She automatically fell into a boxing stance, learned from many fights with her brother. Those fights were years in the past, and she figured she was about to get stomped, but maybe she'd get in a few good punches.
She heard excited, alarmed voices around her, but they were oddly distant as she focused on staying alive. "Somebody call nine-one-one."
"Sadie's getting Sam. He'll handle it."
"I've already called nine-one-one." That was a little girl's voice.
The drunk charged, and this time there was no evading him. She went down under his onslaught, kicking and punching and trying to block his punches all at the same time. One of his fists hit her in the rib cage, and the power behind it stunned her. Immediately they were surrounded by her neighbors, the few younger men trying to wrestle the drunk off her, the older guys helping by kicking him with their slippered feet. Jaine and the drunk rolled, and a few of the older guys were mowed down, collapsing on top of the heap.
Her head thudded against the ground, and a glancing blow stung her cheekbone. One arm was pinned by a fallen neighbor, but with her free hand she managed to grab a chunk of flesh at the guy's waist and twist it, pinching as hard as she could. He bellowed like a wounded water buffalo.
Then abruptly he was gone, lifted from her as if he weighed no more than a pillow. Dazed, she saw him slam to the ground beside her, his face mashed into the dirt as his arms were wrenched behind him and handcuffs snapped around his wrists.
She struggled to a sitting position and found herself practically nose to nose with her neighbor the jerk. "Damn it, I might have known it was you," he snarled. "I should arrest both of you on drunk and disorderly charges."
"I'm not drunk!" she said indignantly.
"No, he's drunk, and you're disorderly!"
The unfairness of his charge made her choke with rage, which was a good thing, because the words that hung in her throat probably would have gotten her arrested for real.
Around her, anxious wives were helping doddering husbands to their feet, fussing over them and checking for scrapes or broken bones. No one seemed much the worse for the fracas, and she figured the excitement would keep their hearts beating for several more years, at least. Several women were clustered around the young woman who had been shoved down, clucking and fussing. The back of the woman's head was bleeding, and her kids were still crying. In sympathy, or maybe because they were feeling left out, a couple more kids began wailing. Sirens screeched in the distance, coming closer with every second.
Crouched beside the captive drunk, holding him down with one hand, Sam looked around in disbelief. "Jesus," he muttered, shaking his head.
The old lady from across the street, her gray hair in pin curls, leaned over Jaine. "Are you all right, dear? That was the bravest thing I ever saw! You should have been here, Sam. When that… that hoodlum shoved Amy down, this young lady knocked him flat on his butt. What's your name, dear?" she asked, turning back to Jaine. "I'm Eleanor Holland; I live across the street from you."
"Jaine," she supplied, and glared at her next-door neighbor. "Yeah, Sam, you should have been here."
"I was in the shower," he growled. He paused. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." She scrambled to her feet. She didn't know if she was fine or not, but she didn't seem to have any broken bones and she wasn't dizzy, so there couldn't be any major damage.
He was looking at her bare legs. "Your knee is bleeding." She looked down and noticed that the left pocket of her denim shorts was almost torn off. Blood trickled down her shin from a scrape on her right knee. She jerked the torn pocket the rest of the way off and pressed the cloth to her knee. "It's just a scrape."
The cavalry in the form of two patrol cars and a fire medic truck, arrived with flashing lights. Uniformed officers began wading through the crowd, while neighbors directed the medics to the injured.
Thirty minutes later, it was all over. Wreckers had hauled the two damaged cars away, and the uniforms had hauled the drunk away. The injured young woman, lads in tow, had been taken to an emergency room to have the cut on the back of her head stitched. Minor scrapes had been cleaned and bandaged, and the elderly warriors shepherded home.
Jaine waited until the medics were gone, then peeled the huge wad of gauze and tape off her knee. Now that the excitement was over, she was exhausted; all she wanted was a hot shower, a chocolate chip cookie, and bed. She yawned as she began trudging down the street to her house.
Sam the jerk fell into step beside her. She glanced up at him, then focused straight ahead. She didn't like the look on his face or the way he loomed over her like a dark cloud. Damn, the man was big, a couple of inches, maybe three, over six feet, and with shoulders that looked a yard wide.
"Do you always jump feet first into dangerous situations?" he asked in a conversational tone.
She thought about it. "Yeah," she finally said. "Figures."
She stopped in the middle of the street and turned to face him, her hands planted on her hips. "Look, what was I supposed to do, just stand there while he beat her to a pulp?"
"You might have let a couple of the men grab him."
"Yeah, well, no one was grabbing him, so I didn't wait around."
A car turned the corner, coming toward them. He took her arm and moved her out of the street. "You're, what, five- three?" he asked, assessing her.
She scowled at him. "Five-five."
He rolled his eyes, and his expression said, Yeah, right. She ground her teeth. She was five-five – almost. What did a tiny fraction of an inch matter?