s carrying was sired by the most high-powered stud in Colorado.”
Becky just smiled as she scooped scrambled eggs onto a plate. “The mare might be registered,” she conceded as she plunked a couple of cold biscuits on his plate, “and the sire might be some high-powered stud—” she crossed to him and set the plate down in front of him, then stepped back and folded her arms over her breasts “—but that foal hasn’t proven itself, yet.”
Forrest scowled at her as he whipped a napkin across his lap. “Proven or not, that foal is worth thousands.”
Becky’s smile widened, her green eyes twinkling. “And so am I.”
At that point in the negotiations, in the past, Forrest would ordinarily have snorted and offered her something else, like a bag of oats or a couple of bales of alfalfa hay. Something she needed, something she could use. But as he stared into those laughing green eyes of hers, all he could think about was that she was getting married and that this might very well be the last time he ate breakfast at her house, or had the chance to barter with her for her services.
“Where are you going to live?”
Expecting his usual smart comeback to her claim of worth, Becky looked at him in confusion. “What?”
He tore his gaze from hers and picked up his fork. “Where are you and your husband going to live after y‘all get married?”
Her smile slowly faded and she quickly turned away. “I don’t know. We haven’t discussed that, yet.” She felt his gaze on her back as she scraped eggs onto her plate.
“Do you think you’ll stay on here? I doubt Shorty would care.”
She lifted a shoulder, but kept her back to him. “Maybe. I don’t know.” Mentally she gave herself another kick for allowing her pride to get her in this mess. But she couldn’t see a way free of it, not without telling him the truth, something Miss Manie had advised against. She drew in a deep shuddering breath. She could play this out, she told herself. All she had to do was string Woody along for a while. Just long enough to force his hand. Just until he was willing to offer the proposal she wanted to hear.
She pasted on a smile and turned for the table. “Joe doesn’t really care one way or the other, so we might stay on here.”
“Joe?” he repeated, glancing up at her. “I thought you said your fiancé’s name was John?”
“Oh, it is!” she said quickly and dropped onto the chair opposite him. “John. John Smythe. With a y instead of an i and with—”
“—an e at the end,” he finished for her. “So why’d you call him Joe?”
She flapped a hand and laughed self-consciously. “It’s just a little nickname I have for him.”
“And what does he call you?”
“H-he—” Thankfully the phone rang at that moment, saving her from having to come up with an answer. She stretched a hand behind her to snag it from the wall unit. “Hello?”
“Good morning, Rebecca Lee.”
Becky’s brows shot up in surprise at the sound of Miss Manie’s voice. “What are you doing calling me so early?”
“I wanted to catch you before you left for the day and see if you could arrange to be home around one.”
Becky glanced across the table at Woody who had stopped eating and was watching her curiously. “Well, I don’t know. Woody’s here right now and as soon as we finish breakfast, we’re heading out to check the windmills .”
“He’s there by the phone?”
“Yeah,” Becky replied slowly. “Why?”
“Does he know it’s me on the line?”
Becky studied Woody’s expression. “I don’t think so.”
“Good. Pretend that I’m your fiancé.”
Becky suppressed a groan and pressed a hand to her forehead, feeling a headache coming on. “Oh, I don’t know if I can do that,” she said weakly.
“Sure you can,” Miss Manie assured her. “Just say whatever comes to mind and throw in a honey or a darling now and then.”
“But—”
“No ‘buts,’ Rebecca Lee. You want to make him jealous, don’t you?”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“Then say it.”
Becky pressed the phone closer to her cheek and stole a quick glance at Woody. “Okay,” she said into the receiver, then added, “If you say so...honey.”
“Excellent! Is he listening?”
Becky stole another look at Woody. “Yeah.”
“Does he look happy or mad?”
“I’d say the latter,” she replied uneasily, and quickly looked away from his thunderous expression.
“Say something really suggestive.”
“Like what?”
“Heavens, Rebecca Lee! Don’t you ever watch television or read any books?”
“No...uh, darling, I don’t.”
“For pity’s sake!” Miss Manie grumped. “What do you do at night? Oh, never mind,” she said before Becky could answer. “Just ask me what I’m doing.”
“What are you doing?”
“Try to make your voice softer. More playful. And tell me how you wish you w
ere with me right now.”
Becky felt her cheeks burn, but couldn’t seem to push a word past the lump in her throat.
“Rebecca! Say it!”
Becky put a hand above her brow, shading her eyes from Woody, then cleared her throat. “I wish I were with you right now.”
“Oh, excellent! Excellent! Is he still listening?”
Becky peeked through a slit in her fingers and swallowed hard at the murderous look in Woody’s eyes. “Yeah.”
“Well, let’s not press our luck. Say you love me and then we’ll hang up.”
Becky turned her back to Woody, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I love you.”
She heard a chair scrape against the floor behind her, and glanced around in time to see Woody slap a palm against the screen door. His growl of, “I’ll be outside” was followed by the slamming of the door.
“What was that noise?” Miss Manie demanded to know.
“It was Woody leaving. Oh, Miss Manie,” Becky whispered anxiously, craning her neck to see what he was doing. “I don’t think I can go through with this.”
“Sure you can. Now be home by one. I’m having something delivered to your house. Bye, dear.”
“Miss Manie, wait!” Becky cried. But there was no reply. Just a click in her ear then a dial tone.
She slowly stood and replaced the receiver, then combed both hands through her hair, holding it back from her face. “Oh, Lord,” she murmured shakily. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for this romantic playacting stuff.”
“How many?” Becky asked.
Hunkered down on the ground, Woody examined the tracks. “Four or five,” he replied tersely, then rose and swung up into his saddle. Without so much as a glance in Becky’s direction, he spurred his horse on.
He’d been acting that way all morning, speaking only when spoken to, his answers brief to the point of rudeness.
Becky watched him ride away from her, her heart sinking. Miss Manie’s wrong on this one, she told herself. He’s not jealous, he’s mad. Damn mad.
But why? she cried silently. She hadn’t done anything to him...other than lie, of course, but he didn’t know that. The fact that he was being so rude nudged her own temper up a notch and made her determined to follow Miss Manie’s suggestion, if for no other reason than to spite him.
She turned her horse to follow him. “Woody?”
“What?”
“What time is it?”
He huffed a breath, but lifted his wrist. “Twelve-thirty. You taking medicine or something?”
She kicked her horse into a trot to catch up with him. “No. But I’ve got to be home by one.”
He twisted his head around to scowl at her. “Why? Is your fiancé coming over?”
The inflection he put on “fiancé” irritated Becky. She was getting a little tired of his sour attitude. Especially considering how this whole mess was his fault, not hers. If he’d asked her to marry him properly, instead of making the proposal sound like he was doing her a favor, she’d never have had to make up the fiancé in the first place. “No,” she replied, with a haughty lift of her chin. “I’m expecting a delivery.”
“Fine,” he grated out. “We’ll check forty-six and head home.”
“I don’t need your help,” she snapped in return. “I can check the pump myself.” She kicked her horse into a lope and raced across the pasture, ducking her head against the wind to avoid the stinging granules of sand it carried. She dodged the occasional mesquite, scared a jackrabbit from a clump of grease wood, and by the time she reached forty-six, the wind had cooled her temper somewhat. She swung down from her saddle and looped her reins around the leg of the windmill’s tower. She checked to see that the pump was working, then moved on to check the water level in the reservoir.
At the sound of hoof beats, she glanced up to see that Woody had followed her. Frowning, she turned her back on him and dipped her hands in the pool. She splashed water over her face, washing away the grit the wind had left there, then untied the bandanna from around her throat and blotted the moisture from her face.
“Everything okay?” he asked as he swung down from his saddle.
“Fine,” she replied, without looking at him.
She heard the scrape of his boots on the loose rock, then he was standing beside her. “Sorry if I was short with you,” he muttered as he leaned to brace his hands on the edge of the reservoir.
Two apologies in one day? Shocked, Becky stared at his back as he ducked his head beneath the water. He came up growling and shaking water from his hair like a dog.
Without thinking, she passed him her bandanna.
“Thanks,” he mumbled and scrubbed the bandanna over his face, wiping off the water and, along with it, an accumulation of sweat and sand. When he was done, he cocked his head to look at her, one eye narrowed. “You gonna feed me lunch?”
She pursed her lips and glared right back at him. “I suppose,” she said grudgingly.
He passed her back the bandanna. “Good. I’m starving.” Then, to her surprise, he hooked an arm around her neck, and turned her around, guiding her back to their horses.
As quick as that, she thought in frustration. He’s mad, then he’s glad. She was having a hard time keeping up with his violent mood swings.
“I figure we’ll start tracking the coyotes tomorrow. It’ll probably take us a couple of days to cover the area, so we’ll need to camp out.” He dropped his arm from around her and untied her reins. “Will you have a problem with that?” he asked, passing them to her.
“No.”
In the process of untying his own horse, he angled his head to look over at her. “No date?”
Becky felt the anger rise and fought to tamp it down. “No.”
He nodded, seemingly satisfied with her answer, then swung up in the saddle. “Race you,” he challenged and dug his spurs into his horse’s sides.
Still on the ground, Becky yelled after him. “Dang you, Woody! That’s not fair. You got a head start.” Cursing him under her breath, she grabbed for her horn, swung up into the saddle and took out after him.
Woody’s horse was bred for speed and endurance, but Becky’s was just as quick and loved nothing better than to run. Within seconds she’d narrowed the distance between them. Another few seconds and she was confident she was within range. Slipping her lariat from around her saddle horn, she shook out a loop. She circled it twice over her head, eyeing her target, then let it fly. The handsmoothed hemp whooshed through the air, then settled cleanly over Woody’s head, dropping around his arms. Startled, he jerked back on his reins and his horse sat back on his haunches, churning dust. Becky sailed past them. “Cheater,” she accused, then grinned and tossed him the end of the rope.
“Gawldang you, Becky Lee,” he yelled after her.
She just tossed back her head and laughed and raced on.
Fighting and cussing as he fought free of the rope, he spurred his horse again. “You’re gonna regret that,” he warned.
“You gotta catch me first,” she called over her shoulder, still laughing.
And the race was on.
By the time they reached the Rusty Corral, their horses were nose-to-nose... but Becky was the first to hit the ground. She ran to the house, slapping a hand against the weathered wood, the signal for a win they’d developed years ago. Her face flushed with victory, she turned to grin up at him. “Beatcha.”
“Did not,” he argued and swung down from his saddle. “You cheated.”
“You cheated first!” she cried indignantly. “You got a head start, so that makes us even.” She folded her arms stubbornly over her breasts. “Admit it, Woody, I won fair and square.”
Growling low in his throat, he dropped his reins and started toward her, his eyes narrowed, his hands poised at his sides like a gunslinger.
Becky started backing up. “Now, Woody...” she began.
He ignored her plea, and kept coming.
She giggled, stumbled, then quickl
y regained her balance, holding out a hand to ward him off. “Come on, Woody. You know I won. Admit it.”
She yelped when he made a lunge for her, and turned to run...but she was too late. His arms caught her around the thighs, and then she was falling. She hit the ground face first, eating dirt, but before she could draw the first breath, he’d flipped her over and she was looking up at the sky. She had time to gulp in one breath, then he was straddling her and had her arms pinned above her head.
He was breathing hard, his chest pumping against hers as rhythmically as the oil derricks that dotted the Golden Steer. His face was so close she could feel the warm moistness of his breath on her cheek, count the squint lines that fanned from the corners of his eyes.
“Who did you say won?” he challenged.
She thrashed beneath him, trying to break his hold, but he simply tightened his fingers around her wrists.
Seemingly satisfied with his dominant position, he smiled smugly and shifted his weight. At the movement, his chest chafed across her breasts. He froze at the unexpected contact. Becky watched his eyes sharpen with awareness, then slowly darken. He shifted again, purposefully this time, his chest rubbing across her breasts. Once. Twice. Three times. His eyes drilling a hole all the way to her soul. What she saw in the brown depths stole what was left of her breath. Heat. A burning heat so intense she felt as if she’d been branded by it. She couldn’t have moved if her life had depended on it.
And Forrest couldn’t stop moving. With each slow rock of his body over hers, he became aware of another part of her femininity. The swells of her breasts, the tightly budded nipples, the twin hills of pelvic bone that poked at his groin.
“Becky,” he began, his voice sounding desperate and needy even to his own ears. “I—”
Beep! Beep!
He twisted his head around at the unexpected sound and watched as a white van pulled to a stop in front of the house. Painted a garish yellow, a stripe on the truck’s side panel read, Dee Dee’s Bouquets.
He dropped his chin to his chest and swore.
A door slammed and a voice called out, “Yahoo! Becky? Is that you underneath Forrest?”
Forrest lifted his head to meet Becky’s gaze. She stared back at him, wide-eyed, her lips trembling.
Billionaire Bridegroom Page 6