Page 25 of The Shield
It didn’t make sense. Not the way she moved past what I’d done back there, the violence I’d unleashed to get her purse back. Most people—most women—would’ve run, eyes wide with fear, never looking back. It’d happened before.
One memory surfaced unbidden, sharp and bitter. Atlanta, a suburb outside the city, just after a deployment. I’d been eatingbreakfast with my girlfriend—a city girl I’d met near Fort Bragg, a Clemson grad with a sharp tongue and softer edges.
Three punks started harassing the old couple who ran the diner, pushing tables, mouthing off. I couldn’t sit there, not with their frail hands trembling as they tried to stand their ground. That wasn’t how I was raised.
I stood up, and things turned fast—blows exchanged, one kid crashing through the front window in a shatter of glass, another limping off with a shoulder I’d dislocated, the third hauled away in an ambulance after I’d put him down.
Thought I’d done right.
She didn’t see it that way. She called me a war monger, said I was crazy, that they were just stupid kids. She got in her car and left, abandoning me without a ride or a place to crash.
The old couple stepped in—let me help board up the window, gave me a lift to the airport, vouched to the cops I was the good guy.
But that wasn’t the end of it. Women had walked away before, time and again, unable to square the man I was with the peace they wanted. No one had understood me, not since Dad left, if I was being honest with myself. The ranch fell apart after that, my brothers scattering, and I carried my weight alone.
Yet, here was Natalie, walking beside me, her voice steady as she explained the water’s rise, acting like the alley fight was just another raindrop in her day. It threw me, left me questioning how this could be happening. Was she different, or was I just fooling myself again?
She paused, turning to me with a slight tilt of her head. "You paying attention?"
Her question pulled me back, and I scrambled for an excuse, my mind grasping at the edges of her lecture. "Just wondering why all the fuss," I said, keeping my tone even. "Erosion’snatural. Been going on for millions of years, won’t stop now. Why fight it?"
Her face shifted, a flicker of something—disappointment, maybe—crossing her features. I braced myself, the old sting of rejection rising.Here we go again, I thought. Opened my damn mouth with that blunt honesty, and now she’d leave me standing in the rain.
But she didn’t.
Instead, a smile broke through, soft and unexpected, lighting her eyes in a way that caught me off guard.
"What would you do for your home?" she asked, her voice gentle but firm. "For your family?"
"Anything," I said, the word slipping out before I could weigh it, rooted in the years of holding my brothers together on that Montana ranch.
She nodded, the smile holding, and said, "Then you get it."
Her gaze softened, and I felt the shift, the understanding settling between us. She wasn’t trying to halt the planet’s turn or rewind time. She was looking out for the people, keeping them safe in the face of what couldn’t be stopped.
If I was honest, I’d pegged her as some branch of tree-hugger, all ideals and pontification. I’d been wrong—again, not for the first time—and the realization hit with a quiet respect.
We shared a moment then, the rain drumming around us, her eyes holding mine with a warmth that felt like an anchor.
"You’re not just fighting the tide," I said, the words short but carrying weight. "You’re holding the line for them."
Her smile deepened, and she shivered slightly, the damp seeping through her dress. "Ready to find that towel?" she asked, her voice carrying a hint of something more.
I couldn’t ignore the look in her eyes—open, inviting, tinged with a shiver that wasn’t just from the cold.
She glanced around, then said, "My place isn’t far. We can dry off there."
It wasn’t a long walk, maybe ten minutes through streets that glistened under the rain, the city’s pulse muted but alive. She led me to a narrow house on a quiet street, its facade painted a soft yellow that glowed faintly against the gray.
Inside, it felt like her—lived-in, warm, with a scent of old wood and something floral, maybe lavender from a candle on the sill. The walls were lined with pictures, not just of the city’s postcard views, but of its people. Citizens smiled up at the camera mid-task—filling sandbags with determination, hauling limbs after a storm, their faces etched with effort and hope.
One caught my eye, a favorite: a food line where workers and eaters alike grinned ear to ear, plates piled high, the camaraderie palpable even in the still frame. Another showed a group repairing a flooded street, water lapping at their boots, their laughter frozen in time. A third captured a community meeting, hands raised in discussion, the room alive with voices.
"Amazing," I said, my voice low, tracing the edge of one frame with my gaze.
"They’re my life’s work," she replied, a quiet pride in her tone. "Every map, every plan—it’s for them."
I could appreciate that, the way she poured herself into something bigger, much like I’d done for my family back home.
