Close Proximity (14 page)

A frown bit into her brow. “You didn't have a name? But what did your parents, your family and friends, call you before that?”

“You don't understand. My name was Rafe, of course,” he explained. “But many tribes have a custom to give their children another name. An Indian name. And often it's a name that is associated with a totem. A symbol. And that symbol often takes the form of an animal. But since my family already had an animal totem associated with our name—”

“Running Deer,” Libby supplied.

Rafe nodded.

“So what name did the shaman choose for you?” Then she rushed to add, “If you're allowed to tell me.”

He had to chuckle. “It's mine to share with whomever I wish.” Glancing over at the darkened circle on the floor, he remembered experiencing the pride he'd felt of being Mokee-kittuun.

Alex's chanting had filled him with awe and, yes, a little fear, too. When he'd been motioned forward, Rafe hadn't hesitated, knowing that his parents looked on. He'd forced his backbone straight. The fire had been hot, the smoke, acrid. Alex's firm hands on his shoulders had pivoted him to face the onlookers.

Rafe remembered the love shining in his mother's gaze and the pride lighting his father's piercing dark eyes.

His mouth and throat going dry, Rafe realized in that very instant that he
did
have a memory of his father. Ridge Running Deer had been pleased with his son the night Rafe had received his Mokee-kittuun name.

This insight caused his insides to quake. His knees went weak. His hands trembled.

Libby's hand on his arm plucked him out of the past.

“Are you okay?”

Her question was whispered, as if even in her alarm she couldn't bring herself to speak in anything other than hushed tones.

Rafe cleared his throat. “Tipaakke Shaakhan is the name Alex gave me that night,” he told her. “It means Dark Wind.”

He'd often wondered if the shaman had some ethereal knowledge of how life was going to turn out for Rafe. Many times while living under Curtis James's roof, and even after returning to the rez without his brother, Rafe had felt as if a dark and haunting wind blew through him.

Seeming to sense his mood, Libby commented, “A little depressing for a child of three, don't you think?” She smiled, her mouth cocking up wryly.

He let go of the past completely then, chuckling at her query.

She made her way deeper into the chamber. “So naming ceremonies are held here.”

“As well as weddings and baptisms and—”

She whirled around, delighted. “Why, it's a church.”

“It is a sacred place.” He nodded.

“You know,” she said, her manner easy, her tone light, “all this talk of naming ceremonies makes me wonder…”

Rafe stilled, pondering what she might be up to.

“You're very proud of your heritage,” she continued. “Have you ever considered taking back your Mokee-kittuun name? You could be Rafe Running Deer again, you know. I'd be happy to file the proper paperwork for you.”

Was she probing again, trying to get him to reveal his
past? The guilelessness in her expression told him, no. She was simply offering a suggestion that had suddenly popped into her head. And what an amazing suggestion it was, too. But before he could consider it fully, she cocked her head.

“I do hear water, don't I?”

“You do.” He took her hand, and doing so felt like the most natural thing in the world. “Come on. I have something to show you.”

Her gaze glittered with anticipation. “There's more to see?”

Oh, but she was lovely. He said nothing, only tugged on her hand.

Rafe led her through the long cave. At the far end the sound of surging water was louder. The tumbling stream couldn't actually be seen, but he took her to a small body of water, its glassy surface reflecting the rock formations of the ceiling.

“Oh.” She reached down and scooped up a handful. “It's cold.” The drops falling from her fingers sent out ever-widening concentric circles across the smooth surface.

“That's what I want you to see.” With a lift of his chin, he indicated the wall on the far side of the pool.

“What am I supposed to be seeing?” she asked, studying the rock face.

“It's a fault. A cross section of it, actually.”

She nodded mildly, not yet understanding the significance of what was in front of her.

“The fault runs directly through the cave,” he continued. “See how one side is shoved up over the other?”

“I do.” She turned to look at the opposite wall. “Yes, I do see it. What does it mean?”

“Well, that running water you hear is part of the aquifer that supplies the water for the area. I'm sure of it.”

She shot him a look of bewilderment. “But that water is moving. I thought an aquifer was like a huge underground lake. Am I wrong?”

“The earth is a living, moving thing, Libby. It shifts and seizes, changes constantly. I think a tremor rolled through here hundreds, maybe thousands of years ago. I think the earth heaved and I think the aquifer was tipped.”

From her expression, she seriously considered all he said.

Finally, she lifted an apologetic palm. “I don't understand what you're trying to tell me.”

“The aquifer flows in a southerly direction. Away from Crooked Arrow.”

Her head bobbed. “Toward Prosperino.” Awareness dawned. “Toward Hopechest Ranch.” She blinked. “This has to do with your idea that someone meant to contaminate the reservation. If someone dumped DMBE, not knowing that the aquifer flows to the south, they wouldn't know that the chemicals they dumped would flow away from Crooked Arrow and straight toward the children's ranch, then on to Prosperino.”

Rafe just looked at her. He said, “I wanted you to see it. I wanted you to understand.”

“I do. But, Rafe, you still haven't convinced me that someone wanted to pollute Crooked Arrow. What kind of proof do you have?”

Protecting those he loved was paramount to Rafe. He'd spent his childhood shielding his little brother. And when Curtis James dumped Rafe and Cheyenne at the rez, driving away with River, Rafe had then turned his protective instincts toward his baby sister. He'd spent a lot of years looking after Cheyenne.

But he trusted Libby. He trusted her a great deal. She could handle what he was about to tell her. Surely she could. Couldn't she?

With some hesitation, he said, “My sister told me.”

“Cheyenne?” Agitation had Libby's words coming fast and furious. “But how does she know? Did she overhear something? Witness something? What?”

Rafe scrubbed his fingers over his chin, still unsure of how much to reveal.

Libby was an intelligent woman. She'd proved that. She was honorable, loyal to her father, a good person. And the interest she'd shown in his heritage demonstrated that she wasn't like those whites who look down on Native Americans. She'd earned his respect. And his trust. Still…

He wavered. He lifted his chin and looked her directly in the eye. “Cheyenne has a gift.”

Libby went utterly still and silent.

“My sister possesses the blessing of sight. She sees things, has visions. The images aren't always clear. When she tapped into what was happening, she didn't see faces or names. But when she came to me she was sure that someone was trying to poison our land.”

Libby went quiet. What was she thinking? Rafe wondered. What thoughts were running through her head? Would she believe him or proclaim him a gullible and ignorant heathen?

“And since I'm coming clean,” he continued. “There's one more thing I need to tell you.” He sighed, hoping that in the days and weeks they had spent together, she'd have come to know him well enough to have faith in what he was about to reveal. That she wouldn't doubt him because of who he was or where he came from.

He swallowed, moistened his lips. “Last year I was filling in at Springer as a security guard. They call me when
they're shorthanded. Anyway, during my stint there, I overheard two execs talking. I heard one of them say that the strip of land on Crooked Arrow needed to be purchased at any and all costs. I didn't know at the time who the men were. But I saw the picture of one of the men in the paper recently.”

She hadn't moved, hadn't even blinked.

“That man was Todd Lamb.”

A tiny whoosh of air rushed between Libby's lips when she gasped. “You think
he's
behind all this?” Her gaze lowered to the floor. “What if it's bigger than just him, though? What if…what if those running the company…” Her tone was as crackly as dried paper. It was clear that she didn't want to believe any of what was quickly becoming plain fact. “This can't be. It just can't be. My father worked his whole life for that company. Gave them everything he had to give.”

Lifting her beautiful, pained eyes to Rafe, she asked, “How could this happen?”

T
he hike back to Rafe's house seemed to take no time at all to Libby. But that was probably because her thoughts were in such chaos.

Cheyenne possessed the gift of sight, Rafe had said. Libby had seen gaudily clad women at flea markets set up in San Francisco doing all they could to lure passersby to have their fortunes told, to have their love lives laid bare, or have their tarot cards read. Too practical and grounded in reality to give such matters much thought, Libby had never paid them much attention.

However, having seen Rafe's sister at the celebration last night, having talked to the woman, having heard and been touched by the poignant history she'd recounted, Libby doubted that Cheyenne's psychic gift had much to do with those flea market fortune-tellers. From what Rafe had told her this morning in the cave, his sister had spent months coming to the decision of apprenticing under the
Mokee-kittuun shaman, Alex Featherstone. Libby seriously doubted that Alex or Cheyenne would ever really profit from their calling—and that's what she concluded it must be: a true spiritual calling.

Besides, Cheyenne's gift must have been well known among the tribe for quite some time. How else would the Elders have had that gorgeous ceremonial costume ready and waiting should she decide to become a shaman? And all those people had hung on Cheyenne's every word last night, confidence and trust and something else as well—
gratitude
—shining in their faces.

If the whole of the Mokee-kittuun tribe believed that Rafe's sister had been blessed with a special gift, who was Libby to doubt it?

Cheyenne had “seen” that someone was trying to poison the water and land of Crooked Arrow. And Rafe had showed her the heaved fault that he suspected tipped the aquifer and sent the current rushing toward Hopechest Ranch where all those poor children had been hospitalized and evacuated for weeks, toward the town of Prosperino where the water had been tested and found to have traces of the chemical as well. Yet no one on the reservation had become ill.

Rafe's theory made a great deal of sense.

The notion that Springer could be attempting to frame her father for a purposeful chemical contamination was simply flabbergasting to her. How could she fight an entire company? Self-doubt swirled in her like muddy waters and she did what she could to dam them.

Since learning about the computerized journal that her father denied generating, Libby had realized that
someone
was trying to set him up to take the fall. Someone was attempting to sabotage his good name and blame him for
something he didn't do. Could that someone be Todd Lamb?

The fact that Rafe had overheard an important conversation, yet he hadn't told her, grated on her. His ranch house was in sight when Libby pinched at his jacket sleeve, pulling him up short.

“Why didn't you tell me?” she asked, irritation flaring. “Why didn't you say you thought Todd Lamb was out to get my father?”

The muscles of Rafe's face were taut, and she got the sense that he'd been steeling himself for this.

“I did tell you that someone was trying to contaminate our land, Libby.”

“But you never said why you thought that. How could I take your suspicions seriously when you didn't provide an identity or a motive?”

The corded sinew at the back of his jaw relaxed. “What could I say? How would you have reacted had I told you my information came from an Indian psychic?”

He had her there. If he'd spilled that story the first day they had met, she'd probably have shown him to the door with a polite, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“But you overheard Todd Lamb say he wanted that land at all costs. That's concrete proof that he's a suspect. That's hard evidence—”

“That's hearsay.”

She frowned, reaching up to press her hand to her chest. “It hurts me to think you didn't trust me with what you knew.”

“It wasn't that at all, Libby. You have to believe me.”

“Then what was it? Help me to understand. My father is in deep trouble here, and now I find out you've been withholding information for weeks.”

“Libby…” He exhaled, redirecting his gaze to some far-off place on the horizon.

She loved hearing him say her name. Loved the way it seemed to float off his lips. He caressed her name when he uttered it.

Finally his eyes returned to her face. “It's not that I didn't trust you. It's that I didn't know if you'd trust me. I didn't know if you'd believe what I had to say.”

For an instant that idea threw her. “But…” Both of her shoulders lifted. “What had I done to lead you to think I wouldn't believe you?”

“You're not hearing me,” he said dully. “It wasn't you.” He sighed. “Look, Libby, when you live in this skin—” he raked the backs of his fingers down his jaw “—you learn that people are unconcerned with your opinions. That people disbelieve what you say. That people are uncaring of your needs and your wants and your hopes and your dreams. People just discount you. That's the way it is. The way it's always been.”

He was talking about living with the prejudices of others. Living in a world where much of the population had preconceived notions about who you were and what you stood for based simply on the color of your skin or the shape of your features.

“It was me,” he said. “I needed to learn that
you
would trust
me.
”

She could argue her point further. She could easily sustain her hurt feelings. She could remind him that he knew David Corbett. That he knew her father had helped the Mokee-kittuun people procure jobs at Springer and advance in those jobs. Then she could point out that she was her father's daughter, and that the walnut rarely fell far from the tree.

But calling attention to all that would only make Rafe feel worse for not having confided in her sooner.

“Rafe, when we look at people we shouldn't see the color of their skin or the shape of their eyes or the texture of their hair. People are people. Some are good and some are bad. It doesn't matter their race. It has to do with the heart that beats inside them.”

Cynicism edged his tone as he said, “That's easy for you to say. Your skin is white. You can go anywhere, talk to anyone, and you'll be respected.”

What he said was true. Very true. And suddenly the need to apologize welled up in Libby.

“Let me tell you a little story,” he said. “After my mother died and I returned to the reservation to live, I was filled with rage. And I was looking for some way to release it. Well, I found myself a friend. A good friend who was just as angry as I was. We took to joy-riding around Prosperino on motorcycles. Motorcycles that we stole. We were picked up by the police more than once. And each time, my friend was released to his guardian. Because his skin was white and his family had money and prestige, he was given preferential treatment. And me? I was held in that jail cell. Waiting for hours, and sometimes days, before I was allowed to see anyone from the rez.”

Libby supposed that when Rafe had had this experience, the police department had most probably been filled with predominantly white officers. She strongly suspected it remained that way even today. But she hated to think that race bias had been their motivation in the treatment Rafe had received.

“Maybe they didn't keep you there because you're Indian,” she said. “Maybe they were trying to teach you a lesson. Let you see where your behavior was taking you.”

But clearly Rafe didn't believe that, and the look on his
face told her that she'd be a fool to even consider the notion.

“Oh, they taught me a lesson, all right. They taught me that they think I don't deserve the same treatment as others.”

All Libby wanted to do was reach out to Rafe, to somehow soothe the wounds that had been inflicted on him while growing up in a discriminatory society. However, one thing she'd learned about him was that he was a proud man. She feared he wouldn't accept any comfort she might offer.

Softly she said, “You told me before that Blake Fallon was your best friend, like a brother to you. Is he the person you're talking about? The one who stole motorcycles and got into trouble with you?”

Rafe nodded. A cool Pacific breeze whipped at his hair, blowing it across his face. Reaching up, he swiped it back in one fluid movement.

“I don't blame Blake. He felt terrible every time he was released, every time that metal door closed between us, me on the inside, him on the outside. I don't blame Joe Colton, either. He was just doing what he could for Blake.”

“Joe Colton?
The
Joe Colton was Blake's guardian?”

At the mention of the man's name, Libby remembered the scandal. Over a year ago someone had tried to murder Joe Colton, the wealthiest resident of Prosperino. She also recalled that Blake's father, Emmett had been the guilty party.

Again, Rafe nodded. “Blake lived with the Coltons for several years.”

Silence settled over them, and Libby thought the conversation had petered out. Rafe took a step toward home, but then he stopped and turned to face her yet again.

“I remember,” he said, “when an officer told Joe Col
ton he'd be doing Blake a big favor if he kept him away from me. A knife slicing into my gut wouldn't have injured me worse.”

“Oh, Rafe.” She couldn't have stopped those words from coming had her life depended on it. Without thought, she reached out and took his hand in hers. If he rejected her comfort, she'd deal with it. But she simply had to express her compassion.

Their fingers laced together in a perfect fit.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm so sorry.”

“I felt so damned ashamed of what I'd done, of the disgrace I'd placed on my name. Oh, not on the James name. I don't give a spit about that. But I'd always thought of myself as a Running Deer. And everyone knew I was a thief. You asked why I hadn't changed my name back to Running Deer. Well, that's why. Shame.”

Libby thought her heart was going to wrench clean in two. Her very soul ached for Rafe. For what he'd gone through, for all he'd endured.

“You were just a kid,” she pointed out. “And you said yourself, you were angry. You didn't have any other outlet. Your parents were gone. Rafe, you did the best you could.”

“Running around thieving and getting into trouble was not the best I could do. And when that cop looked at me with such contempt and said that my best friend would be better off without me…well, all I can say is from that day on, I never took another thing that didn't belong to me. I've never broken another law.” His tone was dry as he added, “I don't even drive over the speed limit.”

Softly she said, “Your parents would be proud of the man you are.”

He didn't respond. Libby didn't even know if he'd heard her. She also didn't know when he'd released her hand,
but they started off toward the house. Thoughts churned in Libby's head.

She'd lived such a sheltered life compared to him. She'd spent her childhood and her teen years almost cloistered in a cocoon woven for her by her loving parents. Whereas, Rafe had lost his father at a very early age. His mother had been forced to leave the reservation to find work. She'd married an alcoholic, a mean drunk, Libby remembered. Rafe had faced adversity and strife. He'd faced the kind of hardship that fostered anger and resentment bone deep, and it had affected him. Enough to have caused him to rebel against it.

Once again, Libby wondered exactly what had happened to cause such anger in him.

There are many torments,
Cheyenne's words wafted through Libby's mind,
bad memories…in his heart and in his mind…that he hasn't been able to release.

The years Rafe had spent with Curtis James, Libby suspected, were the key to unlocking all those many torments. If she could somehow unlock them, maybe, just maybe, she could persuade him to release them. Maybe she could liberate him from all the dark and plaguing memories.

 

The computer expert sent by Libby's San Francisco law firm was waiting for them when Libby and Rafe arrived at the courthouse. Her name was Susanna Hash, and she looked about twelve years old. She was petite and slender. Her blond hair was cut in a short bob and she chewed the gum in her mouth with such enthusiasm that it snapped and cracked.

“Brought all the equipment I need,” Susanna told Libby. “If you can find me a place to set up, and give me the addie for Springer's server, I'll be set.”

“Addie?” Libby's eyebrows raised with her question.

“Internet address. Also known as an ISP.” The girl's speech slowed, as if she thought Libby might be some kind of moron. “Internet Service Protocol.”

“The server Springer uses is located in San Diego,” Libby felt compelled to warn.

Susanna grinned. “No prob. Doesn't matter if the actual database is in China. All I need is the addie and I can get in.” She shrugged. “'Course, I could get in without it, but it would take a while. And you do want this to be legit, right?”

Prob? Legit? Libby wondered what kind of expert she'd been sent.

Libby stressed, “Absolutely legitimate. In every sense of the word.”

The girl snapped her gum as she grinned. “It will be, I promise. If someone from Springer so much as attempted to illegally mess with that database, I'll know about it. And so will you.”

“Okay, then, let's go to the hotel and get you set up,” Libby told the girl. “You can follow us there.”

“Oh, before we go—” Susanna's pent-up energy had her lifting up onto her toes, rocking back onto her heels “—I have a message for you.”

“A message?” Libby tossed a quick look at Rafe, then back at the young woman.

“The senior partner sends a greeting,” Susanna told her. “Mr. Adams also says that if you need more help, he'll send someone. Whatever you need, just call.”