Close Proximity (5 page)

Politeness had Rafe asking, “How's your wife?”

“Suzanne is great, too,” Michael continued. Then he sobered. “She works with the teens at Emily's House out at Hopechest.”

The drinking water at the youth ranch had been the first place the DMBE had shown up. The staff and children had been evacuated to Joe Colton's estate, Hacienda de Alegria. Blake Fallon, Rafe's best friend, ran Hopechest Ranch. After just having to deal with the fact that his father tried to murder Joe Colton, Blake hadn't needed more to trouble him.

Even though he and Blake had been friends since childhood, Rafe hadn't yet told him about his suspicions regarding the polluting of the aquifer. The information he had could be misconstrued to make David look even more guilty than he already did. Rafe hoped that, at the end of this mess, all would be revealed and the real guilty party would be apprehended.

“I heard you're working for Libby Corbett,” Mayor Longstreet said. “Helping to clear David's name.”

“That's right.”

Suddenly Rafe felt on edge, which was odd. He guessed it was the negative press David was receiving in the local papers and the national news that had him antsy about the townspeople's reaction to him helping the Corbett family.

“Well, I think you ought to know—” the man's voice lowered “—there's a rumor racing through the courthouse. The prosecutor is thinking of charging David with the death of that EPA employee. The one who was killed in December. His name was Charlie O'Connell.”

Rafe couldn't believe what he was hearing. “That's ri
diculous! I read in the papers weeks ago that O'Connell's death was ruled an accident.”

Michael shrugged, his eyebrows rising. “That was before the dumping of this DMBE was thought to be deliberate. And there were scratches on the car O'Connell was driving. Paint samples were taken.”

“David Corbett had nothing to do with the DMBE or O'Connell's death.” Rafe tried to keep his tone down, but the anger running through him made that difficult. “The man is no murderer!”

The mayor placed a quelling hand on Rafe's shoulder. “I know that, Rafe. I do. And that's exactly why I'm telling you about the rumor. Forewarned is forearmed.” Then he added, “Libby Corbett ought to know what her father is up against.”

Rafe nodded silent thanks. Michael was right. Libby did need to be alerted if more charges were going to be pressed against David.

“You're a lawyer, Michael. How likely is it that they'll pin all this crap on David?”

Worry hooded Michael's green eyes and he shook his head. “I just don't know. Depends on what evidence they have.”

The sound Rafe emitted was derisive. “That's just it. The prosecutor says he has a ton of evidence against David. He's told that to everyone who will listen.”

“Yes, I've read it in the paper.” Michael's dark head bobbed now. “Seen it on the evening news.”

“Yet, we can find nothing that looks incriminating in the discovery Libby's received. The prosecutor is using every excuse in the book to keep the implicating evidence out of our hands.”

“He's just playing for time, and his stalling tells me that he's not really sure of his case strategy. But he'll soon
run out of excuses. Especially if Libby keeps filing those discovery motions and hounding the judge.” A shadow of a smile curled the edges of Michael's mouth. “Surprise evidence might generate exciting television drama; however, it paves the way for poor justice. The judge knows that. So do all the attorneys involved. Libby's one hell of a lawyer. She knows what she's doing. She'll eventually get her hands on everything that the opposing counsel has on David.”

Rafe saw that the waitress was looking impatient as she stood at the counter with his order. He bid Michael goodbye, thanking him for the information about the new charges David might be facing.

After paying for his coffee, Rafe pushed his way out the door and into the foggy morning, dread sitting in his stomach like a brick at the thought of having to be the bearer of bad news.

“I
told Michael it was ludicrous. That David just isn't capable of murder.” Rafe set the box of papers on the dining room table with the others they had carried into the house from Libby's car. More copies of documents the police had seized from the house and David's office at Springer.

She sighed wearily. “Well, he hasn't been charged with O'Connell's death yet, so let's not worry about it until it happens.”

Automatically he reached to open a box. Libby stopped him by sliding her hand over his.

The heat of her scorched his skin, and his gaze darted from the creamy flesh of her hand to her face. Time seemed to slow until the seconds only slogged by. She, too, was obviously aware that something stirred between them.

Her lovely eyes blinked, then averted, and she snatched
her hand away from his. When her gaze returned to his face, she said, “I thought we should wait…thought we should get something to eat before we dive into this stuff.”

“Sure.” His voice was a mere whisper, rusty and grating, as awareness of the moment—awareness of her—permeated each and every cell of his being, each and every molecule around him, making the temperature of the room rise, the air grow heavy.

And with the keen perception came desire.

Raw and throbbing.

The need roiling in him was astounding, and it had welled up from nowhere. She saw it, he knew. She was experiencing something akin to it. He realized that, too. Could see it just as clearly as if it were tattooed in plain English across her forehead. He didn't know what to say, didn't know what to do.

On the heels of desire came an awkwardness the likes of which he'd never been subjected to before.

Like a series of storm-churned waves buffeting the Pacific coastline, each emotion hit them, one after the other, fierce and unrelenting. And they stood there, helpless against the onslaught, taking each sensation as it came. Absorbing it. Being filled with it. Taken over by it.

What amazed him was the fact that the extraordinary change, the craving, the unease that swamped the two of them had taken precedence over everything. Even the daunting news that her father may be facing more charges in the very near future.

“I—I'm exhausted,” she told him, turning away her gaze again, refusing or unable to look him in the eye. “And I'm starved. I need a break.”

Her voice sounded weak to him. That could have been caused by the amazing moments they had both just encountered. But he had seen her fatigue, had been aware
that she'd had a rough day at the courthouse, that she needed a few minutes to relax. Instantly, he was engulfed with remorse to think that he'd been pushing to get right to the new evidence they had acquired.

“You're right. Let's go into the kitchen and get something to eat.”

She looked at him then, and gratitude laced the edges of her smile.

Once they were in the kitchen, he forced her into a chair. “Sit,” he commanded. “What you need is a glass of wine and a few crackers. You can relax while I cook.”

Her brows raised.

“Don't look so surprised. I can cook. I've been taking care of myself for a very long time.”

His comment seemed to intrigue her, but he wasn't willing to expound on the subject at the moment. He poured her a glass of wine, and once she'd pointed to which cabinet housed the crackers, he put a few on a plate for her and set it on the table as well.

“You said you're starved,” he said, after having scanned the contents of the refrigerator, “so time is of the essence. How about a western omelet and toast? It won't be gourmet fare, but it'll fill you up.”

She smiled and Rafe felt as if she'd gifted him with some great award.

“Sounds like heaven to me. Especially if I don't have to prepare it.”

He diced an onion and some red and green pepper. “So tell me what it was like growing up in this huge house, in this neighborhood. Must have been a great childhood.”

“It probably would have been…”

The up-and-down cutting motion of his wrist slowed when she paused.

“…had I been a normal kid.”

The blade of the knife stopped. He let it rest against the wooden cutting board and turned to look at her. Deep shadows clouded her gaze, and he knew then that the fairy-tale childhood he'd imagined her having must be just that. A fairy tale. He found himself interested to know about her past. More interested than he knew was seemly or safe.

Before he could question her about what she meant, she shook her head. “But I don't want to talk about me. I'd rather hear about you. What was it like to grow up on a reservation?”

A dark fog swirled around his feet, threatening to rise and swallow him up. His past was the last thing he wanted to talk about. However, he cast another glance over his shoulder and saw that the murkiness he'd witnessed in her eyes a moment before had dissolved.

“I envision lots of freedom. Time spent in the great outdoors. Days filled with games of challenge. Learning to ride bareback, the wind blowing through your hair. Learning to fish and hunt and track.”

His brow was furrowed when he turned to face her. Her eyes were bright and her features were relaxed into an expression that was nothing short of sheer bliss. He tried to chuckle, but there was little humor in the sound he emitted.

“Maybe a hundred years ago.”

Her eyes snapped open.

“Libby, you're making reservation life sound positively primitive.” He heard the hard edge of his tone, but wasn't able to do a thing to quell it. “Mokee-kittuun mothers want to raise poised, mannerly, technically savvy children, just like every other mother in the world.”

She swallowed, her spine straightening. “Oh, Rafe, that was so insensitive of me. I'm sorry. It's just that my own
childhood was so…limited. I certainly didn't mean to hurt your feelings.”

The feelings he was experiencing surprised him. Normally, stereotypical comments regarding his race made him furious. But he knew she had meant no offense.

“It's okay,” he told her. “Really.” He went on with the task of preparing their meal, certain that doing so was the best way to let her know all was well.

“Actually,” he continued, “I spent a good many years growing up here in town.” He didn't want to think about those years. Certainly had no intention of telling her about them. In any detail, that was.

“My nohk-han died when I was three.”

“Nohk-han?”

Libby rolled the word around on her tongue, her lyrical voice giving the word an almost poetic sound, and a thrill shot through Rafe.

“The word means father in Algonquian.”

She smiled. “It's beautiful.” Then she sobered. “I'm sorry your dad died when you were so young. Do you remember him?”

Pressing his lips together, he shook his head. He wished…oh, how he wished. He'd have settled for whispery images. Blurry pictures of a dark-haired, dark-eyed man. Pride shining in his gaze. Laughter. Love.

But Rafe had none of these things. He had no memory of his father. None whatsoever.

“That's sad,” Libby said. “So sad.”

Sidestepping the dark pit of depressing emotion, Rafe carried on with his story.

“Onna moved us into town,” he told Libby.

“Onna…” She paused, then queried him with a look. “Onna means mother?”

He nodded. “She took a job as a housekeeper.” Tension
gathered in every muscle of his body. He was getting too close to the badness. Too close to the foul memories. But he'd dived into the pool of the past. The challenge now would be to swim across without drowning.

“She ended up marrying the man.” Pain ached in his jaw. “Curtis James adopted me. My onna had two children while she was with him. My half brother, River, and my half sister, Cheyenne.”

Glancing down, Rafe saw that his grip on the knife left his knuckles white. He tried to relax. But it was nearly impossible.

“Onna died giving birth to Cheyenne.”

“Oh, Rafe.”

But he barely heard Libby's response.

“My sister and I returned to the reservation after that.” Rafe remembered the relief he felt the day Curtis James dropped him off with the Elders. But then his years of worry had begun. Worry over his brother.

“But your stepfather kept your brother?”

There was no way Rafe would ever refer to Curtis as his father, in any way, shape or form. He knew for sure that the man had never thought of him as a son.

“Curtis James took River with him, yes.”

“That must have been hard. To have your family split up like that.”

“Yes.” But hard didn't even begin to describe the torment Rafe had suffered agonizing over River's safety.

Seeming to sense the tension in him, Libby changed the subject. “So your name is James because you were adopted. What was your name before the adoption?”

“Running Deer.”

Strength took root in him, growing like a mighty oak. Sturdy. Potent. When he'd been in his late teens, and bordering on getting into real trouble with the law, he'd
learned from the Elders who raised him that Running Deer was a name to be proud of. That his nohk-han had been a man to look up to. A man of great esteem. A man whose memory should be honored by his only son. Honored with proper behavior. All those years ago, the Elders had touched on the perfect means of taming Rafe's rebellious nature.

“Rafe Running Deer. I like the sound of it.”

Coming from her lips, so did Rafe.

 

Saturday morning was spent reading and categorizing evidence. Finally around eleven, Libby told Rafe that the death of the EPA employee, Charlie O'Connell, was niggling at her mind, keeping her from focusing. Fighting off
attempted
murder was one thing, she'd said; a murder charge was quite another. She decided to visit the local police station to attempt to talk to officers on duty to see what they remembered about O'Connell's death.

If the truth were to be told, Rafe was relieved to have a break. Not from the monotonous reading, but from being with Libby. Her nearness caused an ever-increasing strain in him, like a match touched to a slow burning fuse. You knew an explosion was about to occur. You just didn't know when, or how big the blast would be.

He wanted her. Oh, how he wanted her. And every moment he was with her, his want—his
need
—seemed to escalate.

Rafe dropped Libby off at the police station, and knowing she couldn't be in a safer place, he decided to run out to the rez to feed his horses. But not before stopping in to visit David first.

Ever since the man had passed over that surreptitious plea, Rafe had been wondering what the story was behind it. Could be that David was just being an overprotective
father who was worried about his daughter. Could be that David, innocent of these charges, knew as well as Rafe did that the real culprit was still on the loose. But Rafe didn't think that was the case. He had the distinct impression that David Corbett knew more than he was telling anyone. And if that was so, Rafe meant to find out all he could.

Sitting at the table in the visiting room of the jailhouse while waiting for David, Rafe glanced over at the only other occupants of the room. A scruffy teen and a woman Rafe guessed to be the boy's mother.

Although Rafe didn't know the teenager by name, he had seen him trespassing on rez land on a motor bike. More than once Rafe had lately witnessed the young man's angry outbursts with various townspeople and thought of his own rebellious adolescence. Rafe was so grateful that the Mokee-kittuun Elders had taken hold of him with firm but loving hands.

He'd been one angry child when his onna had died and Curtis James had dumped off him and his baby sister at the reservation like sacks of rubbish he no longer wanted.

At first, no one on the reservation seemed to know what to do with the James children. Cheyenne was just an infant and had been taken in by a loving family. Rafe had been ten, a boy with hatred in his heart and anger in his eyes. For six years he'd practically been allowed to run free, and he'd taken every advantage of that freedom. He'd hooked up with a friend, Blake Fallon, a boy whose internal anger matched Rafe's. The two of them had made a great team.

The only time the boys ever felt truly released from the torment of their circumstances was when they were riding. Fast. It didn't matter what they rode, as long as it flew and it had two wheels.

Motorcycles. Dirt bikes. Scooters, plain or fancy.

The fact that those vehicles were stolen upset the law enforcement officers of Prosperino. But for years Rafe and Blake led the police on a merry chase.

The woman's soft sobs had Rafe casting a glance across the room. Up until now the teen had been trying valiantly to put on a defiant face. But his mother's tears were cracking his hard facade, and when the adolescent's eyes welled with emotion, Rafe knew in his heart that there was hope for the boy. The teen's heart hadn't yet turned to concrete. Hopefully, the court system would get the boy into counseling where he belonged.

David arrived in the visitation room, the dark smudges beneath his eyes clear signs that the man wasn't sleeping well.

“How come you're not with Libby?”

Anxiety shaded David's brown eyes.

“She's perfectly safe,” Rafe assured him. “I dropped her off at the police station. She wants to do a little investigating. Talk to some people.”

The extra murder charges might never be leveled on David, so Rafe felt it unnecessary to worry the man with more detail than that.

“I'm sure she'll come to see you later today.”

David only nodded in response. It was so obvious that something was gnawing at the man's thoughts, that Rafe couldn't waste any more time with small talk.

“Look, David, you need to tell me what's going on.”

“What do you mean?” The man's expression turned hooded. “How can you ask that? I'm being accused of a crime I didn't commit—”