Billionaire Bridegroom. Peggy Moreland

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.”

      Becky glanced down at her feet, then back up at Miss Manie and grinned. “Yes, ma‘am. They’re clean.”

      Manie turned back to her kitchen. “Better be. Last time you were here, you tracked manure on my freshly waxed floor.”

      Becky winced as she headed for the kitchen, dodging packing boxes stacked in the short hall. “Sorry ‘bout that, Miss Manie.”

      “Sorry doesn’t wax floors,” Miss Manie replied sharply, but when she turned to look at Becky, the twinkle in her eyes took the sting out of her words. She waved her toward a chair. “Have a seat. Callie and I were just having us a cup of herbal tea.”

      Becky hooked her hat on the back of the chair, then sat down. She wrinkled her nose as Callie placed a fragile cup and saucer in front of her, then poured steaming tea into it. “What is it?” she asked suspiciously as she dipped her head to peer at the lightly colored brew.