LITMIR.BIZ

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toward the barn and the only strip of shade in sight. “Did you miss me while I was gone?”

      “‘Bout as much as I’d miss a toothache.”

      He bumped his hip against hers. “Aww, come on now, Becky. You know you missed me.”

      She stopped once they reached the shade and folded her arms over her breasts as she turned to look up at him. “Did you miss me?” she returned pointedly.

      “As a matter of fact, I did.”

      Her brows shot up at his unexpected response, then down into a frown. “Yeah, right,” she muttered and slapped her hat against her thigh to shake the dust from it. She turned her back to the barn and propped a worn boot heel against its side as she settled her shoulders against the weathered wood.

      “No, I really did,” he insisted. “In fact, I was thinking about you just this afternoon while I was eating lunch at the Royal Diner.”

      She glanced up at him. “Why?” she asked dryly. “Did you have indigestion, or something?”

      Forrest laughed and reached over to tousle her hair. “Naw. I was just thinking about you—us. You know,” he said, suddenly feeling awkward, “how long we’ve known each other, and all.”

      She peered at him closely. “You didn’t get hit in the head, or anything, while you were in Europe, did you?”

      Forrest snorted and pulled off his hat, slowly turning it by its brim as he studied it. “No. There’s nothing wrong with my head.”

      Becky gave her chin a quick jerk of approval. “Good. You had me worried there for a minute.”

      Forrest moved to stand beside her, mirroring her posture—boot heel and shoulders braced against the barn wall. He stared out across Sullivan land to the fence that marked the border of the Golden Steer. “How long have you and your dad lived here?” he asked. He was close enough to feel her shoulder move when she lifted it in a shrug.

      “I don’t know. ‘Bout twenty years or so, I’d guess.”

      “Twenty years,” he repeated, then shook his head. “That’s a long time. A mighty long time.”

      Becky gave him a curious look. “Yeah, I suppose.”

      “You have a birthday coming up, don’t you?”

      “Yeah,” she replied slowly, then scrunched up her nose and leaned to look more closely at him. “Are you sure you didn’t get hit in the head?”

      Frustrated, Forrest pushed himself away from the wall, and whirled to face her. He’d forgotten how aggravating Becky could be at times. “Why do you keep asking me if there’s something wrong with my head?”

      She lifted a shoulder again, then slid down the wall until she was sitting on the ground. Dropping her hat over her upraised knees, she brushed dust from its crown. “I don’t know,” she mumbled. “I guess it’s because you’re not usually this sentimental.”

      He hauled in a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He couldn’t very well propose marriage while they were arguing. “No, I’m not. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think about things now and again.” He hunkered down in front of her. “Do you remember the time we were out rounding up steers? You would’ve been eighteen or so at the time, and you were crying because no one had invited you to the Cattleman’s Ball.”

      Her lips thinned at the reminder and she looked up at him, her green eyes sparking fire. “I don’t cry,” she informed him coldly. “And I don’t give a hoot about going to any old ball. Never have.”

      Forrest had to count backward from ten to keep from debating the issue with her. He knew damn good and well she’d cried. He remembered the day well, because he’d never seen her cry before...and not once, since. “Yeah, well, anyway, you said something that day—or rather asked me something—that I’ve never forgotten. You said to me, ‘Woody, do you think I’ll ever get married?’” He gave his head a rueful shake as he turned his gaze to his hat. “Damn near broke my heart.” He cocked his head to look at her. “I promised you right then and there that if you weren’t married by your thirtieth birthday, that I’d marry you myself.”

      He watched her eyes grow as big as half-dollars and her throat convulse as if she was having trouble swallowing. Her lips moved a couple of times, but no sound emerged. Finally she managed to get out, “W-whγ are you telling me all this?”

      Forrest pushed himself to his feet and looked down at her as he settled his hat back on his head. “Well, Becky,” he said, swelling his chest a bit and giving the waist of his jeans a confident hitch, “it’s because you’re gonna be thirty soon and destined to spinsterhood. I think it’s high time I made good on my promise.”

      She was up and off the ground so fast that Forrest wasn’t sure she’d ever been sitting. Then her finger was stabbing into his chest and he was backing up and she was pressing forward, her eyes narrowed to slits and her mouth thinned to one white line of fury. “Marry you!” she all but screamed at him. “You egotistical, thickheaded mule I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth!” She gave him a shove that sent him stumbling backward. Another shove and his boot heel hooked on a rock and he went sprawling, arms flailing. He landed flat on his back, knocking the breath from him and making him see stars. When his vision cleared, Becky was leaning over him, her face as red as her hair. “A spinster, huh? Well, let me tell you something, buster. I’d rather—”

      Forrest had heard enough. He caught her ankle and gave it a tug, jerking her off her feet. She landed in the middle of his chest with a thud and a muffled whoomph. Before she could catch her breath, he locked both arms around her back, holding her against him. They were chest to chest, their noses inches apart. “Now, you listen to me, Rebecca Lee Sullivan,” he warned. “I’m offering you marriage, the opportunity to be my wife. There are women all over Wade County who would give their eyeteeth for a chance to become Mrs. Forrest Cunningham.”

      “Who?” she demanded angrily. “Name one.”

      The question caught Forrest off guard, and it took him a minute to come up with a name. “Fanny Lou Farmer,” he blurted out.

      Becky snorted her opinion of Forrest’s choice. “That pie-faced bimbo?”

      “And there’s Marylee Porter.” Warming to the challenge, he added, “And Pansy Estrich.” He knew how much Becky hated the phony, silicone-inflated blonde.

      Becky squirmed, trying to break free of his hold. “If you’re even considering marrying a one of them, it just proves that your brains are located somewhere south of your belt buckle.”

      Though he was sure she’d meant to insult him, the accusation drew a smile. “What’s wrong, Becky? Jealous?”

      She immediately stilled, then shot him a look that would melt creosote off a fence post. “As if a one of those women has anything that I’d be jealous of.” She humphed, then gave his chest a frustrated shove. “Let me up.”

      “Not until you say you’ll marry me.”

      She stilled again, her gaze going to his. Something he saw there—was it fear? Hope? Whatever it was, it scared the hell out of him...but not nearly as much as her next words.

      “Why, Woody?” she asked, her voice a raw whisper. “Why do you want to marry me?”

      It was Forrest’s turn to squirm. The truth was that he was in desperate need of a wife, but he wasn’t a man who liked to expose his vulnerabilities. A shrewd negotiator from the top of his Stetson to the tips of his custom-made boots, when working a deal, whether in oil leases or cattle futures, he made it a rule to never reveal his weaknesses. “Because I promised I would,” he said instead. “Besides,” he added irritably, “it’s not as if men are knocking down your door with offers.”

      Angrily Becky twisted free of him and jumped to her feet. She planted her fists on her hips as she glared down at him.

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