Billionaire Bridegroom. Peggy Moreland
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truck. He fished a cold brew from the cooler, popped the top, then, with a sigh of purest pleasure, lifted the beer.
“Hey, Woody! Wait! I get first sip!”
His mouth open and ready, his tongue and throat primed for that first thirst-quenching swig, Forrest considered pretending he hadn’t heard Becky’s request...but then he sighed and dutifully lowered the can. It was a ritual. Becky always got the first sip. And Forrest allowed it. Just as he allowed her to call him “Woody” and live to tell it. Five years his junior, and a neighbor for as long as he could remember, Becky Sullivan was like a kid sister to him and, as such, enjoyed full rights.
He angled his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, as he watched her charging toward him, her long legs churning, her hand flattened on the top of her battered cowboy hat to keep the wind from ripping it off her head. “You’re too young to drink, kid,” he called out to her. “You’re only eighteen.”
She skidded to a stop in front of him, snatched the can from his hand and shot him a scowl. “Yeah? So arrest me.” She bumped the can against the brim of her hat, knocking it off, and thick red hair fell to pool around her shoulders. Lifting the beer in a silent toast, she shot Forrest a wink, then tipped back her head and drank deeply.
Forrest focused on the long, smooth column of her throat—and knew damn good and well he could kiss that beer goodbye. Becky Sullivan might be only eighteen, but she drank like a man, and held her liquor like one, too. He knew this for a fact because she’d drunk him under the table a time or two.
Truth be told, Becky could do most things as well as a man. She could outride, outrope and outshoot just about any male in Ward county. He supposed she’d learned these skills out of necessity, being as she’d pretty much raised herself and was responsible for whatever work was accomplished on her family’s ranch, the Rusty Corral. The fact that he’d had a hand in teaching her a few of those skills brought a swell of pride. And the fact that she was a good student was why he’d sought her help today in rounding up some of his cattle rather than that of one of his own cowboys from the Golden Steer.
“Okay, brat,” he muttered, wrestling the can from her grip. “Save some for me.”
She backhanded the moisture from her mouth and grinned up at him. “You thirsty?”
“Damn straight.” He tipped back his head and lifted the can, prepared to finish off the beer.
“Course you know,” she added, “all that’s left is backwash, but if you really want it—”
Beer spewed from Forrest’s mouth. “Gawldangit, Becky,” he complained, dragging a hand across his mouth. “Why’d you have to go and say that for?”
“Sorry,” she said, though he could tell by the impish gleam in her eyes she wasn’t one damn bit sorry. “Just thought I’d better warn you.”
He chunked the empty can into the bed of his truck, then buried his hand in the cooler, searching for another beer. “Like I said. You’re a brat.” He fished out a new can from the cooler, turned—and immediately bumped against Becky’s outstretched hand. With a resigned sigh, he tossed her the beer, then retrieved another for himself. After popping the top, he hooked an arm around her slim shoulders and headed her toward the shade provided by the trailer. “So where’s your daddy gone this time?”
Her shoulder moved under his arm in a shrug. “Didn’t say. Probably Riodoso, though. They’re racing there this weekend.”
Forrest plopped down beside the trailer, resting his back against its side and looked up at her. He’d figured it was horse racing, though Shorty Sullivan was never short on excuses for leaving the care of his ranch up to his young daughter...and her alone. “So you’re batching?”
“Yep,” Becky replied, dropping down next to him.
Shoulder to shoulder they stared out across the pasture, sippmg their beers, while the cattle bawled pitifully in the corral, the silence between them a comfortable one.
“The Texas Cattleman’s Ball is coming up in a couple of weeks,” Becky offered after a bit.
Forrest pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes and settled in for a nap. “Yeah, it is.”
“Who’re you takin‘?”
“Lyndean Sawyer from over in Midland.”
“Haven’t heard you mention her name before. She somebody new you’re courtin‘?”
Something in her voice made him nudge his hat from his eyes to peer at her. She was squinting hard at the sun, the corners of her mouth pulled down into a frown. “No. Just a date,” he said slowly. When her frown deepened, he said, “Why do you ask?”
She lifted her beer, her movements tense and jerky, and took a sip. “Just curious.”
“Are you going to the Ball this year?”
She pulled her spine away from the trailer, drawing her legs up, and draped an elbow over her knee as she squinted harder at something in the distance. “Nope”
“How come?”
“Nobody asked me.”
Surprised by the splotch of red that suddenly appeared on her cheeks, he gave her back a poke with his beer can. “Oh, come on. Quit your foolin‘. Surely someone has asked you.”
She angled her head far enough around to frown at him. “No one has, and no one will, either.”
“How can you be so sure?”
She turned away, setting her jaw. “Because I know. That’s how.”
“A pretty girl like you? Boys’ll be tripping all over themselves for the chance to ask you to the Ball. Just you wait and see.”
As he stared at her, he was sure that he saw her chin quiver. And were those tears making her eyes sparkle? Naw, he told himself. Becky wasn’t the crying type. Yet, as he watched, a fat tear slipped over her lid and down her cheek.
He tossed aside his beer and slung an arm around her shoulder, drawing her against his side. “Aw, Becky. Don’t cry. The dance is still a couple of weeks away. Somebody’ll ask you.”
She sniffed, dragging her sleeve beneath her nose, as she pulled away from him. “Who? Billy Ray? Johnny? They’ve already got dates.” She gave her head a quick shake, then pressed her cheek on her knee and began tracing a path in the dirt with the tip of her finger. “No. No one will ask me to the Ball. Maybe to head or heel for them at the next roping competition, but never on a date.”
Because he suspected what she said was probably true, Forrest remained silent.
After a while, she lifted her head and turned to look at him. “Woody, do you think I’ll ever get married?”
The hopelessness in her voice touched his heart—and made him a little uneasy. The word “marriage” always had that effect on Forrest. He lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know, Becky. I suppose you will, if you want to.”
She turned her gaze to the pasture, squinting hard, as if in doing so she might be able to see into the future. “I don’t think I will,” she murmured after a long moment. “All the guys just think of me as one of them, never as a female.” She choked back a laugh that sounded dangerously close to a sob. “I can see it now. Thirty years old, a dried-up old maid and still working the Rusty Corral all by myself.”
Forrest dug his boot heels in the heat-dried grass, bringing himself alongside her. He looped an arm around her shoulders, and hugged her to his side. “Aw, now, Becky. It’s not as bad as all that.”
“No,” she said miserably, “it’s worse.”
Forrest heard the defeat in her voice, as well as the loneliness. “Tell you what, Becky,” he offered. “If you’re not married by your thirtieth birthday, hell, I’ll marry you.”
She