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“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.”
“Well, hell, Forrest,” Sterling complained. “Is she getting married, or not?”
Forrest frowned. “I don’t know, but earlier this afternoon, she told me she had a fiancé. Personally I think she was lying.”
“Why would she he about a thing like that?”
His gaze on his beer mug, Forrest turned the glass slowly between his hands. “Probably because she was mad at me.”
A longtime friend of Becky’s, Sterling leaned forward in his chair, ready to defend her if necessary. “What did you do to her?”
“I asked her to marry me.”
Sterling’s eyebrows shot up. “The hell you say!”
“Damn sure did, but she refused me. Said she was already engaged. Of course, she told me that after she knocked me down.”
Hank held up a hand. “Whoa, hold on a minute. Let me get this straight. You asked Becky to marry you, and she knocked you down?”
“Well, she didn’t exactly knock me down. She shoved me and my boot heel hooked on a rock and I fell down.”
“Why’d she shove you?”
“How the hell would I know? She’s a woman, isn’t she? Women do crazy things all the time.”
Sterling and Hank shared a knowing look, both men aware of their friend’s lack of finesse with women. Though never short on female companionship, Forrest had never learned the finer points in courting a woman. Probably because he’d never had to. Women just naturally flocked to him, without him having to put forth much effort.
“Maybe you better tell us how you worded this proposal,” Sterling suggested.
“All I did was remind her of a promise that I made to her years ago about marrying her myself if she hadn’t hooked up with somebody by the time she turned thirty. Since her thirtieth birthday is less than six weeks away, I told her that I was ready to make good on my promise.”
Having already heard about this pact from Becky just a few weeks before, Sterling asked, “Is that all?”
Forrest furrowed his brow, trying to remember the exact conversation. “No, I believe I mentioned something about saving her from spinsterhood.”
Hank let his head fall back. “Oh, Lord,” he groaned.
“And what was wrong with my proposal?” Forrest wanted to know.
“Hell, Forrest, you insulted her,” Hank told him. “No woman likes to be referred to as a spinster.” He sighed heavily. “Sterling, looks like you and me are gonna have to give Forrest here some lessons on how to properly court a woman.”
Forrest’s chest swelled in indignation. “Just because the two of you have each walked the aisle twice, doesn’t make y‘all experts on the subject.”
“We have wives, don’t we? And you don’t,” Sterling reminded him.
Forrest waved a hand in dismissal. “Forget it. Becky’s already engaged—or at least she says she is.”
“Maybe she is getting married,” Sterling said in his friend’s defense. “Becky’s not one to lie.”
“She is this time,” Forrest argued stubbornly, “and I intend to prove it.”
Forrest didn’t waste any time in trying to prove Becky was lying. As soon as he finished his beer, he left the Texas Cattleman’s Club and headed straight for the Rusty Corral. As he drove over the cattle guard at the ranch’s entrance, he noted the barbed-wire fence was sagging in a couple of places and made a mental note to send one of his men over to repair it.
He knew Becky would pitch a fit when she discovered what he’d done. He’d fought similar battles with her before when he’d meddled in her business. But he couldn’t very well sit by and let her ranch fall down around her. God knew the poor woman was doing all she could to keep the place going.
He frowned as his thoughts shifted to Becky’s daddy, Shorty Sullivan. The man ought to be horse-whipped and dragged across Ozark Salt Lake naked, letting the salt burn his raw wounds, he thought angrily. Leaving a woman alone to do a man’s work. And the old goat had been doing it for years.
Forrest remembered the first time he’d discovered that Shorty had taken off and left his daughter alone on the ranch. Becky couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen at the tune. Forrest had called late one evening to ask her if she’d help out with a roundup, and, when no one had answered the phone, he’d decided to just drive over. He’d found her in the barn wrapped up in a blanket and huddled in a corner of her horse’s stall. The poor kid had been scared to death...but wouldn’t admit it. She was that stubborn.
And she hadn’t changed much over the years. He couldn’t count the times that he and his family had tried to help her out when times were hard. But she wouldn’t accept their assistance, considered it charity. Forrest himself was the one who had finally come up with the idea of offering her the job of checking daily on the windmills that dotted the Golden Steer to make sure they were still pumping the water that was so vital for their herds.
A job Becky could accept. Charity she wouldn’t.
The job had grown over the years to include Becky riding Golden Steer horses while she made the windmill circuit. When he’d offered her the first string of horses, he’d used the excuse that he needed her to keep the horses in shape for roundups and was willing to pay her for nding them. It wasn’t long before he’d added the job of Becky training the horses, too. Thus, Becky had ended up on the Golden Steer payroll, and the Cunninghams had all slept easier, knowing that the girl wasn’t going to starve to death right beneath their noses.
Forrest gave his head a rueful shake as he parked his truck in front of the barn on the Rusty Corral. Stubborn. That’s what Becky Lee Sullivan was. And her saying that she couldn’t marry him because she was already engaged was just another example of that stubbornness.
Anxious to pump her for information on this fantasy fiance of hers, he climbed from his truck and headed for the barn, suspecting he’d find Becky inside with the new mare. Sure enough, he found her in the stall, talking softly to the horse while she brushed her down.
“How’s she doing?”
Startled, Becky jumped at the sound of his voice, then, with a huff, went back to her grooming. “Fine. Doesn’t seem to have suffered any ill effects from the trip.”
Forrest opened the stall door and stepped inside. “Good.” He ran a hand along the horse’s neck, letting the mare know he was there, then rested his arm along the animal’s spine as he watched Becky brush tangles from the horse’s tail. “Spoiling her already,” he teased.
“She likes the attention.”
By the defensive tone in her voice, he knew she was still angry with him and was spoiling for a fight. But Forrest didn’t want to argue with her. He wanted the truth and was determined to get it.
“I’m sure she does,” he replied placidly. He gave the horse’s rump a pat then moved to the side of the stall and leaned his back against it to watch Becky work.
“Saw Sterling earlier,” he offered conversationally.
She grunted an acknowledgment, but didn’t respond.
“He seemed surprised to hear that you were engaged.”
Her hand froze for a split second, then she tossed down the brush, trading it for a metal comb. “And they say women gossip,” she muttered.
Forrest bit back a grin. “I wasn’t gossiping. Just shootin‘ the breeze with friends over a beer at the Cattleman’s Club.”
“Gossiping,” she repeated firmly.
Forrest lifted a shoulder. “I figured you’d have told him about this fiancé of yours, being as y‘all are such good friends, and all.”
She gave the comb a hard tug, yanking at a stubborn tangle. “Didn’t see that it was all that important,” she mumbled.
Forrest widened his eyes, feigning shock. “Why, Becky Lee, I’m surprised at you. Marriage is one of the most important steps a person takes in life.”
She grunted again and tossed aside the comb. Turning her back to him, she bent over and lifted the mare’s rear leg to inspect her hoof. “Make yourself useful and hand me that pick.”
Her position offered Forrest a perfect view of her backside. In all the years he’d known Becky, he’d never once given her figure a second thought...but he did now. Heart-shaped, the cheeks of her butt filled out the denim jeans nicely. Without meaning to, he found himself lowering his gaze and looking for the tear he’d noticed earlier and that strip of exposed flesh.
Unfortunately she’d showered and changed since he’d last seen her and had put on a clean pair of jeans. This pair sported no tears or frays, no peeks at what lay beneath.
Disappointed, he plucked the hoof pick from the tack box and moved to hand it to her. “Getting married is serious business,” he said, watching her closely. “I certainly hope that you aren’t rushing into anything.”
Setting her jaw, she strained as she worked a clump of caked mud and stones from the horse’s hoof. “I’m not rushing into anything. Like I said, we haven’t set a date yet. ”
“A long engagement, huh?” He nodded his approval. “That’s probably wise. Too many people rush into marriage without giving themselves a chance to really get to know each other first.”
She lowered the horse’s leg and straightened, then slowly turned to face him. “And I suppose you consider yourself an expert on the subject of marriage?”
“I never claimed to be an expert.”
“Then why are you offering me advice?”
Forrest took a steadying breath. He wouldn’t argue with her, he told himself. Once they got started, they’d wind up in a spitting contest for sure. They usually did. Instead he took the hoof pick from her and dropped it back in the tack box. Draping an arm around her shoulders, he guided her from the stall. “Because I’m your friend, and friends worry about each other.”
“I don’t need you worrying about me. I can take care of myself.”
In the alleyway, he placed both hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face him. Bending his knees a little, he looked directly into her eyes. “I know that, Becky. Your independence is one of the things that I admire most about you.” He gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “But I’d feel a whole lot better if I knew something about this fiancé of yours. In fact,” he said, and tucked her beneath his arm, aiming her for the barn doors and the outside, “I’d like to run a trace on him. You know, find out a little about his past. Hank’s got a few contacts that I can take advantage of.”
She stopped so fast, dust churned beneath her boots. “Run a trace on him!”
“Well, yeah,” he said, trying his best to look innocent. “Just to make sure that he’s on the up-and-up. All I need is his full name, his address. If you have his social security number or his driver’s license number, though, it would help.”
He watched her face redden, her lips tremble, and was sure that she was near breaking point. Any second now she would admit that she didn’t really have a fiancé, that she’d made the whole thing up. Then Forrest could pop the question again, offering to marry her himself. By November he’d have himself a wife.
A second ticked by, then two, and Becky’s face turned redder and redder until it was as bright red as her hair. Too late Forrest realized that it wasn’t guilt that was turning her face colors. It was anger.
“Now, Becky,” he said, backing up a cautious step.
“Don’t you ‘now, Becky’ me,” she warned, closing the distance right back up. “I don’t need you or anybody else running my life for me. I’ve been taking care of myself for years, and doing a darn good job of it, I might add. So you can take your friendly offer to run a trace on my fiancé and get the heck off of my land, and stay off!”
Realizing that she had him retreating again, Forrest stopped and braced his hands on his hips. “Dang it, Becky! I’m not trying to run your life. I’m just trying to protect you.”
“I don’t need protecting.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” he shot back, then huffed a frustrated breath when her chin went up. “Aww, Beck,” he said softening his tone, “I don’t want to fight with you.”
“Then what do you want?” she cried. “You come over here and insult me by suggesting that my fiancé is some sort of con man.”
“I didn’t say any such thing.”
“You wanted to run a trace on him, didn’t you?”
“Well, yeah, but that was just so I could... well, so I could find out a little more about him.”
“You don’t need to know anything about him. I’m the one who’s marrying him, not you.”
Hearing her claim she was getting married so emphatically did something to Forrest’s ability to breathe. He was so sure that this engagement business had all been a lie. For the first time, he wondered if this fiance of hers might really exist. “You’re serious about marrying this guy, aren’t you?”
She wheeled around, turning her back to him, and folded her arms across her breasts. “Yes, I am.”
He stared at her back while his heart sunk lower and lower in his chest. He thought he’d been blue earlier, but that particular shade of blue didn’t hold a candle to his current state of mind. Becky had always been in his life. His buddy. His friend. Hell, she’d been like a kid sister to him.
And now she was getting married.
Without a word of farewell, he turned and headed for his truck.
As soon as Forrest left, Becky hopped in her own rattletrap truck and headed straight for Miss Mame’s, the one woman in town to whom she ran when she was troubled about something. It wasn’t until she’d turned onto the woman’s street, that she remembered that Miss Manie had married and was living in Midland now, which was an indication of just how distraught Becky was.
But as she passed by the house, she saw a light on in the kitchen. Hoping the light wasn’t just a security measure, she whipped her truck onto the driveway, hopped out and jogged to the porch. She rapped twice on the screen door, then rammed her hands deep into her pockets and rocked back on her boot heels, waiting.
The sound of voices drifted from the back of the house and Becky realized that Miss Manie wasn’t alone, a prospect she hadn’t considered before. Not wanting to discuss her troubles in front of Miss Manie’s new husband, she was ready to turn tail and run when the porch light blinked on and the door opened. A young woman stepped into the opening.
“Well, hi...Becky, isn’t it?” the woman asked uncertainly.
Becky yanked off her cowboy hat, and nodded. “Yes, ma‘am. Becky Sullivan.”
The woman smiled. “I thought so. I’ve heard quite a bit about you.” She extended her hand. “I’m Callie Langley, Hank’s wife, and Miss Manie’s niece.”
Becky had heard about Hank’s marriage, and had heard, too, that his wife was a good deal younger than he was. But nobody had mentioned how pretty she was, or how fragile-looking. Feeling clumsy and boyish in comparison, Becky shook the offered hand. “Pleased to meet you.” She glanced behind Callie. “I saw the light and was hoping to catch Miss Manie at home.”
Callie opened the door wider, gesturing for Becky to come inside. “She’s here. We were just about to have a cup of tea. Why don’t you join us?”
The idea of a tea party with the two women had Becky backing up. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to disturb y‘all or anything.”
Callie caught Becky’s hand before she could escape. “You aren’t disturbing a thing, and I know that Aunt Manie will be glad to see you.”
“Who’s that at the door, Callie?”
Callie called over her shoulder, “Becky Sullivan, Aunt Manie.”
Miss Manie appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Rebecca Lee Sullivan,” she warned sternly, “you better hope your boots are clean.”
