Close Proximity. Donna Clayton

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СКАЧАТЬ brows drew together, but she remained silent, waiting.

      “Sixteen years ago,” he continued, “your father hired me at Springer. I’m—”

      The rest of his thought was cut short and he pressed his lips together. He took a moment to inhale, and Libby’s gaze unwittingly darted due south as his chest expanded. She blinked, and immediately directed her eyes to his.

      “Let’s just say I’m grateful to him.”

      He went quiet. Once she realized he didn’t mean to say more, she pulled open the refrigerator, placed the apples in the bin, then shut the door, pausing there with her hand on the stainless steel handle.

      “You went to the trouble to search me out,” she said, “and offer my dad your help during this crisis, all because he gave you a job sixteen years ago?” She raised her brows. “Must have been one hell of a job.”

      Moving across the room, she reached for the coffeepot and began filling it with water.

      The sigh Rafe emitted sounded resigned. “He made me a security guard. Gave me a fair wage. A job with health benefits. Saw to it that I received thorough training. And I was able to use that training for more lucrative employment after I left Springer.”

      As he talked, she placed a paper filter into the basket of the coffeemaker and spooned in the ground beans. Something about Rafe James’s motives just didn’t ring true. His manner was…reserved. Cautious. And had been since he’d first appeared out on the front yard. She poured the water into the reservoir and snapped on the machine.

      Libby had been hurt by one secretive man in her past. She wasn’t about to fall prey to another—in any aspect of her life.

      Whirling around to face him, she blurted, “So let me get this straight. You went to the trouble to search me out, and you want to help my dad, all because he gave you a job and properly trained you for that job.” She shrugged. “Seems to me my dad was only fulfilling his responsibilities.”

      Her short, sharp laugh didn’t hold much humor, but conveyed instead a huge measure of skepticism. “My father has worked for Springer for nearly thirty years. I’m sure he’s hired lots of people. My front door is going to fall off its hinges if every single one of those grateful people come racing to help.”

      A thunderous storm gathered in his mahogany eyes. She hadn’t meant to make him angry, but she felt it necessary to be blunt about his flimsy reasoning. Almost of their own volition, her arms crossed tightly over her body.

      He stood, and the sheer size of him coupled with his surly expression was a daunting sight, to say the least. A person with any sense at all would feel afraid. However, she didn’t, and that wasn’t because her brain cells had suddenly gone dim, but because, although muscles bunched in his shoulders and ire sparked in his dark eyes, she knew in her heart she was perfectly safe with this man.

      “Look, Ms. Corbett, you’re right when you said your father has hired lots of people over the years. And many of them are just like me.”

      The emphasis he placed on those last three words made her frown.

      Just like him? He was Native American. Most probably from the Mokee-kittuun tribe living on the Crooked Arrow Reservation just outside of town. But what did his ethnic group have to do with this? Although the question disturbed her, the confusion she felt kept her silent.

      “For years,” he continued, “the people from the rez weren’t given a second glance 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 СКАЧАТЬ