Читать книгу Close Proximity - Donna Clayton - Страница 10

T he steps of the courthouse were crowded with camera-wielding media, placard-waving radicals and other individuals who were just plain curious. And to think, Prosperino used to be such a sleepy little town.

With traffic at a standstill, Rafe James sat in his pickup truck watching the circus unfold before him. The irate anti-oil-company chants of several ringleaders could be heard even though his windows were rolled up tight against the chilly March morning.

Having lived most of his life on the Crooked Arrow Reservation, Rafe didn’t travel into town often anymore. Nearly everything he needed could be bought or bartered for right on the reservation, so Rafe didn’t have much to do with the outside world these days. There simply wasn’t much need, unless he had a side job going.

Two different insurance companies called upon him at times to do a little investigative work. And he also used Prosperino as a base for meeting with buyers for his beloved horses. Equestrians from all over the world had purchased the Appaloosas he bred and trained. He didn’t think of this as a bragging right, just fact. A fact he took pride in.

For the most part, Rafe kept to the rez, among his own kind. However, he’d found himself drawn into town every single day since David Corbett, the vice-president of Springer, Inc. had been arrested. The need for information regarding the oil company’s problems had Rafe’s investigative antennae on alert, urging him to listen to gossip, devour each newspaper article he found on the case, study every word of the local evening news. Hell, the story had hit the national news lately. And it was going worldwide, he realized when he saw the CNN van parked up the street.

No way was David Corbett guilty of the disregard for human life and attempted murder charges he was currently facing. The man was too honest, too fair-minded, too compassionate, too honorable to have intentionally tainted the water supply with DMBE, or any other chemical, for that matter. Rafe didn’t care what the EPA had discovered, or that the evidence shed a poor light on Springer’s ex-VP. And Rafe wanted to laugh when he’d read the FBI’s so-called theory.

Oh, someone had deliberately contaminated the water. And that someone was involved with Springer. But the Hopechest Ranch for children hadn’t been the target as the FBI believed. And neither had the town of Prosperino.

Rafe had his own suspicions about this whole mess. But who was going to listen to an Indian playing a guessing game filled with speculation and conjecture? Nobody, that’s who.

All Rafe knew for sure was that David Corbett was innocent. Rafe’s gut told him the man was being used as a scapegoat. And if there was one thing he hated, it was when someone took the blame for an offense he didn’t commit, when someone was forced into the role of victim.

Victim. The very word turned Rafe’s blood to acid. Memories swam and churned in his head. But he cut them off, strangled the life out of them before they had a chance to come into focus.

This wasn’t about him. It was about Corbett.

Rafe sighed as he thought about the dire straits the man was in. But Rafe knew him to be intelligent and savvy. Surely, Corbett would get himself out of this tight spot. He’d find himself a good lawyer. Surely, the evidence could somehow be refuted—

Like the eyes of an eagle homing on prey, his gaze zeroed in on the woman who exited the front doors of the courthouse. The morning sun glinted off the long tumble of her hair, turning it the color of polished copper. Immediately, she was besieged by media people hounding her with questions. The radicals pressed in on her as well, shouting slurs, chanting angry accusations.

Her chin was tipped up defiantly as she faced down what she so obviously saw as the opposition. Confidence seemed to ooze from her, and the tiny hairs on the base of Rafe’s neck stood on end. Something deep in him stirred—

A horn blared behind him, and instinct alone kept him from starting. He couldn’t believe he’d become so wrapped up in the scene on the courthouse steps, or in the red-haired beauty standing there.

Darting a glance in his rearview mirror, Rafe saw the irate motorist mouthing and gesturing an obscenity. Reacting to such nonsense never even entered Rafe’s head. Instead, he searched for and found a parking spot, pulled in his truck and cut the engine. He was out on the sidewalk and making his way toward the courthouse before he even had time to think.

This morning he hadn’t intended on doing anything more than picking up the daily paper, but instinct had changed his plan. He was being urged into action by the overwhelming need to discover who the woman was. If the Elders had taught him anything, it was to listen to his gut. One’s very life could depend on heeding what might seem to others as sheer impulse.

What an odd thought. But he didn’t take time to reflect on it. By the time he reached the base of the brick steps, the mob was descending toward him and the woman was pushing her way through the crowd.

“David Corbett is innocent,” she told them all. “That fact will be proven.

Strong vehemence girded her statement, and Rafe got a shadowy sense that those words—that tone—just might put her in peril.

“I’ll stake my entire career on it. I have nothing further to say at this time.”

The media continued to pepper the woman with questions, but she remained stonily silent as she moved through them, doing her best to brush aside the microphones being shoved at her.

“How can Corbett ever refute the mountain of evidence against him?”

Her skin, Rafe noticed, was like creamy porcelain.

“Wouldn’t it be easier for everyone if Corbett simply pleaded guilty to all charges?”

She moved with grace and style. The woman was poised. Even under fire.

“How does he feel about Springer turning its back on him?”

Her fingers were tapered, her nails neatly manicured with clear gloss. The thought of them raking down the length of his chest burst into his mind, unbidden, and Rafe’s jaw clenched in reaction.

“Have you taken a leave of absence from your law firm in San Francisco? Or are you taking this case with your boss’s blessings?”

Her eyes were an astonishing aquamarine. Clear. Earnest. Intelligent. Connecting with them for the first time was enough to make a man feel as if he’d been kicked in the chest by a wild stallion.

“What did David Corbett say when he learned that his job was taken over by Todd Lamb?”

That gaze of hers brought the ocean to mind. The wide-open Pacific on a bright, still afternoon. A man could get lost in those eyes.

“As Corbett’s daughter, do you really feel you can set aside emotion and successfully represent your father in this case?”

This final query caused the woman to blanch. She blinked, her well-shaped mouth parting just enough for her to inhale a quick breath. The confidence expressed on her delicate features slipped a notch. As hard as she tried to hide her reaction behind a reflexive swallow and a small plastic smile, the sudden vulnerability clouding her blue-green gaze affected Rafe.

Mightily.

Reveling in her utter beauty hadn’t been his only pursuit of the last few seconds; he’d also absorbed the reporters’ questions and all the information the nonstop grilling had suggested. He knew who the woman was, where she was from and why she’d arrived in Prosperino.

Shouldering his way into the crowd, he stepped between the woman and the last television correspondent who had spoken.

“Back off.” The tight expression Rafe offered the man and the threat lacing the edges of his tone had the reporter retreating automatically.

Lightly grasping the woman’s elbow, Rafe focused every nuance of his attention on her. There were questions in her eyes. He saw them. But now was not the time for answers.

“Where’s your car?” His voice was quiet. Meant only for her.

She pointed, and he led the way. Miraculously, the horde parted and allowed them access to the sidewalk and the cars that were parked along the curb. He opened the driver’s door and she slid behind the wheel, thrusting her attaché case onto the passenger seat beside her. The engine sparked to life, and after offering him one quick look of gratitude, she pulled into traffic and drove off down the street.

Libby Corbett pulled into the driveway of her childhood home. She sat in the quiet, her hands resting lightly on the steering wheel as she stared at the huge white Victorian house with its fancy gingerbread trim. As a little girl, she’d spent many an evening curled up on that porch swing between her mom and dad. They had been an incredibly close-knit family of three; racing and cavorting in the shade of the trees out in the backyard in the spring, playing board games at the kitchen table on rainy winter evenings, making up songs at the old grand piano in the living room, reading the classics together in her parents’ massive king-size bed.

She’d been in junior high school when she slowly became cognizant of all that her parents had sacrificed in order to accommodate her special needs, in order to keep her feeling safe and secure. The opportunities to travel they had given up. The social life they had let pass them by. All for her sake. They had understood how uncomfortable their daughter had felt around people.

The severe stuttering problem that had plagued her all through her adolescence had made her painfully shy. She’d grown up virtually friendless. It was nearly impossible to make friends when you refused to speak.

However, her parents had succeeded in filling in all the gaps in Libby’s life, and her memories of growing up in Prosperino were filled with happiness and joy. Through her high-school years she’d worked hard to overcome her speech impediment. She’d so wanted to liberate her parents of the worry they suffered on her account. She’d been desperate to somehow free them, to give them back their lives so they could enjoy each other and the world around them. But just when intensive speech therapy seemed to have put that goal within her reach, fate had dropped yet another obstacle into the path of the Corbett family.

When her mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer, Libby knew it was her turn to become the caretaker. And she had done everything she could to make her mother’s load lighter. She’d rushed home from school to cook and clean. She’d done the shopping, the laundry. She’d accompanied her father to the hospital on daily visits. She’d knelt by the toilet, holding a cool, damp cloth to her mother’s forehead when the chemo treatments caused such violent vomiting. When her mom’s silken hair had fallen out in clumps, Libby had refused to cry, choosing instead to run out and buy several colorful turbans she knew would bring a smile to her mother’s wan and weary face.

Libby had done everything in her power to be strong for her mom, to somehow pay her back for all the love and caring the woman had showered on her.

Sandra’s cancer had gone into remission, but the disease had taken its toll on her emotional welfare. The years of battling had stolen her zest for living. And then in ’97, the cancer had returned.

Both Libby and her father had nearly died of grief when Sandra Corbett had passed away. Their terrible loss had only made them closer. When it came time for her to start her career, Libby had balked at leaving her dad all alone, but he’d gently pushed her out of the nest so that she could test her wings. With a law degree under her belt and her exciting job with a prestigious firm in San Francisco, Libby was terribly grateful that her father had allowed her the freedom to fly. There simply wasn’t enough room in the entire universe to contain the love Libby felt for her father.

David Corbett had been her champion when she’d been a little girl. Her knight in shining armor. He’d sacrificed so much for her, made her feel secure, made her feel loved at a time when the awful stammer she suffered made her feel flawed and awkward and often stupid.

Years ago, Libby had been strong for her mother through those long months of her illness. It had about killed her to keep her chin up and a smile on her face, but she’d been proud to offer a shoulder for her mom to lean on. Now the time had arrived for her to be strong for her father. Now was her opportunity to repay him for his years of total devotion and sacrifice.

When her father had called her to request that she find him a good lawyer, Libby hadn’t a clue why he might need representation. She’d assured him that she could take care of any personal legal matters he might have. She might be a criminal attorney, she remembered telling him, but someone in her firm could certainly see that his will was properly filed.

Her knees had grown wobbly when he’d finally confessed that he was calling her from jail and that he was facing felony charges.

Disregard for human life? Attempted murder?

That very evening the story had hit the west coast newspapers.

How could anyone—the EPA, the FBI and least of all the executives at Springer, Inc.—believe that straitlaced David Corbett could be guilty of those crimes?

Libby had immediately gone to the partners in the firm and requested time away from the practice in order to give her father the best representation available. No one had a greater stake in this than she did. No other attorney would be willing to go to any lengths to prove her father’s innocence like she would. Together, she and her father would beat this thing.

Uncertainty, gray and thick, gathered around her like a wintry coastal mist.

Why had her father balked initially when she’d proposed she travel north to act as his lawyer? She hadn’t really thought about it at the time, so caught up was she in his plight. Why had he tried so hard to decline her offer of help? Sure, he’d used the excuse of not wanting her life interrupted by what was sure to be a mess—the biggest three-ring circus in the history of Prosperino, he’d said. He’d tried to reason that her professional reputation might be in jeopardy just by having her name associated with the case. However, she couldn’t help but wonder if, just maybe, her father doubted her ability as an attorney. Maybe he thought she didn’t have the skills necessary to successfully clear his name.

“But I can help you, Daddy,” she whispered in the solitude of the car, wretched emotion burning her throat, unshed tears prickling the backs of her eyelids.

Fear gripped her belly with icy fingers when she thought of all the hostility she’d faced at the courthouse today. From the media. From the townspeople. Everyone seemed so dead-set against her dad. Everyone.

Suddenly she remembered the rich, mahogany eyes of the man who had come to her aid this morning. Never in her life had she experienced an expression filled with such complex and concentrated intensity. The memory made her shiver.

When the man had touched her, when he’d taken her by the arm, the chaos in her mind calmed. She’d felt safe. Secure. He’d been like a harbor in the midst of a terrible storm.

But that was silly. Safe and secure with a complete stranger? Come on, Libby, her brain lectured. You’re letting down your guard.

That protected feeling had simply come from the fact that he seemed to be on her side when no one else had been. The man must know her father, must have had some dealings with him. The thought brought her comfort.

Maybe everyone wasn’t against her father.

She inhaled deeply and tipped up her chin. She sure wouldn’t be able to clear her father’s name by wallowing in doubt and self-pity.

The car key was cool against her palm as she pulled it from the ignition. Shoving open the door, she exited the car, bringing with her the bag of groceries she’d purchased this afternoon and her attaché case. With a small thrust of her hip, she closed the car door. The heels of her shoes clicked on the paved drive as she made her way to the porch.

Libby looked up and was truly astonished to see him standing on the front lawn. The man with those intense, dark eyes.