Close Proximity

by Donna Clayton

  She had lain on the double bed in his small guest room, but sleep would not come. Instead, she’d listened as he’d moved around the house. For quite some time he’d carried in the boxes they had brought from her father’s house, the front door opening and closing in the effort. He’d shifted and arranged the boxes, and she assumed he was taking great care to organize them for her. She’d heard water running in the kitchen and imagined him filling a cup and drinking from it, his long hair flowing down his back, his chin tipped up, his strong fingers gripping the glass.

  And then she’d begun supposing how those long, tapered fingers would feel against her skin. Her heart had begun to pound and her blood had turned thick with—

  That was when she’d pushed herself off the mattress, made her way quietly down the hallway and slipped out the front door.

  She and Rafe stood by the fence and drank their tea, enjoying the sunset and the quiet. What notions were roving around in his head? What was he thinking?

  She pondered the sense of freedom she’d noticed before he’d arrived with the tea, and sidling it up next to the heightened awareness she was feeling for Rafe, she couldn’t help but think that this time spent at Crooked Arrow reservation could get her into deep trouble. Deep trouble, indeed.

  But for some odd reason, the idea didn’t seem to bother her too much.

  Rafe tossed and turned into the wee hours of the morning, the ticking of the bedside clock driving him to the very edge of sanity. Bringing Libby here had been a mistake. Necessary and completely unavoidable. But a mistake, nonetheless.

  The woman consumed his every thought.

  Those vulnerable gem-colored eyes called to him. That curly thatch of fiery hair glowed golden red in the firelight. Her creamy skin tempted him to reach out and run his fingers down the length of her throat, feel the satin texture of her flesh. Her luscious mouth, moist and full, beckoned for his kiss.

  He’d never be able to keep his hands off her. Never.

  Jerking the blanket aside, he stood, stretched and then strode to the window. The winter air chilled his naked skin as he gazed out at the starry night, aware of nothing his gaze lit upon.

  Dinner had been a strained affair. They had cooked together, eaten together, even cleaned up the dishes together. Conversation had been tense at best. However, he had succeeded in calming the heat in him long enough to tell her how he’d scrimped and saved the money it cost him to acquire his first pair of breeding Appaloosas from a man on a Nez Percé reservation in Washington state. She’d hung on his every word. And he’d truly enjoyed the attention she’d showered on him.

  But the entire time they spent together, first in the kitchen preparing and eating dinner, then in the living room by the fire sharing a glass of wine, it had been as though some ghostly entity had been hovering, just waiting to swoop down on them and devour them whole.

  He’d experienced the feeling before. At Libby’s house. But this time it was stronger. More insistent, urgent.

  The attraction he’d felt for Libby had grown so much more intense. Seemingly in the blink of an eye. His need had grown concentrated. Powerful. One moment, it had been a minor torment he’d been sure he could control. The next, he wasn’t at all certain that he could restrain the desire raging through his veins.

  His goal in bringing her here had been to keep her safe. And now that he’d gotten her to Crooked Arrow, he was confident that he could protect her from whatever unseen or unknown enemies might be lurking out there, threatening to harm her.

  However, with every second that ticked on that godforsaken clock on the nightstand, he grew less and less sure that he could shield her from what could turn out to be the worst enemy of all.

  Himself.

  Eight

  Libby’s heart fluttered a staccato beat as she slipped through the house, squinting to see in the dim morning light. The sun had yet to rise, but the rosy radiance glowing from the windows was a telltale sign that it soon would.

  During the three days she’d been in Rafe’s cozy home, she had crept from her room each morning, tiptoed down the hall and into the kitchen to peer out the window. To her, the morning ritual he performed looked more a spiritual observance than a religious one. She didn’t know if he prayed or meditated out there on the lawn.

  The first morning she’d witnessed him had been an accident. She’d come into the kitchen to make coffee and just happened to spy him sitting cross-legged on the blanket, his spine straight, his massive shoulders square, his upper torso bare, his glorious hair unbound, his strong arms outstretched to the sky. The sight had seemed so sacred that she’d told herself to turn away and allow him his privacy. But he had so enthralled her that she had been simply unable to tear her eyes away.

  Her nights here had been agonizing. Haunted by erotic dreams of Rafe, she tossed and shifted beneath the blankets, her skin burning under his illusory, wraithlike touch. The night visions never failed to awaken her several times, her heart pounding, her skin damp, before morning would finally arrive and she could scramble from her bed and race to spy on this almost ethereal rite he performed daily.

  Now she was held rapt by the sight of him, just as she’d been every other morning. When he finally stood and lengthened his muscular body toward the heavens, Libby knew his meditations were complete and he’d be coming inside soon. She busied herself putting ground beans and water into the coffeemaker and flipping on the machine.

  He entered through the back door, greeting her with a smile, and Libby felt her heart ka-chunk against her ribs. He was such a handsome man, and the attraction that swirled and danced around them when they were together was unmistakable. Undeniable. Like a lazy waltz that had progressively escalated into a frenzy, Libby knew the magnetism between them was building, becoming stronger and stronger.

  Waltz? No. This was more like a tango. A hungry, sexy, completely carnal need that was just waiting to consume them. The real question in Libby’s mind was just which one of them would be the first to succumb to the overwhelming force of it.

  “Morning.”

  She smiled a tight greeting. Why did he have to walk around half-naked? There was pride in his straight spine. Not a look-at-me kind of pride. This was more an inner dignity that simply couldn’t be missed.

  That heavy awkwardness settled over her. Over them both.

  “You’re welcome to join me, you know.”

  Her cheeks flamed red hot and she was relieved that he’d turned away to fold the handwoven blanket he used every morning.

  “Join you?”

  Oh, my. He wasn’t really aware that she watched him, was he? But how? His back was to her each morning. And she was always careful to move from the window when he rose and stretched.

  “It’s good to give thanks. I’m grateful for all I have. I like to take the time to actually think it and say it.”

  She was grateful. Grateful that he wasn’t pressing the issue of her voyeurism. She made a silent vow to grant him some solitude tomorrow. But even as she made the promise to herself, she knew the next morning would find her once again at the kitchen window, her weak will having surrendered to the urge to observe him.

  “The Great Spirit deserves thanks.”

  Shyly she asked, “Does The Great Spirit have a formal name to your people?” She wanted to hear him speak in his native tongue.

  “Kit-tan-it-to’wet.”

  The lyric syllables rolled from his lips like soft music, and a shiver coursed across Libby’s skin.

  “The Great One has blessed me in many ways,” he told her. “And I feel compelled to show my appreciation each morning.”

  With a silent nod and a small smile, she agreed with him, with his philosophy of cultivating an essence, a core, of gratitude.

  Then almost of its own volition, her gaze slid from his honed cheekbones, the hollows of his cheeks, his strong jaw, to his smooth chest. His stomach was flat, the muscles rolling in true washboard fashion. Night after night she’d fantasized about running her fi
ngers over those hills and valleys, dreamed about what his strong, demanding hands would feel like on her own body.

  Libby dragged air into her lungs and forced her eyes to lift to his face. His mahogany gaze had narrowed. He knew. He knew the carnal thoughts that filled her mind. She realized it…could feel it in her bones.

  Embarrassed beyond measure, she wheeled around, meaning to reach for the coffeepot. But she miscalculated the distance and ended up touching her knuckle to the edge of the heating element under the pot.

  She gasped, jerking her hand to her chest.

  Rafe was at her side in an instant.

  “Here,” he said, gently taking her hand in his. “Let me see.”

  He was so close. Too close. The warm male scent that was his alone enveloped her like a warm wool blanket, and she fought the urge to close her eyes and revel in it. Up close, his swarthy skin was lustrous. Smooth. Flawless. And she ached to splay her palm against his broad chest, feel the beat of his heart, experience the warmth of him.

  Guiding her to the sink, he flipped on the water and plunged her hand into the cold cascade. She was barely conscious of the chilled temperature, barely conscious of the burn on her finger. The only thing she was cognizant of was him. The solid mass of him standing just inches from her.

  Their gazes clashed, and his voice was whisper-soft as he said, “It’s so strange, isn’t it? Like a living, breathing thing.”

  He was describing the allure they felt. And, God help her, she knew he spoke the truth. It would be so easy to just let go, to let her very soul become possessed by the surreal entity of the attraction that plagued them, to lean forward, lift up on tiptoes and press her mouth to his. It would take so very little effort to relax against the hard length of him, to let desire have reign. But a fear welled up in her chest, an icy, bitter fear that had her inching away from him.

  “I can’t.” The words were like sandpaper, grating against her throat as she spoke them. And she could only hope he would understand her meaning.

  He was a man of few words, Rafe was. He was contemplative. Deep thinking. She’d learned that much about him. But he’d shown her, over and over, that he had a tender side. A gentle nature.

  No matter how kindhearted he might be, Libby simply would never be able to open herself to another man. Not after the way she’d been used and then tossed aside so callously.

  Love hurt. She knew that, had experienced it firsthand. She’d exposed her emotions and thoughts, given of herself, wholly, freely, only to have the gift of her love mocked by the very man she’d thought she’d cared for. She wasn’t ready to feel that kind of pain again. In fact, she didn’t think she’d ever be ready.

  A sigh tore from his chest. His tone was gruff as he said, “That’s good. Because I can’t, either.”

  His past wasn’t any of her business. But she couldn’t help feeling curious about his comment. There was great impetus behind the fortifications surrounding her own heart. But what could have happened to him to make him throw up those protective walls that encircled his?

  He turned off the water, reached for a soft cotton dish towel and lightly patted her hand dry.

  “I think you’re going to live.” The pitch of his voice was now light, teasing. He made to step away from her. “I should go have a shower.”

  Although every fiber of her being screamed that it was a mistake, Libby reached out and stopped his retreat with one light touch of her fingers on his corded forearm.

  An awkward moment pulsed thickly by. Finally, she said, “Your sister Cheyenne…does she still live on the reservation?”

  A shining strand of his long hair fell over his shoulder, cascading down his chest as he shook his head from side to side. “She lives and works at Hopechest Ranch. She counsels the kids there. She’s married to Jackson Colton.”

  Libby’s eyes widened a fraction. The whole fantastic Colton story had made the San Francisco newspapers.

  “Do you think I’ll get to meet them while I’m here?”

  “I don’t see how you’ll avoid it.”

  He grinned, but he seemed terribly aware of her hand on his arm, so Libby let it slide down to her side.

  “Cheyenne visits me a couple of times a week. Often Jackson comes with her.”

  Nodding, Libby wasn’t yet ready to let him go. “You said that when she was born, you and Cheyenne were brought back to Crooked Arrow. But you never said what it was like for you during your early years in Prosperino. Having to leave the reservation when you were so young must have been hard for you.”

  His mouth drew into a taut line and his dark eyes went flat as he shut down on her.

  “You wouldn’t find my story an interesting one. Believe me.”

  Just as she was about to protest, he continued, “But I do have something to tell you.”

  He gazed out the kitchen window, and she realized suddenly that the sun had risen, that its rays warmed the side of her face.

  “While I was out there this morning—” with a slight lift of his chin he indicated the yard beyond the clear glass pane “—I decided it was time to come clean.”

  “Come clean about what?” She’d been curious about his youth and thought that discovering more about his childhood, his upbringing, might give her some insight into the vast complexities of who he was.

  She’d noticed that he had what could almost be described as a chip on his shoulder when it came to figures of authority. Especially when those authority figures were male and their skin was white.

  Libby remembered the harshness of his tone when he spoke of the anti-Native American sentiment that ran rampant through the all-Caucasian board of directors at Springer, Inc. Of the board, only her father, a man who did what he could to help the local Mokee-kittuun, had been spared Rafe’s verbal wrath. She’d noticed how he’d looked at the guards at the jailhouse. And he’d acted a bit prickly around Sergeant Lummus at the hospital emergency room, as well.

  She suspected Rafe’s attitude stemmed from his years living under Curtis James’s roof. Prosperino was a small town. And although she hadn’t been able to bring herself to reveal this information to Rafe, Libby knew Curtis James had carried around the label of town drunk.

  “I didn’t feel comfortable admitting this before now,” he said. “But I arrived on your doorstep with…um…”

  One of his sun-kissed shoulders lifted in a shrug.

  “Well, I guess you could say I have a theory about the case.”

  Libby didn’t bother to conceal her surprise. “You know who’s behind the DMBE contamination?”

  “Not who,” he told her. “Only why.”

  “You should have said something.”

  He had issues with trust. Hadn’t she just surmised that those issues stemmed from his childhood upbringing? However, she’d thought his lack of trust was focused on those who, for one reason or another, made him experience a feeling of powerlessness. But now she was recognizing that his trust issues ran deeper than she first thought. He hadn’t been able to confide in her his thoughts and opinions regarding her father’s case. Well, he hadn’t until now.

  She’d love if he would open his heart to her, reveal his reasons for not feeling secure enough with her to divulge his theories. But he’d already shut her out once this morning. So digging into his psyche would have to wait. Right now she’d have to be content talking about the case.

  “Why, Rafe? What do you think is motivating the person who’s responsible for the contamination?”

  The dark orbs of his pupils were so intense that Libby felt a shiver skitter down her spine.

  “The land. They want the land.”

  “What land?”

  Unwittingly, Rafe reached up and smoothed his palm across his chest. “Several months ago your father met with the Mokee-kittuun Elders. He explained that Springer was in need of land to expand their operation. He asked the Elders if the people would be willing to sell or even lease a strip of land for this expansion effort.”

  He
paused, leaned his hip against the counter. “The Elders didn’t even consider the idea before they turned him down. Crooked Arrow isn’t a large reservation. The land is limited. The Elders wouldn’t think of selling off a square inch of it, let alone a large strip.”

  His gaze softened. “Most men would have reacted to the rejection in anger and frustration. But not David. Your father noticed the living conditions of many of the families on the rez. He offered to have Springer drill a new well as a means to help us and he made it happen.”

  She remembered the well construction site she’d seen on the way to Rafe’s home. Her heart warmed to think that her father was responsible. He was a compassionate man and that made Libby proud.

  “But I don’t understand what your story has to do with the contamination.”

  “I believe that someone at Springer was determined to have the land. Even after David’s request was denied. I believe that some evil-minded person meant to poison the land. Make it useless for living on, working on. I think this person deliberately dumped the DMBE so that the land would be worthless and the Elders would then sell to Springer.”

  Rafe’s theory was so horrible it made Libby sick to her stomach.

  Almost to herself, she said, “I had so hoped we’d find that the contamination was an accident. I still hope that’s the case.”

  “The executive board wouldn’t have fired your father,” Rafe said, “wouldn’t be doing all it can to crucify him, if that were so.”

  She tucked her bottom lip between her teeth, realizing in her heart that he made a convincing argument.

  Her mind began churning over all that he’d said. “But the premise you pose has a hole in it. A big one. If someone meant to contaminate the water of Crooked Arrow, how come no one from the reservation has become sick? The DMBE showed up in Hopechest’s water, and a small amount has been detected in the town water.”