amid a clever surround of native desert stone and plantings. There, another, smaller group of people appeared to ignore the protestors completely.
Between the two, a bored cop sat on his motorcycle.
And then she felt it. The instinct that had been part of her for so long that she never questioned it, never doubted it. The self-righteous little group, working off their frenzy of entitled superiority, their chanting grown louder, more discordant. And there—that man in the baggy brown trousers and faded zip-front shirt.
Mac gave her a glance of surprise. “Zip-front guy?”
She nodded tightly. “What’s going on here?”
“Near as I can tell,” Mac said, squinting at the quiet party in the park, “it’s a pagan thing. And some other people protesting the pagan thing.”
“How—”
But he gave her a ghost of that grin and nodded at the long, narrow parking lot that ran along what looked to her like a giant concrete ditch. They weren’t far from it, or from the protesters, and he’d eased their pace. “Bumper sticker.”
She smacked his arm. Just as if they’d been together for years. He only grinned bigger—even if the moment didn’t last. His expression abruptly faded; she saw the reason immediately. One of the quiet party, dressed in earth-child-casual and sandals much like hers, breaking away from his group to approach the chanters.
And maybe he knew it. But he came anyway, exchanging a few words with the cop—who seemed equally skeptical but who then just watched as the man went on. Ordinary man, a bit dumpy around the middle, a bit thin on top...
Full of courage.
“I’d like to invite you to join us,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the chanting. “This is a day when we’ve chosen to give back to the Earth, even modestly, by picking up trash along the perimeter of the park and feasting here. Surely your own beliefs teach you to honor—”
“Sinner!” cried a woman, shrill and sudden, as if she’d startled even herself. “Sinner!”
“You’ll rot in hell!” shouted a man.
“You pervert our world!”
“Okay then,” the man said, barely audible as Gwen strained for his words, aware that they weren’t far away at all now, having turned to head along the concrete ditch—Mac’s doing, leading the way with his shoulders set. She slowed, dragging subtly against him, her hand still captured by his and now attempting to do the capturing.
And then her instinctive warning system spiked and she gasped, knowing the zip-shirt guy had reached his tipping point. She startled, too, when Mac whirled on her—
No, not on her—on the crowd. And she saw in his eyes the exact moment they each realized it—that the other had
A woman from the pagan group screamed; the man who’d played envoy flung dignity aside and bolted for it. The cop shouted, suddenly no longer bored. And Mac pulled his hand free of Gwen’s and gave her a verbal shove. “Stay here!”
Almost, she didn’t, as he ran the short distance to intercept the group—a wicked sprint, moving faster than she’d ever imagined and never losing the fierce purpose of his stride. But even as she moved to follow, she checked herself. She’d promised.
He flowed into that crowd, leaving men on the ground in his wake. Not wounding them—none of them athletic, some of them aging—but taking them down all the same. A clever shove here, a shift of weight there, a yank-and-tangle over there—all smooth and clean and bewildering.
From nowhere, it struck. A hard slap of ugliness, a startling wash of all things cruel and mean.
She cried out—heard herself, didn’t even know why. She didn’t even understand what she felt—only that it made her feel sick and dirty.
Mac dropped as though felled, there at the edge of those he’d left tangled on the ground.
Gwen instantly broke her promise and ran for him—a glance at the small remaining protesters and their amplified frenzy, a glance at the cop’s face as he aimed his Taser, one hand at his shoulder mike as he shouted for backup. She flung herself down beside Mac, who knelt back against his heels, his hands at his head and his face set in pain. He turned on her, fierce and wild and lightning-fast, and even her wildest effort to wrench aside wasn’t enough.
She did the only thing left to her and grabbed him back, getting up in his face. “Get a grip, Mac!” she shouted at him. “We have to get out of here!”
Something got through to him. He shoved himself off the ground, taking her with him. If the cop noticed or cared, he cut his losses, fully engaged with the protesters he’d stopped.
Mac and Gwen ran for it. Or staggered for it. Tripping, fumbling, until slowly Gwen realized she was no longer holding him steady—and noticed that she was the one keeping up with his long strides and not the other way around, even as they turned a corner and slowed.
The pleasantly baking sun suddenly seemed more than hot. She dragged him a few steps farther, to the shade of a tree in storefront landscaping. “Guess I’m glad for these shorts after all,” she said, wiping her face with the hem of her shirt.
Mac only looked grim. As much as he sent her a flicker of appreciation, as much as he tried to straighten up and shrug it off. After a moment, he said, “I’m sorry.”
“Look,” Gwen said. “A gas station. Let’s get something to drink. Something cold. Maybe even crushed ice. Do you want a bright red tongue from the cherry or blue from the raspberry?” And then, because he didn’t take the cue, didn’t shed his grimness, she asked, “Why sorry? Because you did it, or because you stopped?”
He snorted appreciation for that. “I wouldn’t have done that if I’d thought—” He shook his head. “I don’t know why that happened.”
She hesitated, then asked it anyway, blotting her face against her shoulder a final time. “You felt it coming, didn’t you? Knew that man would start it?”
Not that she truly had any question.
He only gave her a grim look. “Crushed ice it is then.”
But oh, too late. There, heading for the gas station, two young men with heads shaved close, wifebeater shirts, baggy pants, crude tattoos. And again...
Gwen didn’t think about it; she reached for Mac’s arm, holding tight.
And Mac apparently didn’t think about it, either. “What the hell
She held both hands up in quick acquiescence. Maybe even surrender.
And only then realized the relief she felt—that it wasn’t her, running into trouble. Trying to warn the people in the gas station store, inevitably just ending up in the line of fire. She didn’t have to make the decision.
He was already doing it. As if he’d always done it. Intercepting the two incipient troublemakers, planting himself before them. And yes, she’d indicated she’d stay back...but not so far she couldn’t keep track of things. She found herself easing in on the edge of it all as Mac said, “This place is closed to you. Find your trouble somewhere else.”
They pushed up close to him, sneering the predictable responses—the insults and the threats, all rolled up into one. One of them gave him a hard shove, unable to conceal surprise when Mac stayed rooted.
She saw the man’s sudden move—hand pulling out a switchblade and flicking it open—and she drew sharp breath to cry a warning she never had the chance to voice. Instead she froze, startled as splintered light lanced out from between them to make the toughs squint and hesitate—but not for long.
