Close Proximity

by Donna Clayton

  “Libby,” Rafe said, “I’d like you to meet my baby sister, Cheyenne Colton. Cheyenne, this is Libby Corbett.”

  Cheyenne’s smile was serene, and when Libby reached out to take the woman’s hand, a wave of tranquillity washed over her.

  “It’s wonderful to meet you.”

  “I feel the same,” Cheyenne said. “And, please, let me be the first to say that your father means a lot to the people of our tribe. He’s done a great deal for us. I’m sure, in the end, truth will prevail and he’ll be exonerated of all charges.”

  Libby could tell the speech was heartfelt. Tears burned her eyes, but she successfully thanked Rafe’s sister without letting her emotions run rampant.

  Cheyenne turned her gaze to Rafe. “Have you seen our brother?”

  “Not yet.”

  She scanned the crowd. “He was with my husband the last time I saw them. They said they were hungry and were going to check out the food table.”

  Rafe chuckled. “That’s typical, for both River and Jackson.”

  “All right now.” Cheyenne’s tone was infused with a good dose of both warning and teasing. “You can say what you want about River, but Jackson is the love of my life, remember.”

  Laughter rumbled deep in Rafe’s chest and Libby felt her blood grow warm with the sound of it.

  “Funny thing is,” Rafe commented lightly, “the marriage sure didn’t start out that way.”

  Intrigued by his statement, Libby simply stared, hoping someone would explain. Cheyenne’s wide mouth drew back at one corner in wry response.

  “Libby, my brother is teasing me because I got myself tangled up in a marriage of convenience. See, I married Jackson during that terrible Colton scandal last year. He was accused to trying to murder his uncle, but anyone who knows Jackson realizes that he’d never harm a hair on Joe’s head. Or anyone else’s, for that matter. The District Attorney was going to have me testify against Jackson…so I did the only thing an honorable girl could do. I married him.”

  Rafe grinned at Libby. “Jackson told Cheyenne he feared that her heathen brothers would use him as target practice.”

  “He said no such thing,” Cheyenne admonished. “Jackson would never call you a heathen. Now, if you were to push me too far, I just might.”

  Brother and sister shared an instant of humor, but then Libby witnessed as that moment metamorphosed into something else. Something touching. Poignant.

  Cheyenne went to her brother and placed her palm against his chest. “Although we both know you could never fit that description.”

  She leaned closer then and kissed his cheek.

  Rafe’s jaw was tight, and intense emotion clouded his mahogany gaze. He swallowed, and did his best to smile at Cheyenne.

  “I think I’ll take a walk to look for River and Jackson,” he said.

  The two women stood near the outer rim of the gathering, a very good position to see all that was going on. One man, his face craggy with deep lines, seemed to hold entranced a group of children.

  Finally Libby’s curiosity got the better of her. “Who is that?”

  “Alex Featherstone,” Cheyenne told her. “He’s a shaman. He offers the people medical advice. He’s adept at herbal medicine. People go to him for counsel, for prayer. He’s available to heal the mind, body and spirit. He’s also a gifted storyteller, what you might call our oral historian. He’s been educating our young people for more years than I can remember. Rafe and I both sat at that man’s knee when we were kids. Alex makes sure everyone in the tribe knows where they come from and that we can be proud of the journey that’s gotten us where we are.”

  Libby loved the idea of oral history. In her world, it was a lost art.

  “I’ve been visiting Alex lately,” Cheyenne quietly admitted. She smiled. “There’s quite a difference in listening to his stories and actually trying to learn them so I can recount them.” She chuckled. “No matter how much time I spend with him, I’ll never be able to weave tales like he does.”

  The women settled into a companionable silence as Libby watched a group of female dancers. The side-to-side steps they performed were simple, but the style used by each individual varied greatly from the next. Libby found her shoulders bouncing to the beat.

  Soon she caught sight of Rafe talking to two men. River and Jackson, she surmised. Cheyenne saw her watching them.

  “You’ve probably spent enough time with Rafe to discover that he’s a complicated man.”

  Libby cut her eyes at the beautiful young woman, wondering about the meaning behind the out-of-the-blue remark. However, Cheyenne didn’t take her eyes off her brothers and her husband.

  “You have to understand,” Cheyenne continued, “he’s been through a lot, my oldest brother has. There are many torments…bad memories…in his heart and in his mind that he hasn’t been able to release.” Her tone softened as she added, “I hope that one day he’ll find the strength to let go. Only then will he find peace and happiness.”

  A dozen questions crowded in Libby’s brain, but she didn’t feel she had the right to ask even one of them. She had realized that Rafe was a complex man. She’d thought that very thing herself. And knowing the ordeals he’d faced just might help her to understand him.

  However, she couldn’t help but think that Rafe didn’t care to be understood. Not by her, at least. He’d made that abundantly clear.

  She wanted to confess all these thoughts to Cheyenne, but before she was able to formulate the right words, the crowd began to shift. The beat of the drums changed, the tempo quickened, and many of the men in the group made a wide circle around the bonfire. Rafe and River joined them.

  “Oh, my,” Cheyenne told Libby, her dark eyes glistening with sudden excitement. “I think you’ll enjoy this. If you’ll excuse me.” She left Libby standing there and went to watch the dance with her husband.

  It was then that Rafe caught Libby’s eye, his smile was broad, his body tall and proud, his smooth skin glowing in the firelight. Her pulse accelerated to match the steady beat of the drums.

  She returned his smile, her eyes going wide with wonder as she realized she was about to observe a sight she would never forget. Energy, alive, almost tangible, trilled across every inch of her skin.

  The men hooked their arms around the waists of those flanking them. In a single, unbroken circle, the dance began.

  Twelve

  In the luminous light of the bonfire, his skin took on the color of burnt sienna. The memory of sliding her fingertips over his satiny flesh hit her with great force. Her body flushed and her breath snagged as if her throat were lined with thorns.

  She should put that night out of her head as if it had never happened, she knew. But doing so wasn’t simple. In fact, it proved impossible. Unwittingly, the smile on her face waned as the present mingled with the past.

  Desire curled low in her belly like a heated, fast-growing vine. The drum beat reminded her of the pounding of their hearts as they had made love. The fire was as deliciously hot as Rafe’s touch had been. And the hazy smoke was just as enveloping as her yearning had been that night, washing over her, penetrating every nuance of her soul.

  The circle of dancers rotated in a giant circle, and she lost sight of Rafe for several moments. But then he rounded the fire, her gaze latching on to him as if she were starved for him. Although the thought disturbed her, that was exactly how she felt.

  Starved for him.

  How could her body and mind betray her so? She wanted to be strong. To keep herself safe. But the love she felt for him overpowered her need for emotional protection.

  As broad and tall as he was, Rafe moved with grace. Lissome. Agile. Those words described him, too, Libby thought. She desperately tried to convince herself that it was the fire that caused this light-headed, overheated feeling…but it was too late to delude herself now. Rafe’s dancing stirred her blood. Stirred her memories. Stirred her passion.

  She nearly groaned with the wanting that possessed
her so suddenly. A wanting that, in the midst of this chanting and percussion rhythm, seemed raw and primal.

  The dance and the music ended abruptly, and the cheer that rose from the group of men was so unexpected that Libby started. Rafe jogged to her side, his very aura energized by the dance. She felt fairly scorched to the marrow of her bones.

  “That was wonderful,” she said, smiling, yet trying valiantly to hide the need thrumming through her being.

  He only smiled, almost as if he didn’t trust himself to speak. His passions, too, had been stimulated by the heady dance. Then she noticed the expression in his eyes. He was wrestling with his feelings just as hard as she was with her own.

  Confusion muddled her thoughts. It was obvious that he wanted her. So why had he so harshly told her their night together had been a mistake?

  Before she’d had time to ponder the question thoroughly, a touch on her forearm drew her gaze. Cheyenne’s eyes glittered with what Libby could only describe as anticipation.

  “Come,” the young woman invited. “This is The Woman’s Dance.”

  Libby’s whole body resisted. “Oh, no…I couldn’t.”

  Cheyenne grinned, coaxingly assuring her, “Sure, you can. The steps are simple. You’ll catch on quickly.”

  “B-but…”

  The protest died on her lips and she allowed herself to be led to the circle of women. Excitement skittered in the air, and Libby suddenly felt giddy with the idea of actually participating in the events of the evening.

  Thankfully, the drum beats were slow, the accompanying flute, sweet, sonorous, and she watched Rafe’s sister closely, mimicking each step, each move the woman made.

  “Spring is the time for new beginnings,” Cheyenne told her. “Renewal. Regeneration. A time when a woman needs to be—” her smile was slow and wry, her brows waggling suggestively “—enticing to the opposite sex. The Woman’s Dance.”

  Her eyes wide as she realized the significance of the dance, Libby forced herself to concentrate on learning the foot placement.

  “That’s all there is to it. Simple, yes?” However, then Cheyenne’s tone lowered wickedly. “But how you embellish the simple steps is up to you.” Then her hips began to swing to the beat, her shoulders, too, as her gaze searched for and found her husband.

  The movements of some of the women were quite suggestive. Risqué even.

  Self-consciousness descended upon Libby. Like a graceless, waddling duck among a flock of beautiful swans, she had never felt more out of place. It wasn’t that she didn’t have rhythm, or that she was completely clumsy. It was just that this was so new to her. And she was extraordinarily conscious of the message she might be conveying to Rafe. However, she wasn’t a quitter. And she sure wasn’t going to let a silly dance get the better of her.

  Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the steps and let herself get lost in the primitive beat. She relaxed, and soon she felt comfortable enough to arch her spine, loosen her shoulders. She turned, dipped, let her bottom sway, to and fro to the sensuous beat.

  She couldn’t deny it. She felt sexy. Shamelessly so. The music filled her, strengthening her confidence and her assertiveness.

  Tucking her chin close to her chest, she let her gaze saunter to Rafe, and her pulse accelerated when she saw that he seemed utterly captivated, his eyes locked on her.

  He made her feel like the sole dancer, rather than one of many…as if she performed for him, alone. A shiver shimmied its way down the full length of her, head to foot.

  She remembered the taste of his kiss, the secret scent of his skin, the heat of his touch, the sound of his heart thundering in his chest. She remembered it all. And she wished they were back at his house. In his room. Between his sheets. Kissing. Touching. Exploring. Making love.

  Again, she was bewildered by why he’d proclaimed their night of passion to have been a mistake.

  He had wanted her the night they had been intimate. And she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he wanted her now. So why had he denied her in the light of day?

  She’d reacted to his rejection in anger, and she should hold tight to those hurt feelings. That was the surest way to protect herself.

  She shouldn’t care why he’d said what he’d said. She shouldn’t wonder.

  But she did.

  My brother is a complicated man, Cheyenne had told Libby not too many minutes ago.

  Rafe was complicated. Hadn’t she come to that conclusion all on her own?

  He was also too intriguing for words.

  The music ended and the women dispersed, melting into the crowd. Libby felt awkward facing Rafe after the spectacle she’d just made of herself.

  What should she say? Worse yet, what would he say?

  Electricity seemed to throb in the heavy air. And he seemed just as unsure as she.

  “Thirsty?”

  She nodded.

  They went to the refreshment table, and he picked up two cups of warm cider. The spicy apple and cinnamon flavor was delicious on her tongue.

  “The Woman’s Dance.”

  She heard the teasing in the low words he uttered.

  “Why is it such hard work?”

  From the lighthearted gleam in his dark and sexy gaze, she knew he didn’t really mean the literal dance at all, but the man-woman dance performed by adults the world over. She didn’t quite know how to answer him, so she simply remained quiet.

  Unexpectedly, he took the cider from her and placed both cups on the table. He took her hand and led her away from the bonfire, where more music had begun to play. They walked up into the rocky foothills a short distance, the cool, satiny night wrapping around them.

  “Careful,” he said. “Don’t trip.”

  She didn’t intend to fall. On the rocks. Or for him.

  Oh, who are you kidding? an insistent voice in her brain called to her. You’ve already fallen for the man. Hard enough to cause a concussion.

  “Cold?”

  “No.” It was the first time she spoke since she’d executed that sexy little show for him. Her voice sounded all gravelly. Her nerves jangled. An invisible current hummed in the air. Something was about to happen. Why else would he be leading her into the darkness, away from the crowd?

  When they neared a tall evergreen, he took her hand in his. He turned her to face him, the solid column of the tree supporting her back.

  “I shouldn’t want you,” he said at last, leaning into her, refusing to meet her gaze.

  The solid mass of him felt wonderful. So close. He traced light fingers along her jaw, down the length of her neck. She should be shouting at him, telling him to take his hands off her. But she didn’t.

  The clean cedar and leather smell of him mingled with the pungent evergreen boughs overhead, the scent of spicy apple cider. The night wind ruffled through his hair.

  “I’ve tried not to want you.”

  His tone was thick. He bent toward her, the tip of his nose brushing high on her cheekbone. He inhaled then, slowly, languorously, breathing in her aroma, and Libby thought she’d never in her life experienced anything more erotic, more stirring.

  “But, damn it, I just can’t stop myself.”

  She should be angry. She should shove him away from her. Smack his face soundly.

  He was admitting to wanting her and not wanting her. She should be repelled by the notion. Hadn’t she been hurt by a man who had used her and abused her with the very same concept?

  But something told her this was different. This battle Rafe was engaged in had little to do with her. He was fighting something inside himself. Some hidden enemy deep inside him bent on convincing him he shouldn’t experience love or happiness…that he didn’t deserve warmth and affection.

  My brother is a complicated man…

  At that moment, Libby realized that Cheyenne’s words hadn’t been an idle comment. They had been a warning of sorts. Gentle advice.

  Right now, though, figuring out the complexities of him wasn’t the priority in
her mind. Tasting his kiss was.

  His tunic was soft and supple in her fingers as she gathered it up and gave a pleading tug. His mouth slanted down over hers, and she slid her fingers over his scalp, combed them through his long hair, twisting the soft tresses over her palms, gently encouraging him to come closer and closer. The weight of him felt luscious, crushing her breasts, heating her with his nearness, churning her blood.

  The warm tang of apple was on his lips, on his tongue. The delectable smell of him filled her lungs, inciting her lust for him.

  She broke off the kiss long enough to utter a frantic whisper against his partly opened mouth. “Let’s go back to your house.”

  Back to your bed.

  The wantonness thickening her tone should have made her ashamed. Where was her self-respect? Rafe had already said a relationship between them was impossible, yet here she was offering him her body. Again.

  Pride be damned. She didn’t care. She wanted this. She wanted him.

  But his gaze cleared and his spine straightened. It was as if her suggestion had awakened him from his carnal stupor. He inched away from her.

  “We can’t do this. I can’t, Libby. I can’t do this to you. It’s wrong.”

  Why? she wanted to scream. Why is it wrong?

  His eyes refused to meet hers. And Libby should have felt hurt. But she didn’t. She only felt sad. Yet, at the same time, she felt an overwhelming urge to reach out to him. However, she simply didn’t feel he was ready to face whatever it was that tormented him.

  “We have to go back,” he told her. “Now. Before I change my mind.”

  One thing was certain. She’d realized that Rafe’s rejecting her had little to do with her. He was battling demons. And whatever those demons were, they were keeping him from following his heart.

  She followed him back toward the glow of the fire, back toward the buzz of the crowd, back toward the beating of the ancient native song. Libby feared that this failed intimacy between them would conjure that terrible awkwardness again, that the celebration would lose its magic. But as soon as they reached the gathering, she felt her excitement stir.