A waitress came to the booth, handed plastic menus all around even to Becca which pleased her, and then went away while we looked at them. Peter's first comment was, "I hate Mexican food."

Donna said, "Peter," in a warning voice.

But I added my two cents worth, "Me, too."

Peter looked at me sideways, as if he didn't trust my show of solidarity with him. "Really?"

I nodded. "Really."

"Ted picked the restaurant," he said.

"Think he did it just to be irritating?" I asked.

Peter was looking directly at me, eyes a little wide. "Yeah, I do."

I nodded. "Me, too."

Donna had an open-mouthed astonished look on her face. "Peter, Anita." She turned to Edward. "What are we going to do with the two of them?" Her appealing to Edward for help over such a small thing made me think less of her.

"You can't do anything with Anita," he said, and he turned cool blue eyes to Peter. "I'm not sure about Peter yet."

Peter wouldn't meet Edward's gaze, and the boy squirmed just a bit. Edward made him uncomfortable on more than one level. It wasn't just that Edward was doing his mom. It was more than that. Peter was just a little afraid of Edward, and I was betting that he hadn't done anything to earn it. I was betting that Edward had tried very hard to win Peter over as he'd won Becca over, but Peter wasn't having any of it. It had probably started out as just the normal resentment of anyone his mom dated, but the way he sat there now with his gaze carefully avoiding Edward's let me know it was more now, Peter was more nervous than he should have been around Ted, as if he somehow had picked up the real Edward under all the fun and games. It was both good for Peter and bad for him. If he ever guessed the truth and Edward didn't want it known … Well, Edward was very practical.

One problem at a time. Peter and I bent over our menus and made disparaging comments about nearly every menu item. By the time the waitress had come back with a basket of bread, I'd actually seen him smile twice. My own younger brother Josh had never been sullen, but I'd always gotten along with him. If I ever had children, not that I was planning on it, I wanted boys. I was just more comfortable with them.

The bread wasn't bread, but some fluffed pastry thing called a sopapilla. There was a plastic container of honey on the table especially for them. Donna spread honey on a small corner and ate that. Edward spread honey across one entire end of his bread. Becca put so much honey on her bread that Donna had to take it away from her.

Peter took a sopapilla. "It's the only good part of the meal," he said.

"I don't like honey," I said.

"Me, either, but this isn't bad." He spread a minute amount of honey and ate the small bite he'd spread it on, then repeated the process.

I got one and followed his example. The bread was good, but the honey was very different, stronger, and with an undercurrent that reminded me of sage. "This honey tastes nothing like honey back home."

"It's sage honey," Edward said. "Stronger flavor."

"I'll say." I'd never had anything but clover honey. I wondered if all honey took on the flavor of the plant the bees used. It seemed likely. Learn something new every day. But Peter was right. The sopapillas were good, and the honey wasn't bad in small, nay, microscopic amounts.

I finally ordered chicken enchilada. I mean, what could they possibly do to chicken to make it uneatable. Don't answer that.

Peter had plain cheese enchiladas. Both of us seemed to be going on the less is better plan.

I was on my second sopapilla when everyone else, including Peter, had finished their two a piece, when I saw bad guys come into the restaurant. How did I know they were bad guys? Instinct? Nope, practice.

The first one was six foot and almost obscenely broad through the shoulders. His arms swelled against the sleeves of his T-shirt as if the cloth couldn't contain him. His hair was straight and thick, tied back in a loose braid. I think the braid was for effect because the rest of him was so ethnic, he could have been the poster boy for the American Indian GQ. The cheekbones were high and tight under the dark skin, a slight uptilt to his black eyes, a strong jaw, slender lips. He wore blue jeans that were tight enough that you could tell his lower body had not had the workout that his upper body had. There is only one place where a man will put that much effort into his upper body and ignore his lower: prison. You don't lift weights in prison to get a balanced effect. You lift weights so you look like a complete badass and can hit with everything you got when the time comes. I looked for the next clue, and the tattoos were there. Black barbwire chased the swell of his arms just below the sleeves of the T-shirt.

There were two other men with him, one taller, one shorter. The taller one was in better shape, but the shorter had a wicked-looking scar that nearly bisected his face giving him the more sinister look. All the three of them needed was a sign above their heads that flashed "bad news." Why was I not surprised when they started walking toward us. I looked at Edward and mouthed, "What's up?"

The strangest part was that Donna knew them. I could tell by her face that she knew them and was scared of them. Could this day get any stranger?

PETER LET OUT A soft, "Oh, my God."

His face showed fear. He put his angry sullen look up like a mask, but I was close enough to see how wide his eyes were, how his breathing had quickened.

I glanced at Becca, and she had curled back into the seat between Edward and Donna. She peered out around Edward's arm with wide eyes. Everyone knew what was happening except me.

But I didn't have long to wait. The threatening threesome came right up to the booth. I tensed, ready to stand if Edward did, but he stayed seated though his hands were out of sight under the table. He probably had a gun out. I dropped my napkin accidentally on purpose and when I came out from under the table, the napkin was in one hand, and the Browning Hi-Power was in the other. The gun was under the table out of sight, but it was pointed at the bad guys. From under the table the shot probably wouldn't kill anyone, but it would make a big hole in someone's leg, or groin, depending on how tall the person was who happened to be standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Harold," Edward said, "you brought backup." His voice was still Ted's voice, more lively than his usual, but it was no longer a pleasant voice. I couldn't have told you what had changed in the voice, but it raised the tension level another notch. Becca scooted back until she couldn't see the men, hiding her face against Edward's sleeve. Donna reached for her, drawing her away from Edward and into her arms. Donna's face was openly fearful like the girl's. Edward's was open, almost smiling, but his eyes had gone empty. His real eyes peeking out. I'd seen monsters, real monsters, pale under that gaze.

The short one with the scar shifted from foot to foot. "Yeah, this is Russell," he motioned at the Indian, "and this is Newt."

I almost said, "Newt," aloud, but figured we had enough problems without me being a smart-ass. And people say I don't know when to keep my mouth shut.

"Tom and Benny still in the hospital?" Edward asked, voice still conversational. So far we hadn't attracted too much attention. We were getting some glances but not much else, yet.

"We're not Tom and Benny," Russell said. His voice matched the smile on his face, but I was reminded that smiling is just another way of baring teeth, another way to snarl.

"Bully for you," I said.

His gaze swiveled to me. His eyes were so black that the iris and pupil had melted into one black hole. "You another psychic bleeding heart trying to keep the Indian lands safe for us poor savages?"