added, “And with an e at the end.”
“John Smythe.” Forrest tossed back his head and laughed. Smythe with a y instead of an i and an e tacked on at the end. That’s prime, Becky. Really prime.“
She stormed past him and back into the stall, refusing to look at him. “You got a problem with my fiancé’s name?” she snapped.
“No.” He stepped back as she dumped the oats into the stall’s bin, dodging the dust that shot into the air. “But I think you’re making all this up.”
She caught the bucket’s handle in one hand, and smiled sweetly at him. “What’s the matter, Woody? You jealous?”
He reared back, amazed that she would suggest such a thing.
“Hell, no!”
Her smile turned smug. “Yes, you are.” She swung the empty bucket at her side as she retraced her steps to the feed bin. “Your male ego is showing. You don’t want to believe that I might actually prefer marrying someone other than you.”
Before Forrest could form a response, a horn honked outside.
Becky glanced up, then quickly dropped the bucket back into the feed bin when a truck pulled past the door. “There’s your mare,” she said, heading for the opening.
Frustrated by the interruption, Forrest trailed her. “We aren’t through with this discussion, yet,” he warned.
“You may not be, but I am,” she returned, then yelled, “Hey, Slick! Whatcha got in there?”
Slick Richards slid from behind the wheel of his dually, grinning. “The prettiest little mare this side of heaven.”
Becky clapped a hand on Slick’s back as she walked with him to the rear of the trailer. “Heck, Slick, that’s what you say every time you deliver a horse over here.”
Slick gave his chin a jerk in Forrest’s direction by way .of greeting as he swung open the rear doors. “Have I ever lied?”
Laughing, Becky hopped up inside the trailer while the two men waited outside. When she got her first look at the mare, she whistled low under her breath. “Ho-le-e-ey smoke.” She took a cautious step deeper into the trailer’s shadowed interior. “How far along is she?”
“She’ll be dropping her foal within the next two or three weeks.”
Becky laid a hand on the mare’s swollen side, then smoothed it over her shoulder and up along her neck. “She’s a beaut, Slick. A real beaut.” She untied the lead rope and gently backed the mare from the trailer, clucking softly. The horse balked a bit when she reached the rear door and her hoof hit nothing but air. “Easy, mama,” Becky soothed. “You’re doing just fine.”
Forrest stepped back, giving them room, then moved to Becky’s side once she and the mare had safely reached the ground. “She give you any trouble?” he asked Slick as he took the lead rope from Becky’s hand.
“Sweetest little lady I’ve ever had the privilege to haul,” he replied.
Forrest smiled when the mare snuffled his hand, looking for a treat. He rubbed a palm up her face to scratch her between the ears, his smile growing. “She’s a sweetheart, all right.” He angled his head toward Becky and his smile slipped down into a scowl. “Unlike some females I know.”
Becky wasn’t crying. She never cried. She just had something in her eye was all. She sniffed and dragged her wrist across her cheek, swiping at the telltale moisture, before reaching to remove the mare’s halter. Once free, the horse turned immediately to the trough and the waiting feed. Becky watched her for a moment, her thoughts on the marriage proposal Woody had offered.
...because you’re gonna be thirty soon and destined to spinsterhood. I think it’s high time I made good on my promise.
She slapped the halter against the side of her leg. “Darn your sorry hide, Forrest Cunningham,” she swore and stomped from the stall. When she turned to lock the gate behind her, her efforts were handicapped by the hot angry tears that blinded her.
She’d waited for years to hear a marriage proposal from Woody...but not one like that. A spinster! She dashed a hand at the tears again, then hooked the halter over a nail on the barn wall. “Like I’m some kind of charity case, or something,” she muttered disagreeably. She sniffed, fighting the sting of the insult, the hurt...but finally sank onto a bale of hay, wrapped her arms around her waist, bent double and gave in to the tears. She sobbed until her head ached and her eyes swelled almost shut. She cried until there were no more tears left to cry.
When she was sure the well had run dry, she gave her face a brisk scrub, sucked in a deep, shuddering breath and told herself to buck up. There were worse things in life than being called a spinster and having a marriage proposal offered out of pity. She wasn’t sure what those things were, but, given the time, she was sure she could come up with one or two.
After all, she reminded herself, it wasn’t as if she’d ever really believed that Woody would propose to her. If nothing else, she was a realist. She knew she was no raving beauty, that she didn’t have the social graces required to mingle with the folks Woody ran with.
But the heck of it was, he had asked her...and had hurt her feelings in the process. Granted, she was no debutante, but didn’t she deserve romance as much as any other woman? Was it too much to ask to have an “I love you” thrown in there somewhere?
...say you’ll marry me.
A sigh shuddered through her.
She’d dreamed of hearing Woody say those words to her for more years than she could remember. From the time she was thirteen and had first become aware of him as more than just the boy next door, she’d wished on the first star she’d seen every night that he would fall in love with her. Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might have the wish I wish tonight. She’d even hoped to double her chances by wishing on every load of hay she’d ever seen. Load of hay, load of hay, make a wish and look away. And she’d never once looked back at the load of hay, after making her wish, for fear her wish wouldn’t come true if she did.
And now she’d blown it. Just because Woody hadn’t proposed to her with the pretty words that she’d imagined he’d use, she’d turned him down flat.
No, she corrected miserably, dropping her elbows onto her knees and her face onto her palms. She hadn’t just turned him down. She’d lied to him.
She groaned, raking her fingers through her hair. What on earth had possessed her to concoct that wild tale about having a fiancé? She didn’t have a fiance. Heck! She’d never even had a regular boyfriend!
Pride, she told herself. That was her problem and always had been. Woody often teased her, saying that when God was passing out pride, she must have thought He’d said pie and asked for a double helping.
She chuckled at the memory, then felt another swell of tears bubble up in her throat. Oh, Lord, what was she going to do? she cried silently. If only she could roll back the clock, she’d bury her pride so deep it couldn’t find her, and say yes to Woody’s proposal, even if he had offered it out of pity.
But she couldn’t roll back the clock, she reminded herself. And even if she could, she
