“No,” Ignacio insisted. “No cops.”

“Why not, Pepito?” Frank’s voice grew softer suddenly, al-most cajoling. Nacio was the little boy he had raised from an infant, the one he loved almost as much or maybe even more than his own son. The fact that once again someone had hurt his beloved Pepito shook Francisco Ybarra to the core. His fury was made that much worse by the fact that it could so easily have been prevented. Frank knew that he himself should have put a stop to Nacio’s dangerous romance. If nothing else, he should have told his wife about it. Yoli would have handled it.

“Were you doing something wrong?” Frank asked gently. “Something you shouldn’t?”

Nacio’s chin trembled. His Adam’s apple wobbled up and own with the effort of speaking. “No,” he replied. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong. But still, no cops.”

He stood up then, walked over to the light, and switched it back off. “I’m going to bed, Uncle Frank. We can talk about his in the morning.”

Feeling sick, Frank Ybarra waited until the door swung shut before he reached for the bottle. This time, though, instead of pouring another drink, he grasped the bottle by the neck. Molding it in one knotted fist, he stood up and staggered as far as the back door. After wrenching open the door, Frank hurled the bottle as far as he could into the inky darkness of the backyard. The bottle splattered against the brick wall of the garage and splintered into a thousand pieces.

Frank stood for a moment longer, leaning against the doorjamb while his chest heaved and he fought with the knowledge that his worst fears had been realized. One of the reasons he hadn’t told Yoli about the girl was his firm belief that Pepito could take care of himself. Evidently, Frank had been wrong about that, too. Nacio might have tried to spare his uncle some of the gory details, but Frank was convinced he already knew them anyway. This was exactly the kind of shit Yoli had been worried about when she herself had warned Pepito to stay away from the girl.

Ignacio Salazar Ybarra wasn’t the first Hispanic boy to have the crap beaten out of him for messing with an Anglo girl, and he sure as hell wouldn’t be the last. But now, with Yoli so sick-in the hospital and facing surgery on Monday morning-how on earth would Frank ever be able to tell her?

Having Dennis Hacker hanging around in the bar made Angie nervous. Not that he did or said anything out of line. Not that he was obnoxious. He just sat there, chatting with the other customers, drinking coffee, and watching her. By last call, he had settled in with Archie and Willy at the far end of the bar, where the three entertained one another telling tall tales about the Huachucas and the Peloncillos. They were on such good terms that Hacker bought the two old men their last round of the evening.

All night long, Angie had waffled back and forth, wanting to go and not wanting to go. Now, though, at ten minutes before one and after the man had waited for her for hours, it was too late. She couldn’t very well tell him that she had changed her mind and wasn’t going.

Hacker, Willy, and Archie were the only customers left in the bar when Angie went into the back room to lug out the four locking wood panels that slipped into slots in the bar’s front to cover the supply of liquor. “Those look heavy. Would you like me to help you with them?” Dennis Hacker offered.

“It’s all right,” Angie said. “I can manage.”

“Hey, Angie,” Willy said. “This Brit knows all about birds. All kinds of birds. If you don’t believe me, just ask him.”

“Finish your drink, Willy,” she ordered. “You, too, Archie. It’s closing time.”

“What about him?” Archie whined.

“He’s drinking coffee,” Angie pointed out. “There’s no law against drinking coffee after hours, only booze. Besides, he’s with me.”

Archie’s toothless face collapsed in on itself. “You mean like a date?^” he asked. “You’re not going to put her in that fancy damned Hummer of yours and pack her off, are you?” he demanded. “Angie’s the best thing that’s ever happened to this place.”

“What’d she say?” Willy asked.

“This guy’s her boyfriend,” Archie groused. “That’s why he can stay and we can’t.”

Flushing with embarrassment, Angie collected their glasses. “Out,” she ordered. “Time to go.”

Still grumbling, the two old men helped one another off their respective stools and shuffled toward the door. They shared a basement room in an old, moldering rooming house two buildings up the street, so Angie knew they were in no danger of driving a car. At the door, Archie turned around and shook an admonishing finger in Dennis Hacker’s direction.

“Remember,” he warned, “don’t you go carrying her off. Angie’s ours. We saw her first.”

Once they were out, Angie pushed the door shut and locked it behind them.

“I think they like you,” Dennis Hacker said.

Angie rolled her eyes in exasperation. “I guess they do,” she agreed.

Still nursing his coffee, Dennis Hacker waited while Angie finished her closing time chores, washing the last of the glasses and ashtrays and sweeping the floor. She took her time-far longer than she needed-but at last there was nothing left to do.

“Are you ready, then?” Dennis Hacker asked.

“I have to change.”

She disappeared into the back room and returned a few minutes later wearing hiking boots, jeans, and a flannel shirt.

“You look great,” Dennis said. “We’d better go. Those hummingbirds will be up bright and early.”

Angie Kellogg had seen Hummers in news broadcasts about the Gulf War, only they had been called Humvees back then. Lately she had even seen a few television commercials about them, but she had never seen one in real life, and she had certainly never expected to ride in one.

Once Dennis Hacker helped her climb inside, she was surprised by how spacious it was. Between her bucket seat and the driver’s was a wide flat expanse of tan leather that was almost as big as her kitchen table. Climbing in himself, Dennis caught her looking across the space between them. “That’s the air-conditioning unit,” he explained. “Behind that’s the drivetrain. That’s what makes Hummers so hard to tip over.”

“Right,” Angie said, not letting on that the word drivetrainwas a total mystery to her.

Dennis turned the key and the engine growled to life. Angie thought it felt like being inside some huge animal-like being swallowed by a tiger, maybe.

“The ride isn’t all that wonderful on the highway,” Hacker continued, as he expertly maneuvered the vehicle out of what Angie thought was far too small a parking place. “But it^’s great for the kind of work I do and for getting around in the backcountry.” He paused and looked questioningly at Angie. “You’re sure it’s all right to leave your car here on the street like this? It wouldn’t be any trouble to drop it off at your house.”

Angie wasn’t at all sure she wanted Dennis Hacker to know where she lived. “Oh, no,” she said lightly. “It’ll be fine right here.”

As they drove out of town, Dennis kept up an easy line of patter, telling Angie about his five years of working almost exclusively with parrots and reintroducing them to former habitats in the Southwest.

“The parrots are usually fine,” he told her. “It’s people who cause problems. That’s where I am now, over in the Peloncillos. Before I bring in any birds, I have to negotiate a peace treaty with the local ranchers and the environmentalists both. The odd thing about the Peloncillos is that it seems to be one of the few places in Arizona where those two opposing sides are starting to work together. Just because they evidently have a jaguar or two down there now, though, doesn’t mean they’ll let my parrots in.”