That she had finally reached an age where her father would let gentlemen begin calling on her if they were willing to face the gauntlet of hard stares he was likely to bestow on them. “I know what ladies like. I could give you some tips.”
“I don’t need any tips. I can handle my own love life just fine.”
“Is she here tonight?”
He flattened his lips, a sure sign he wasn’t going to answer. How many times had he irritated her over the years by holding his silence on matters she wanted answered? Did boys like girls who climbed trees, rode horses better than they did, could lasso a calf, or could shoot a rifle with deadly accuracy? Although he hadn’t kept silent on all the questions, he might as well have because his answer, “Just be yourself, Faith. You’ll have them falling at your feet,” wasn’t a great deal of help when it came to figuring out what a fellow wanted.
Then they were no longer talking, simply moving in rhythm to the music. His gaze held hers, and she found herself falling into the dark brown depths of his eyes. No hint of humor resided within them. Instead he was all seriousness and something she couldn’t quite decipher. But it drew her in, made her fingers clutch him where they had a hold of him. All the other couples faded away until it was only she and Rawley gliding over the floor in tandem.
For as long as she could remember, it had been like this between them. No reason to use words to communicate, always knowing what the other needed, wanted, was thinking. Only now what was stirring within her frightened her with its intensity, and yet she had the sense he was struggling against the same unsettling awareness.
As soon as the music went silent, he released his hold on her so fast that anyone watching would have thought she’d caught on fire.
“I need to get. Happy birthday, Faith.”
She wondered why, when he walked out of the room, it was like he’d taken the light with him.
Chapter Seven
As the full moon slipped beneath the billowing black clouds, Rawley sat on his front porch in a straight-backed chair, the front legs raised so he was tipped back, and sipped his whiskey. Dancing with Faith had been a mistake. She was no longer a child. He could still feel the slenderness of her back against his palm. His nostrils had flared when he’d inhaled her scent—a muskiness intertwined with a sensuality—that was somehow different from what it had once been. As they’d moved in rhythm to the tune, he’d wanted to wrap those few curling tendrils bouncing along her neck around his finger and draw them gently toward him until her mouth was nearer to his—
Her lips had seemed redder, fuller, as though they, too, had matured in anticipation of a time when she’d be kissing men. And her eyes—sultry and knowing—had held his with such intensity that he’d wanted nothing more than to claim her as his. But she was still young, innocent, and naïve about men. Certainly she’d seen enough animals breeding to know the particulars regarding how it was done, but she didn’t know all the subtleties of it, of how a man was different from a beast, how his hands would caress—
He shut that thought down like a corral gate slamming closed to pen up the horses.
After dancing with her, he couldn’t stay and watch her waltzing about the room with other men, knowing what it was like to hold her in his arms. Seeing her with Berringer had been torment before he’d danced with her, but afterward it would have been pure misery. So he’d come back to his place and poured himself a whiskey, determined to forget—but all he’d been able to do was relive the moments over and over.
He’d danced with Maggie, who was as cute as a button, and hadn’t given a single thought to putting his hands anywhere other than where they respectfully rested. When it came to Faith, though, his mind wandered to places it shouldn’t.
And it seemed Faith was wandering as well.
Setting his whiskey aside, he let the front legs of the chair drop before pushing himself to his feet and walking to the edge of the porch to get a better look at her sitting astride her horse as it trotted toward him.
“Rawley!” she called out, extending his name so it had around five parts to it. She brought the gelding to a stop. “The party’s over.”
“What are you doing here, Faith?” he asked as he stepped off the porch.
“I wanted to see you. Help me down.”
She was still in the gown, had been riding the horse astride, and the skirt had risen up to her knees, the moonlight glistening over her calves making his mouth water. She held her arms out toward him, started to list—
He rushed over and caught her as she was tumbling, stopped her from falling on her head. With her feet on the ground, she sagged against him.
“You’re drunk,” he said, wrapping an arm around her, holding her against his chest.
“A little. Lot of champagne.” She shook her head, straightened, easing back until she stood on her own. A silly grin spread over her face as she whispered, “Cole kissed me.”
The thought of that man lowering his lips to Faith’s, of circling his arms around her, had him feeling strung tighter than a strand of barbed wire between two posts. Of their own accord, his hands balled into fists, and he decided he’d make use of them the next time he came within a foot of the arrogant oilman. “You don’t know anything about Berringer. He took advantage—”
“No, he didn’t. He’s a gentleman. And I know lots about him. He comes from a good family near Houston. Pa hired some ex-Texas Ranger to look into him before he gave me the okay to work with him, before he’d give him permission to look for oil on our land.”
As far as Rawley was concerned, none of that gave Berringer the right to know the taste of her. “You shouldn’t give a man your favors unless you have an understanding between you.”
“The understanding was that I wanted a kiss. Besides, I’ve kissed fellas before.”
“Who?” The word came out a bark, harsh and echoing around them. “When?”
“John Byerly on my sixteenth birthday. Augustus Curtiss on my seventeenth. I always kiss some fella on my birthday.”
