"Emily," I said, when I heard the voice on the other end of the line, "I won't be able to come to Altar Guild this afternoon, I'm so sorry." Appropriate, but rather huffy, noises from Emily.

"Well, I fell on my way to the garage—yes, I know that's an old-lady thing to do—the gravel was slippery and my shoes are leather-soled—no, I'm fine really, I'm just bruised. I'll be there next time, for sure! Give the ladies my regrets."

I hung up the phone. I stood there, my hand on it, staring off down the black hole I'd fallen into. I got a white washrag out from under the sink, moistened it, wrung it out.

"Sit down," I told Angel.

She abandoned her post but insisted we drag a chair over to the window. She kept watch while I cleaned her face. I knew it hurt; I didn't care. Once her abrasions and cuts were clean, I dabbed antibiotic ointment all over them. She was a sight.

Shelby's car crunched down the drive. He pulled into the Youngbloods' accustomed parking spot on the far side of the garage, so he was hidden from view. Angel had appropriated a knife from my kitchen drawer; she stood watching for her husband intently, the knife gripped in her right hand. "Unlock the kitchen door," she told me.

I did it.

"Stand back from it."

I rolled my eyes and went back to lean against the counter. I could see through Angel's little gap. Finally Shelby crossed it, walking warily, eyes going everywhere at once. In his hands was a shotgun. My mouth fell open.

A number of things had hit me that day, literally and metaphorically. But the most telling thing, the moment of truth, was seeing that shotgun in Shelby Youngblood's hands.

Someone had tried to kill me. That man had been trying to get me. Angel had just been an obstacle in his eyes; he'd had no idea of her function or capability. His focus had been on killing me. I thought of that ax coming down on my head.

Suddenly my knees were wobbly.

Shelby came in the kitchen door with a rush. Angel was on hand to lock it after him the instant he was in.

"You okay?" he asked her.

She nodded. "Mad," she said. "I'm mad as hell. I couldn't get him. My feet went out from under me. She got the ax away from him, not me." Angel obviously did not need or expect any fuss about her damaged face; Shelby's dark eyes had assessed her injuries quickly and dismissed them. Angel was a professional, it was borne in on me more strongly every minute. If I was dealing with my own humiliation, so was she; she had failed in her job. "Roe got the ax?" Shelby said incredulously.

"It's in the middle of the front yard. She threw it."

"Roe did." Shelby still couldn't quite absorb it. "He got very close," Angel said angrily. "If I hadn't already been out of the house, he'd of got her."

I had to sit down quite suddenly.

I pulled one of the breakfast-table chairs out. The legs made a scraping noise.

"So I guess you didn't spot him on your way through town."

"No blue Chevy Nova."

"Tags were covered with mud," Angel said sullenly. I could tell she'd already told Shelby this on the phone and he'd been on the lookout on the way here. No one could say my married life was placid. No rut for the Bartells!

I giggled.

They glanced at me uneasily, then went back to their consultation.

"It's quiet out there now. We'd better get moving," Shelby said. "I'll call him," Angel said. She was obviously bent on confessing her failure to someone. After a beat I realized she meant she was going to call Martin, and I just snapped.

"Excuse me," I said viciously. "If anyone is going to call my husband, I am." They both looked startled at my speaking, and dismayed by what they were hearing.

"You should pack, and talk to Martin tonight," Shelby said gently. But the gentleness was costing him, I could tell. Good. "I will talk to my husband whenever I damn well please." They were considerably taken aback. Though I hadn't known the true nature of the Youngbloods, they were finding out a thing or two about me. They had Martin's telephone numbers where he was staying. They knew where he was and why he was out of town. They knew all about our lives. They were my bodyguards. I had a little shock whenever the word entered my mind. Well, Shelby with his acne-scarred face and unruly black hair was nothing like Kevin Costner.

"I will go use the phone in the other room," I told them. I stalked across the hall to sit at Martin's desk and call him in Chicago. The secretary who took the call was quite sure that Martin's meeting ("He's in conference with the president," she said severely) was more important than my call, but I said, "I really have to insist. This is his wife, and there is an emergency."

After a pause of nearly five minutes, Martin was on the phone, and at the sound of his voice I almost broke down. "What is it?" he asked tensely. "Are you all right?"

"I'm all right." My voice was shaky. I sat for a moment gathering myself. "Angel is a little hurt," I said with shameful satisfaction. "Angel? You're all right and Angel's hurt? What happened? Is Shelby there?" "Yes, Martin, Shelby is here and you can talk to him in a minute so you guys can handle everything." By golly, I was still mad at everyone. "A man was hiding in the garage, and if he'd had the sense to wait till I was in there, he would've had me. But I noticed something was wrong and he charged out and Angel was able to get there in time, and I got the ax away. But he ran and got in a car and left." Now my voice was shaking again. I certainly wished I could pick an emotion and stick with it. Fear, anger, humiliation, shock. A cocktail of feelings.

"Baby. Are you really all right? Hurt anywhere?" "Not physically, Martin," I said with great restraint. "Does Angel need to be in the hospital?"

"No, I took care of it with the first-aid kit." "That's good. Very good. Okay, honey. Here's what I need you to do. I need you to do whatever Shelby and Angel tell you to do. They're there to keep you safe. I'll catch a flight home tomorrow morning. I'll go to Guatemala once I make sure you're going to be all right."

"Okay," I said tersely. There really wasn't any point in saying anything else. "Now, I need to talk to Angel and Shelby. I'm—thank God you're okay. I'm so sorry."

I looked across the hall. They were standing close to the kitchen doorway.

Shelby had his arms around Angel. A weak moment.

"Phone," I said. "Angel."

Looking as if she'd rather face wrestling an alligator, Angel Youngblood, my protector, came to talk to Martin.

I went upstairs and lay on my bed.

IT WAS A LONG NIGHT.

Angel slept in the office/family room downstairs on the couch. Shelby was out patrolling the grounds. I lay awake in our bedroom. Sometimes I read. Sometimes I slept. Sometimes I brooded. In a million years, I could never have imagined myself in the situation in which I found myself now. I was glad my mother was out of town. I couldn't envision successfully concealing from her all the misery and fear I felt. Before we'd all gone to our assigned spots for the night, Shelby had questioned us about the appearance of the man. It had all happened quickly, and he'd been in movement the whole time, but I found that if I shut my eyes and replayed him exploding from the tool-room door I could get a fair picture. "He had on a short-sleeved khaki work shirt," I said first. Angel nodded agreement.

"And safety shoes," Angel contributed, rubbing her shoulder.

"What are safety shoes?" I asked.

"Steel toes," she told me, looking faintly amazed.

"Oh. And he had on dark brown work pants."