Close Proximity. Donna Clayton
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when they applied for work at Springer. Your father did everything he could to change that. And as he moved up the corporate ladder, he continued in his efforts. Continued to treat us with fairness and respect.”
As she listened, her shoulders tensed until tiny needles of pain began shooting up her neck. In all the years that her father had worked at Springer, he’d never once intimated that there was any kind of racial discrimination at the company. Yet here this man was, telling her that her dad had spent his entire career battling what sounded like an anti-Native American sentiment at Springer, Inc.
“He’s even helping our children,” he said, intense emotion tightening his facial features. “The first thing he did when he became Springer’s vice-president was to set up a scholarship fund for reservation children. And when he visited the Elders just before last Christmas, seeking to lease some of our land so that Springer could expand, did he become angry when his request was turned down? No. Instead, he was moved by the living conditions of the people. His heart was touched, and he offered to have Springer cover the cost of a new well—a well that was being dug up until the moment he lost his job.”
She wished an abyss would open up in the floor and swallow her whole.
Anger now ticked the muscle of his jaw. “Where I come from, a man who gives respect earns respect. It’s something that’s not given easily and not taken lightly. Your father is a good man. He doesn’t deserve the treatment he’s receiving. He’s completely innocent. And I think he could use a friend, Ms. Corbett.”
It was hard to meet his gaze, but she forced herself to do it. She moistened her lips. What could she say to him? Coming from the reservation, having been born into an ethnic minority, he’d probably seen more than his fair share of bigotry and narrow-mindedness. An apology, she silently surmised, would seem almost offensive at this moment.
Feeling the need to make some sort of response, she offered him a small and sincere smile and let her arms relax at her sides. “I thought you’d agreed to call me Libby,” she said, keeping her tone friendly.
The turbulence in his gaze settled somewhat, but his emotions continued to brew, that much was easily discernible.
She tried again. “Please sit down, Rafe. Let me get you that cup of coffee.”
He was measuring her, the situation, the moment. She couldn’t tell what all was going through his mind. But it was obvious that her attempt at a pleasant tone, a laid-back demeanor, was beginning to soothe his ruffled emotions.
Libby had never met a man quite like Rafe James. He seemed so vigilant, watchful, as though he wasn’t quite sure from where trouble might come at him. It wasn’t that he seemed paranoid, really. Just…ready for anything, she supposed.
His manner could stem from his very existence. Hadn’t he just explained that he’d experienced more than his fair share of prejudice?
Or it could have roots in his very makeup. In his genetic material. Native Americans had a rich history filled with an ancestry of hunters and brave fighters. Could the DNA of the wary and wild warrior be carried down through the generations?
Realizing that she’d allowed herself to get carried away with fanciful notions, which was quite out of the norm for her, Libby straightened her spine and sighed.
“Rafe, sit. Let’s talk.”
His whole body seemed to relax finally, and he did as she bade.
The smell of coffee was heady as she brought the cups to the island. She set one down in front of him, then retrieved the sugar bowl, creamer and two spoons. It didn’t surprise her to see that Rafe took his coffee black. She slid out a stool and perched herself on it right next to him.
“So…you live at Crooked Arrow?” she asked. It wasn’t an outrageous guess. He’d insinuated as much.
Rafe nodded, his long, ebony hair falling over his shoulder.
The urge to reach out and comb her fingers though the shiny mass of it made her tighten her grip on the cup she held in her hand.
“I have a horse ranch. Breed Appaloosas.”
One corner of his wide, full mouth curled upward, and Libby found her gaze drawn to the spot as if it were a powerful magnet.
“Every nickel I could spare while working at Springer was put aside for the ranch. It was always my dream. And now I’m living it.”
For an instant, the muscles of his face eased…and Libby’s breath caught in her throat. He was truly a gorgeous man.
At that moment, he smiled, open and easy, for the very first time, and it seemed to her that all the oxygen had been sucked right out of the air.
“Now that you’ve discovered that I deal in horseflesh,” he said, “I guess you’re wondering how I could possibly help your father.”
In all honesty, Libby quietly responded, “I hadn’t, actually.” Then she added, “But I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“Because of my extensive training all those years ago at Springer,” he told her, “I was able to qualify for a P.I. license. I’ve worked for a couple different insurance firms in the area. You’ll be needing someone with my skills, I’m sure.”
Coming from anyone else, that statement might have sounded cocky, overly prideful. But Libby didn’t feel that way about it at all. She admired the fact that he was confident.
She didn’t answer, but simply lifted her cup to her lips and took a sip of coffee. For some reason, she wasn’t ready to come to any kind of arrangement with this man.
Softly, he said, “Your father is lucky that you’re a lawyer. No one would fight harder for him than family.”
She actually flinched when she heard him mirror the very thoughts that had passed through her mind earlier when she’d been sitting out in front of the house in the car. Luckily, coffee didn’t slosh over the rim of the cup.
“You practice in San Francisco?”
“Yes.” Her tone made it clear that she was surprised by his knowledge of her.
“You’ve been mentioned in the papers,” he explained. “And there’s been plenty of talk about your arrival. Prosperino is a small town. Rich soil for the old grapevine.”
She only nodded. The sound of his voice had a lulling, mesmerizing quality.
“You look like him.”
Libby’s gaze darted to where the pad of his thumb absently traced the gentle curve of the lip of his cup, and she was bombarded with a vision of that thumb roving over the outline of her mouth. Her throat went dry and her eyes darted from his.
“Your father, I mean,” he continued. “You inherited his hair coloring. Although, if I remember correctly, his is a much darker red. But your eyes…they’re quite different from what I remember your father having. His are dark, aren’t they?”
She nodded. “I’ve got my mother’s eyes.”
“I see.”
It seemed to her that he wanted to stop there. She could see his silent, internal battle. A battle he ultimately lost.
“Your eyes are quite—” His rich tone lowered an octave as he added, “Startling.”
Libby swallowed, her spine straightening.
Startling. It was a word Stephen had often used when describing her gaze. And it was a description she’d come to loathe.
This conversation was getting much too personal for her tastes. The porcelain cup clinked firmly against the tiled countertop when she set it down. “So…what makes you think my father is innocent?”
He was very good at masking his reactions, but Libby did see his dark brows raise a fraction in surprise before he reined in his response.
“I’ve already