Showdown at Lizard Rock by Sandra Chastain Page A

soup line, voiced the first question. “Are you sure that your fine citizens will want us ‘bums’ involved in their little celebration?”
    “Yeah,” an elderly man said. “Every time I’ve seen a policeman for the last three months, he’s either been arresting me for vagrancy or telling me to move on.”
    “It would be nice to go to a real picnic with real families again,” another man said wistfully.
    “What would you need us to do?” someone else asked.
    Tom Brolin answered. “The picnic is on Saturday. The day before, we’ll set up a stage for the band and the speakers, and some stands where the older residentsand Kaylyn’s folks from the nursing home can sit and watch the activities.”
    “I heard they have a three-legged race. Is that so, Ms. Smith?”
    “Right you are,” Kaylyn said. “The morning of the picnic we lay out the mud hole for the tug-of-war and set up the course for the three-legged race. Then we put up the picnic tables and cook the barbecue and Brunswick stew. You can see that we could certainly use your help.”
    From his trailer across the pool, King watched and listened through an open window as Kaylyn worked her magic. In no time she’d convinced a bunch of down-on-their-luck men to supply the manpower for the local Fourth of July picnic. If anybody else had come up with the idea, it probably would have been nixed on the drawing board. But King had no doubt that Kaylyn would bring it off. She was some woman.
    The men began to venture suggestions. Soon they allowed themselves a guarded enthusiasm about the upcoming event. Enthusiasm and purpose were wonderful things, King knew. They changed a bunch of ex-bums into men with a quest. There’d been a time when he’d had no enthusiasm, and no purpose, either. Yet he’d pulled himself up by his boot straps and made his own way, and so had his brothers. Diamond, his sister, was getting there too.
    What he didn’t understand was Kaylyn Smith. Watching her stand back and allow the men to offer suggestions on how they could utilize their talents, he found it hard to condemn her for interfering with his project. He ought to throw her off the property.The news media’s interest in the protest had died down in light of the firm support of the city council. Kaylyn’s eviction from the building site was unlikely to cause him any more bad press.
    Truthfully, she intrigued him. In the five days she’d been at the springs, he’d found a dozen excuses to drop by his trailer during the day. When her campsite was empty, he was disappointed. When she was there, he alternated between anger at her for occupying his mind when he should be concentrating on the job, and the simple joy at watching her as she performed routine chores under primitive conditions.
    He’d have a talk with her later, he thought. By now she must know that her protest wasn’t doing any good. The symbolic picketing every afternoon by her soup-line regulars and a few nursing-home residents in wheelchairs didn’t attract much attention outside of the pages of the
Pretty Springs Gazette
, and even Tom Brolin was running out of reasons to cover the event.
    He’d invite her to dinner and discuss the situation with her sensibly. Then later they’d come back to the springs and … Later would take care of itself.
    Kaylyn’s tent was dark as King made his way to the springs. He wasn’t quite sure why he’d made the icy midnight swim a nightly routine. The water was as cold as a witch’s—well, it didn’t compare with a good hot shower in the trailer. He’d intended to stroll over to her tent as soon as everyone left andhave a simple conversation with her, but she’d gone off with Tom and Harold. He’d had to wait. Now he was hungry and tired and, he admitted, even a little jealous.
    As he passed the tent window he paused, allowing himself to glance inside. But the interior was dark, as it was every night. She was probably already asleep and unaware of his midnight