He shoved that inappropriate thought into a dark corner. More and more lately, he was beginning to view her as a woman in her own right, and those thoughts were entirely wrong coming from him. He shouldn’t be thinking about the way her white shirt tucked into her pants at her narrow waist, leaving very little regarding her shape to a man’s imagination. The long braid of her ebony hair was draped over her shoulder, flapped against her chest with the quickness of her steps. He remembered her lamenting the absence of a bosom when she was about fourteen. She certainly had no reason to complain about that now since her chest was far removed from resembling a plank of wood. She was all curves.
To avoid her throwing her arms around him like she usually did when they crossed paths—a habit from her growing-up days when he’d cart her around because she was too small to keep up—he stayed in the saddle and waited.
When she reached him, she laid the flat of her bare hand on his thigh. Even knowing it was an innocent gesture didn’t stop the shock of pleasure from traveling through him, not that he gave any indication he held anything other than companionable feelings for her.
“Are you pondering the notion of coming over to our side?” she asked, grinning up at him, her brown eyes teasing with mischievousness.
“Hell no. I can’t believe Dallas is letting you poke holes in his land.”
“You’ll feel differently when they discover oil.” She dug her fingers into his thigh. “They’ll be drilling by the end of the month.”
“It’s a fool’s errand, Faith.”
“They found that gusher in Spindletop.”
Pockets of oil had long pooled on the surface in some areas of Texas, but two years earlier when that gusher hit, oilmen started taking a real interest in what the state might have to offer below the ground.
“That’s miles away, on the other side of the state. Out here it’s only land, cattle, and windmills.”
“You never did have much imagination.” With a sigh, she crossed her arms below her breasts, twisted about, and leaned against his leg. “There’s oil out there. I feel it deep in my bones.”
“Then I hope you find it.”
Tilting up her face, she looked at him. “The cattle industry is changing. You’re the last of a breed, Rawley. Cowboys aren’t going to be riding the range for much longer. You don’t even have long cattle drives any more. You just herd those little dogies to the train depot.”
Where they were simply led onto the cattle cars and carted to the slaughterhouse. It was a little too sterile for him, but it was also a lot less work and required fewer nights trekking across dangerous terrain. “Still plenty of work to be done. Like fencing off these few acres of land so the cattle aren’t bothering your drillers.”
The bright smile she bestowed upon him always caused the dark storms threatening his soul to retreat for a while. “And I appreciate that.”
Fighting back the urge to lean down and capture her mouth, he merely brought the brim of his hat lower, hoping the shadows would camouflage the yearnings that sometimes overtook him when it came to her. He’d spent a good bit of his life knowing she was destined to break his heart. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out a sarsaparilla stick.
“Gimme,” she said, holding up her hand.
“It’s my last one.”
“It’s always your last one.”
Breaking it in half, he handed her a piece, just as he had for most of her life.
Shifting his gaze, he watched as the leader of this drilling outfit began sauntering toward them. Cole Berringer. Rawley knew his dislike for the oilman stemmed from the fact he was spending his days in Faith’s company, and she’d taken a fancy to him. Berringer had approached Dallas a few months ago with his belief that oil was to be found on Leigh land. While Dallas hadn’t been that interested, Faith had embraced the prospect of possibilities. Normally, Rawley supported Faith’s enthusiasm for trying out new things and would have encouraged her in this endeavor if Berringer wasn’t such a handsome devil, with his wheat-colored hair and blue eyes. He had half the ladies in town swooning over him.
“Cooper,” the man said, stopping a few feet away. His brown pants and jacket showed little wear, the sign of a man who preferred giving orders to doing the hard work.
“Berringer.”
“Don’t see a lot of men who still go around with a six-gun strapped to their thigh.”
Rawley shrugged, not feeling the need to defend himself but determined to follow the code of politeness under which he’d been raised. “I do a lot of solitary riding. It brings me a measure of peace.”
“It’s not as though there are any outlaws or renegades lurking about.”
“We’ve had a few head go missing the past month or so. I’d say we still have thieves.”
“But the state is civilized now. You let the law—”
Rawley caught a movement—
Had his gun drawn, palmed, and fired before his next blink. And took great satisfaction in Berringer squealing like a pig whose tail had been yanked. He was crouched down, his hands over his head in a protective gesture.
