Mama Rides Shotgun (8 page)

The breakfast line inched
forward like pickups in the parking lot after a Monster Truck rally. The smell of bacon and fresh coffee was painfully mouthwatering. I reached around my sisters, trying to grab a plate and plastic utensils so I’d be ready when I finally did get to the front. Maddie slapped my hand.

“I don’t believe it’s your turn yet, is it Mace?’’

“Maddie, I left middle school twenty years ago. Stop principal-ing me.’’

“Well, Lord knows somebody’s got to watch your manners. You spend too much time out in the woods with the animals. You’re starting to act like one.’’

Marty picked up a plastic serving set, making a show of handing it around Maddie to me.

“Stop fussing, you two. We’re all hungry. And nobody’s an animal. Now, Mace, tell us what’s going on with Carlos. Is it true he plans to ride?’’

The speeches from Belle and Wynonna interrupted us earlier. Afterward, Carlos left the cook site to ready his horse without so much as a goodbye.

“I haven’t actually talked to the man, Marty. But that’s what he told Sal. Carlos came up this morning with that group from Homestead. Somebody down there loaned him a horse. Though it’s hard for me to believe he knows much about trail riding. I’ll bet the closest he’s ever come is cruising asphalt in a squad car on Tamiami Trail.’’

We finally loaded up our plates—eggs and bacon with a side of biscuits and sausage gravy for Maddie and me; the same minus the meat for Marty. Mama waved us over to where she sat with Sal.

As we passed by the riders still standing in the chow line, I overheard a snatch of conversation that almost made me drop the breakfast I’d waited so long to get.

“. . . and this gal doesn’t think Lawton had a heart attack. My daughter Amber told me she and Lauren heard all of them discussing it last night at the campfire.’’

I slowed down to listen in on two women in their thirties, standing with their backs to me. “Do you know her?’’ one asked the other.

“Never met her.’’

“Well, I heard she cracked a murder case last summer down in Himmarshee, so she must know something.’’

“Really? I heard it was her mama who actually caught the murderer.’’

I nearly poked my head in to say they had it all wrong about what happened last summer. Mama didn’t catch a murderer. She was accused of
being
the murderer.

“Hurry up, Mace,’’ Maddie called over her shoulder, her face scrunched in annoyance. “My breakfast is getting cold.’’

The two teen-aged eavesdroppers from the campfire sat right next to Mama and Sal. The girls stared as my sisters and I walked up. They were probably trying to gauge if I was packing a pistol in my jeans.

“Y’know,’’ I announced in a loud voice to our little group, “it’s not nice to spread gossip about people you don’t even know.’’

“I was not gossiping, Mace!’’

“I’m not talking about you, Mama.’’ I nodded pointedly at the two girls, who blushed and looked at the ground.

“Well, I
never
gossip,’’ Maddie said with a huff.

“Not talking about you either, Maddie. Though I’d never say never.’’

I continued to stare at the girls, who seemed fascinated by the scraps of biscuits and rinds of cantaloupe left on their plates.

Sitting down, I put a hand on the arm of the closest teen. “I didn’t catch your names last night, girls. I’m Mace Bauer, by the way.’’

“Lauren,’’ the closest one mumbled. “She’s Amber.’’

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you,’’ I said.

“We’vegottago.’’ Amber’s words tumbled out as she tugged at Lauren’s sleeve.

“Okay, y’all be good, hear?’’ I said, as they stumbled over one another running away from me.

As the girls left, Mama shoveled a final forkful of sausage patty into Sal’s mouth. Marty said, “What was that all about, Mace?’’

I lowered my voice. “I overheard the mama of one of those girls saying I suspect Lawton didn’t die of a heart attack. I don’t want that bit of gossip getting out of hand.’’

“Looks like the cat’s already out of the bag,’’ Maddie said, spooning up some biscuit and gravy.

“Mama told us about your suspicions, Mace. You might have tried just asking those two kids not to talk about it, instead of scaring them with those mean looks,’’ Marty said.

“Mace thinks she can intimidate people into doing what she wants, girls. It’s because she’s so tall,’’ Mama said, patting her napkin to a smear of grease on Sal’s jacket.

“Who’s tall?’’

I turned toward the voice behind me, and immediately clapped a hand on my stiff neck.

“Mornin’, Trey,’’ Mama said. “Why don’t you join us?’’

I resisted the urge to stab her in the hand with my plastic fork.

“We’re all so sorry about your daddy, hon,’’ Mama said.

Now I felt guilty for being mean to a man who was in mourning.

“Please, Trey. Sit down,’’ I said. “Did you ever meet my sisters? Maddie was a class ahead of you at Himmarshee High; Marty was a couple of years behind me.’’

Trey took one of the chairs the teens had forgotten when they fled. He removed his cowboy hat, put it on his lap, and shook both my sisters’ hands.

“I just came by to apologize for the way I acted last night.’’

Ohmigod! He wouldn’t do this in front of everybody, would he?

“Sal, I sure do appreciate you hauling me away to cool off before I got really nasty to Wynonna.’’

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Fuhgeddaboutit.’’ Sal waved his toothpick at Trey, a forgiving gesture. “You’re under a lot of stress.’’

“That doesn’t excuse it. Even before I found out Daddy died, I was already plastered last night. I wasn’t even able to take care of my little sister, Belle, when she needed me most.’’

He looked down at his hat, working the brim with his fingers. None of us spoke.

“I’ve been a mess these last few years, but I’m ready to change. They always say admitting you have a problem is the first step, right?’’ He raised his head, looking hopefully at me.

“Admitting it and doing something about it are two different things.’’ Maddie’s tone revealed that she disapproved of drinking, like she did so many other things. “My advice is to go home right now and pour out every drop. Just take and pour the bottles down the drain.’’

“Maddie, as much as Trey surely appreciates the counsel of someone who’s never had a drink, he doesn’t have time to go home right now,’’ I said. “We’re riding out when the fog lifts.’’

“Sorry to say, there’s nuthin’ left at home to pour out anyway,’’ Trey said. “I pretty much drank it all up.’’

He ducked his head. The shame on his face about broke my heart.

“What do you think made you start drinking so heavy, Trey?’’ Mama placed a hand on his arm. “I don’t remember your daddy being bad to drink.’’

“No, ma’am. My daddy was a lot of things that I’m not.’’

We all stared at our boots. I couldn’t help but notice Maddie’s feet looked like bulldozers, while Marty’s looked as dainty as a baby doll’s in the same style lace-up.

“Fadders and sons can be complicated,’’ Sal finally said, pointing the toothpick at Trey. “My dad was a decorated war hero. That’s a tough act to follow. I never felt I measured up. My own boy went in the opposite direction. He didn’t even try to walk in his old man’s footsteps. He dances for the New York City Ballet.’’

Sal looked around as if daring one of us to comment.

“He’s damn good, too.’’ He jammed the toothpick back in his mouth, clamping his lips around it.

“I just never knew if people liked me for myself, or because I was Lawton Bramble III.’’ Trey swung in his chair to face me, blue eyes beaming with sincerity. “Even with Austin, it was that way, Mace.’’

Uh-oh. Here it comes.

“Who’s Austin?’’ Marty asked.

“That’s the gal who called Mace a tramp last night when Mace and Trey were making out in the woods. Mace thinks Austin took a knife and shredded her tent and sleeping bag for revenge,’’ Mama said.

Earth, please swallow me now, I prayed.

“What?!!’’ came a chorus from Marty, Maddie, and Trey.

Mama took her Apricot Ice from her pocket and circled her lips. She folded her napkin in half and closed her mouth over it to blot.

“What?’’ she asked innocently. “I figured we were all being honest. Go ahead and tell them, Mace.’’

I mumbled out an explanation about Austin, not even sure of what I said.

Trey looked thoughtful. “I swear to God, I wouldn’t put it past her. The girl’s not the sharpest tool in the box, and she’s got a hell of a temper. Austin could start a fight in an empty house. Did she threaten you, Mace?’’

“Not in words, no.’’

“Well, I’m going to find out what’s what,’’ he said. “If it was Austin, she’ll pay for your tent and bag and whatever else she ruined.’’

“I can take care of myself.’’ I heard the huffiness in my own voice.

Marty took pity on me and changed the subject.

“Trey, you were saying you’re never sure if people like you for yourself,’’ her voice was soft, caring. “That must be really hard.’’

“I wouldn’t think it’s so hard,’’ Maddie said. “You’ve just got to make sure you give people something to like.’’

“Maddie knows all about that subject, Trey,’’ I said.

Before my big sister and I could really begin to bicker, one of the trail outriders loped up to the breakfast crowd. She pulled up on her horse’s reins, leaned back in the saddle, and whistled for everyone’s attention.

“Twenty minutes, everybody,’’ she yelled. “It’s clear enough to go, so we leave in twenty. Remember to stay behind the mule wagons.’’

She turned and sped off to spread the news to the rest of the camp. We all stood and started packing up our breakfast trash.

“I’ll take that,’’ Trey said, piling plates and napkins into his arms. “And, yes, Marty. It is hard. Folks have always looked at my family’s land and money, and thought I was lucky. They thought it was a breeze being Lawton Bramble III. But my daddy wore some pretty big boots. And no matter how hard I tried, I never seemed able to fill them.’’

As Trey carried our trash off toward the garbage cans, Marty
tsked.
“That is
so
sad.’’

“That’s one way of looking at it.’’ Maddie folded her arms as she watched him disappear. “Another is that Trey doesn’t have to worry so much now about those big ol’ boots of Lawton’s.’’

The outriders patrolled the
mounted and waiting crowd, their eyes never still. They looked for any problem that had the potential to become a crisis. Here, a weekend cowboy needed a red ribbon tied to his horse’s tail, a sign to steer clear because the horse kicked. There, another horse spooked at the sharp snap of a cow whip. Embarrassed but unhurt, the rider landed hard on the sandy ground.

Little got by the outriders.

“Listen up,’’ the one closest to us shouted. “We can’t say it enough about them cow whips. This is called the Cracker Trail Ride. It honors the Florida pioneers. They used to call ’em Crackers for those loud-assed whips they used.’’ He looked down the line of riders, not focusing on any one person. Still, all of us knew what was coming next. “Now, if your horse don’t like the sound of a cow whip, that’s your problem. Not the Cracker Trail’s. You need to get ’em used to that sound, ’cause you’re gonna be hearing it a lot.’’ He shifted a wad of tobacco under his lip. “And if they can’t get used to it, you and your horse are gonna have to find another trail to ride.’’ The outrider gazed down the line again, lingering for a moment on the woman whose horse dumped her off. She got busy fiddling with a leather strap on her saddle.

“We just can’t take the chance of a horse bolting out into the road or knocking somebody off whenever they hear a whip crack.’’ He spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the pasture. It hit a soda apple, poisonous to cattle. I wondered whether tobacco worked as a weed control.

“We’ll be off in a few minutes,’’ the outrider said. “Let’s have us a good ride.’’

He gave a quick smile, but the serious look stayed in his eyes. Keeping track of more than a hundred riders of various ages and abilities is hard work and heavy responsibility. It’s definitely more challenging than working cattle. More like herding cats.

Mama took the opportunity of our delay to catch up on her socializing. The last I’d seen her, she was jabbering away, somewhere near the back of the crowd.

Sal enlisted another non-rider to help him move my Jeep and the horse trailer, as well as his own car, to our next camp. The organizers provide buses to ferry riders at each day’s lunch break. While the horses rest, the riders travel back to the morning camp, collect their rigs, and then drive everything ahead and park it at the night camp. Then it’s back on the buses to the lunch spot, meet up with the rest of the ride, and continue all afternoon on horseback to the new camp.

Everybody hates all that back-and-forth and gobbling lunch, so I was grateful to Sal for letting me bypass the bus rides and leap-frogging. He said he was comfortable doing the driving, and if God had intended for him to learn to ride, he’d have put a herd of horses in the Bronx.

With the fog nearly cleared, the sun was starting to heat up the day. A yellow sulphur butterfly floated past. A scrub jay called from the low branch of a pine. I lifted my face to the warmth. As I was praying the temperature wouldn’t plunge again overnight, I felt Marty nudge my left leg with her stirrup.

“There’s Carlos,’’ she whispered out of the side of her mouth. “On your right. About four o’clock.’’

Oh, crap. My poor neck.

Once I got my head turned, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Carlos had traded in his driving-up-from-Miami clothes—a navy blue crewneck sweater and tennis shoes—for riding gear. And, unlike Sal with his gaudy glitter, Carlos had got it exactly right. His brown boots were appropriately scuffed. He’d angled his straw cowboy hat—a Resistol—just so. He wore a long-sleeved denim shirt, faded and soft. And his jeans were by Wrangler—the brand favored at rodeos from Florida to Washington State.

“The man looks gorgeous, Mace. I’ll give him that. That white hat with his dark eyes and skin? Umm-umm,’’ Maddie leaned in close from my right side so I could hear her lips smack.

Begrudgingly, I agreed that he looked hotter than a stolen pistol.

“But let’s see if he knows the north end of that horse from the south,’’ I said. “That’s a thoroughbred he’s riding, and he looks like a handful.’’

Carlos eased his horse to the front of the line, where the mule- and horse-drawn wagons were gathered. Even the most placid of horses will sometimes get spooky around pulled wagons. The look of them and the sounds they make can take some getting used to. And a thoroughbred, with its high spirits and often nervous temperament, is far from placid. I watched to see how Carlos would handle the horse.

One of the wagons had been having a problem with a brake that rubbed. As the driver circled the pasture to test his repair, Carlos urged his bay-colored horse toward the mule-drawn contraption. The thoroughbred’s ears went back. He rolled his big eyes until the whites showed, looking at the wagon as if to say “What in the hell is that, and how’s it going to hurt me?’’

The wagon clattered by, squeaking and rattling. The horse went into a fast sidestep, trying to flee. Carlos turned the reins, shifted in the saddle, and used the pressure of his legs on the horse’s belly to force him straight back to what he feared. Tossing his head, the horse turned round and round in a tight circle. Carlos repeated the same actions again, firm but not cruel. By the time he’d done it a third and fourth time, the horse walked along behind the wagon, as docile as the family dog.

“Looks like he has a little more experience than riding a police car through Miami’s concrete jungle,’’ Marty said.

“Hmmm.’’ I left it at that, not caring to add that the man whose skills I’d mocked could handle a horse just as well as I could.

At just that moment, he glanced my way. If my neck had been in better shape, I would have snapped my head around before he caught me looking. But it wasn’t, so he did. I could hardly ignore him now. Especially since he was heading my way.

“Hey,’’ I said as he rode up.

“Mace.’’ He stopped, and touched the brim of his hat. No smile. “Where’s your cowboy friend from earlier this morning? You looked like such good buddies, I thought maybe you two would be riding double on the same horse.’’

Maddie snorted. Marty giggled. I ignored his comment.

“Speaking of riding,’’ I said, “how come you never told me you were so at home on a horse?’’

“What, and spoil your notion that you were Ms. Rodeo Rider and I was just a city boy who wouldn’t know a saddle from a squad car?’’

I think I might have blushed. That sounded just like the way I’d have put it.

“Where’d you learn to ride?’’ Maddie asked.

“My grandfather had cattle in Cuba. After Castro took over, my family didn’t own the ranch anymore.’’ His eyes got a pained, far-away look. “My dad still worked there, though. And he taught me everything he knew about horses.’’

“Well, he must have taught you well,’’ Marty said. ‘You ride like a dream.’’

“
Gracias,
’’ he said, giving Marty a grin that showed off his white teeth.

When he turned back to me, the smile was gone. “You know,
niña
, you don’t have the market cornered on cowboys. We had them in Cuba, too. We called them
guajiros
.’’

With that, he tipped his hat and galloped away.

“It’s a good sign he’s angry about seeing you with Trey,’’ Marty said. “It means he still cares.’’

“Or, it means he doesn’t like her well enough to even try to be nice,’’ Maddie said.

I didn’t reply to the theories of either of my sisters. I just sat there, thinking of the sight of his strong thighs in the saddle, and of the thrill I’d felt the first time he called me
niña.
Then, his voice had been low and sexy. The Spanish word for girl had sounded like a caress. Now, it sounded like a slap.

___

“Headin’ out!’’ came the call, repeated by riders up and down the length of the pasture. “Headin’ ooooouuuuttt!’’

County sheriff’s deputies had pulled their squad cars onto State Road 64, lights flashing, near the entrance to Bramble land. They blocked traffic so the long line of riders could cross the highway and proceed onto a grassy, roadside swale that makes up much of the Cracker Trail. Today’s highways follow the old paths made by the state’s cattle-raising pioneers. In the old days, cowmen moved their herds from east to west, where they’d load the cattle onto ships on Florida’s Gulf Coast, bound for markets in Cuba. Our ride reverses the direction, signifying their return trip—minus their cattle, and, hopefully, with some money in their pockets.

Once we’d crossed the road and got on our way, the ride began to settle into a pattern. Horses and riders found their strides. Maddie and Marty had been able to rustle up two horses from a group that brings abused and abandoned animals on the ride—partly as rehabilitation, partly in an effort to find homes for the horses. Maddie’s mount walked faster than mine; Marty’s a bit slower. So, it wasn’t long before I was on my own in the line. I enjoyed the passing scenery: an orange grove to the right; a fenced horse pasture to the left. Whinnying loudly, an Appaloosa mare cantered along on her side of the fence, looking like she wanted to break out and join the herd of Cracker Trail horses passing by.

I knew from the last couple of days that Mama’s horse and mine kept a similar pace. Just as I began to wonder where she’d gotten to, I heard her voice behind me.

“Oh, yes, my daughter Mace and I were right there when Wynonna found poor Lawton. She was so distraught. But, of course, I did what I could to make her feel better. I don’t know what it is, but people just naturally turn to me in times of trouble.’’

I heard whoever Mama was bragging to murmur politely, not that she needed any encouragement to continue.

“Now, my daughter Mace, on the other hand, she doesn’t have a natural gift with people. She’s better with animals, quite frankly.’’

“Aw, the poor thing! She’s a loner, then. No boyfriend?’’

I recognized that other voice. I pulled up on the reins to slow Val.

“Well, speak of the devil! That’s Mace riding, right up there. The gal with the snarly hair and big shoulders. Howdy, darlin’,’’ Mama called to the back of my head. “I’ve just been talking to the sweetest, prettiest girl.’’

Pretty, yes. Sweet? Not even close.

“Hello again, Austin,’’ I said as the two of them came abreast.