Текст книги "Mama Rides Shotgun"

Автор книги: Deborah Sharp

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Mama spooned the last bite of her strawberry pie into Sal’s mouth. As nauseating as the display was, I knew it was a sign of true love. She’s serious about sweets, never sharing lightly.

I’d given Sal my camp chair and taken a seat on the ground. I shifted, trying to avoid a sharp stob sticking up from the pasture. It was about to draw blood on my butt cheek, right through my jeans. After Sal finished chewing, he leaned back contentedly in my chair. I watched as the supposedly indestructible fabric strained at the seams. I’d bet Mama’s fiancé exceeded the chair’s load capacity, even before he Hoovered that strawberry pie.

“So, you say this Lawton guy keeled over while he was making chili?’’ Sal pulled a toothpick from behind his ear and stuck it in his mouth, staring all the while at Doc Abel.

“It was his heart. And it wasn’t unexpected.’’ Doc sat rigid in his chair, meeting Sal’s stare head on.

“Sally’s not suggesting anything to the contrary.’’ Mama placed her hand on Doc’s arm. Her immaculate manicure was a marvel, considering we were camping in the woods. “He’s from the Bronx in New York, so his questions don’t always come out sounding right.’’

Ring, ring, I thought. That’s the kettle, calling the pot black.

“Rosie’s right about that. I’m just a big bull in the teacup shop half the time.’’ Sal clapped Doc’s shoulder, causing him to wince. “Do you like cigars, Doc? I gotta couple of Cubans I’ve been saving. A buddy brought ’em for me through Mexico. We can have a smoke, so long as you don’t squeal to nobody about where they came from.’’

Doc looked torn. “Smoking isn’t good for your health. On the other hand, I haven’t had a proper cigar in years. What the heck?’’ He shrugged. “Life’s short, as Lawton’s unfortunate death demonstrated today.’’

Sal reached into the neon blue expanse of his jacket and pulled out a leather cigar case, an engagement present from Mama. He handed a cigar to Doc, who sniffed as if it were a fine wine. Putting it between his lips, Doc puffed as Sal torched the tip with a cigar lighter. Once it was glowing, Doc leaned back, exhaling with a happy sigh. He looked like he’d died and gone to that heaven that he didn’t believe in.

When Sal lit up, a cigar-scented cloud swirled around us, warring with the wood smoke from the campfire. Sitting across the way, the big-bottomed cowgirl sniffed, then made a big show of waving her hand in front of her face.

The smell of cigars has never bothered me. They remind me of Mama’s Husband No. 3, who I liked. He was a nice man, just a bad match for Mama. Number 3 taught me to drive in an orange grove he managed west of Fort Pierce. I can still remember the smell in his pickup truck: cigar overlaid with orange blossoms.

“You’re doing just fine, Mace,’’ he’d say, as we bounced along the rows between trees. “Go ahead and give her some gas.’’

I’d floor it, and he’d smile around the cigar he planted between his lips.

Staring into the fire, I flashed back to being fifteen. I’d felt like the queen of the world high up in the cab of that old truck. Watching the flames, I drifted off, almost rolling again with the truck over the rough ground in that long-ago grove. I suddenly snapped back to the present when I heard Sal mention my name.

“What’d I miss?’’

He flicked an ash. His cigar was about two-thirds gone. They must have been talking around me for a while. Had I dozed off?

“I was just telling Doc you’re suspicious after that murder you and your mother got mixed up in last summer.’’ Mudder, he pronounced it. “You’re inclined to see foul play around every corner, even where there ain’t none. It’s only natural, Mace.’’

Mama scrubbed with Sal’s hanky at a glob of pie he’d dropped on his gaudy Western wear.

“When you open the trunk of your convertible, like I did, and find a dead man stuffed inside like he was a Samsonite suitcase, foul play seems obvious,’’ Mama said. “But, Mace, this looks completely different than my murder victim. It’s clear that Lawton spent his time on earth, died of natural causes, and went on to meet his maker.’’ Here Mama paused to look at Doc. “That’s what Doc says, all except the part about Lawton going to heaven, of course.’’

Oh, Lord. Not the afterlife again.

“Y’all aren’t looking at the whole picture, Mama. Don’t forget Lawton had pulled his gun. And something about that scene just didn’t set right with me.’’

“You’ve seen a lot of crime scenes, huh, Mace?’’ Sal held out his cigar and gazed at it, confident he’d made his point.

I had no comeback. I twisted my body around in an effort to find a comfortable spot—and make Sal feel guilty about taking my chair. As I did, I noticed two teen-aged riders nearby, straining forward in their seats to hear what we’d say next. When the closest one saw me looking, she ducked her head and started fiddling with a big silver buckle on her belt.

“Little pitchers . . .’’ I whispered, nodding in the girls’ direction.

“. . . have big ears,’’ Mama completed the old saying.

I shut up and went back to watching the fire. I was too tired to argue anyway. But I still had my doubts—about the natural causes, and also about heaven. Not that I didn’t believe. I just wondered if Lawton would be asked to make a U-turn at the Pearly Gates. He’d womanized. He was estranged from his only son. And he’d done a friend wrong in love and business. And those were just the sins we knew about.

If there were things in Lawton Bramble’s life bad enough to keep him out of heaven, wouldn’t they be bad enough to get him murdered?

I was pondering that when an excited murmur began to ripple through the campfire crowd. The trail boss was leading Wynonna to the big oak log he’d already used to address the Cracker Trail gathering. People parted, like Wynonna was Princess Di brought back from the dead.

At the log, Jack offered Wynonna his arm. She steadied herself, climbing up in her high-heeled boots. I couldn’t help but notice she’d had time to trade in the black pair she’d worn earlier for a fancier set. These were light blue suede, with a swirl of turquoise snaking up the sides.

Jack coughed a couple of times. But he didn’t need to get anyone’s attention. The dinner camp was as silent as a church, every eye riveted on Wynonna. The broad-beamed cowgirl and her curly-headed pal studied the Widow Bramble like they were in charge of phoning in a report to People magazine.

“I’ve just come to say a few words to welcome you to the Bramble ranch,’’ Wynonna said, tears threatening to spill from her green eyes. “Lawton would have wanted that. He’d have wanted y’all to feel at home here, on family land. I’m sure everyone has heard by now that my husband suffered a fatal heart attack this afternoon.’’

The crowd murmured in affirmation.

“The trail boss passed along prayers and condolences from many of you. I want you to know the family—Trey and Belle and I—appreciate it.’’

I glanced around, and noticed the rest of Lawton’s family hadn’t come over with their young stepmother. Had they asked Wynonna to speak, or had she taken on the role on her own?

Brushing her frosted bangs from her forehead, she scanned the large crowd. “I just want y’all to know you’re welcome here, despite Lawton’s death. He really looked forward to being your host. He was all set to catch somebody’s tongue a’fire with that Cow Hunter Chili.’’ Her smile wavered. She touched a wadded up tissue gently to each eye. “I’m sorry,’’ she said.

The crowd murmured its sympathy.

Jack reached for her arm to guide her down from the log. But Wynonna lingered, hanging tight to his hand.

“Just one more thing.’’

The crowd murmured a question.

“Y’all may hear all kinds of things about Lawton in the coming days. Some true. Most not. I just want you to know that, on balance, my husband was a good man. I loved him, faults and all, just the way he loved me. And although our marriage wasn’t a long one, it was solid.’’ Her shoulders began to shake. “I’m going to miss him something awful,’’ she choked out.

Stepping down, Wynonna was sobbing. Jack put an arm around her, adding an awkward pat. First one rider, and then another, and then another stepped forward from the crowd. Hands reached out to comfort her.

“You poor thing,’’ the big cowgirl said, as she stood in line to stroke Wynonna’s arm.

“So brave!’’ The cowgirl’s curly-haired friend dabbed her own teary eyes, and then peeled off a fresh tissue from her pack to hand to the new widow.

“Poor broad.’’ Sal said, and then peered at Mama in the firelight. “I thought for sure you’d have the wadderworks turned on by now.’’ He ran a finger down Mama’s cheek, which was just as dry as mine. “What’s wrong, Rosie? I’ve seen you get teary-eyed over a TV commercial.’’

Mama’s lips were pressed together; her arms folded tight across her chest. She watched through narrowed eyes as a human surge of sympathy engulfed Wynonna.

“Mace?’’ Sal turned to me. “What’s up with your mudder?

Mama shook her head at me, a barely perceptible “no.’’ She wouldn’t speak ill of so recent a widow. But I knew she was thinking the same thing as I was. Wynonna’s public grief smacked of performance. And the two of us had witnessed her dress rehearsal, standing beside her husband’s body just a few hours before.

“Bravo! Bravo!’’

The mocking shout came from the edge of the crowd. In the hushed silence that followed, Trey stood all alone, clapping. He must have slipped in while all eyes were on his stepmother.

“And the Oscar goes to Wynonna Bramble,’’ Trey continued, “as the grieving widow.’’ He swayed a bit, but his voice carried like a TV preacher’s. “Oh my Lord, what will poor, young Wynonna do now? What will she do, without her beloved husband? Not to worry, folks. That pile of money she’ll inherit will make it a whole lot easier for our heroine to answer that question.’’

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Heads swiveled to Trey and back to Wynonna. It was so quiet you could hear the wood sap popping in the campfire.

“Hello, Trey.’’ Wynonna’s eyes were bone-dry now. “I see you’ve been drinking. Again.’’

“And I see you’ve been play-acting about how much you loved my daddy. Again. You may have these fine people fooled, Wynonna. But I’m not nearly drunk enough to buy it. It’s just a matter of time before you’re found out. And I plan to be there when it happens, holding the rope for your pretty neck.’’

Wynonna’s hands clenched at her sides. She took a couple of steadying breaths. When her voice came out, it was as unforgiving as a slab of ice.

“It’s too bad you didn’t take such an interest in your daddy before he died, Trey. He cried many a tear over you. Your drinking. Your business failures. Your refusal to grow up. I think it was all the stress you gave Lawton that finally broke his weak heart.’’

Trey’s eyes were slits as he took a step toward Wynonna, a rattlesnake ready to strike. She backed up against the trail boss, who looked like he’d rather be off roping a calf somewhere. Moving fast for such a big man, Sal inserted himself between the widow and her stepson. With a hand like a bear paw, he grabbed Trey’s arm.

“C’mon, pal. Let’s you and me take a wawk,’’ Sal said. “We’ll have us a little tawk.’’

In tone, in size, in demeanor—Sal oozed menace. He had at least five inches and a hundred pounds on the younger man. And Trey wasn’t that drunk that he’d argue with someone who looked and acted like a New York gangster. Sal had found it served his purpose to let people assume whatever they would about his colorful past, before retirement in Florida.

I grabbed a lantern and caught up with the two of them in time to overhear Trey ask, “Are you taking me to the woodshed?’’

“Too late for that, pal. Your fadder should have done that a long time ago.’’

At the mention of Lawton, Trey’s shoulders slumped. The tough-guy cast to his face crumbled. “Wynonna’s a bitch, and she never loved my daddy. But she’s right about one thing. I’m probably the reason his heart quit. I never gave that man a day of peace.’’

I took hold of Trey’s other arm. “That’s not true, and you know it,’’ I said. “I remember Lawton sitting in the stands at Himmarshee High when you played football. He was so proud of you. He always wore that No. 1 Fan hat with the Brahma horns. He’d scream his head off with every touchdown pass you threw.’’

A half-smile appeared, making Trey’s face handsome again. “Yeah, I remember that, too.’’ The smile faded, faster than it came. “But high school was a long time ago. I’m talking about the mess I’ve made of my life since then.’’

I couldn’t argue with him there. I’d already seen evidence of hard drinking. And I’d witnessed something fishy going on between Trey and his father’s wife, although I still wasn’t sure what.

“My screw-ups killed my daddy,’’ Trey said, “as sure as if I took a gun and shot him.’’

Sal stopped short, which meant we did, too, since he was the engine pulling all of us away from the dinner camp. Like a kid’s game of whip, we jerked around, too, from the brute force of Sal’s action.

“You listen to me, son.’’ Sal brought his big head close to Trey’s. “I’ve seen a lot of people over the years do a lot of bad things. Stabbings and beatings. Fatal shootings, where one person aims a weapon to take another’s life. That’s murder. You being a bad son, maybe even a disappointing son? It doesn’t come close to that level of evil.’’

Sal paused, letting his words sink in. Finally, he moved his huge hand from Trey’s arm to his shoulder. He gave it a fatherly squeeze.

“It’s not too late, you know. You can step up and be a man. It’s what your dad would have wanted. Maybe, somehow, he’ll know you’ve straightened up and done right.’’

Trey dropped his head to his chest, and brushed quickly at his eyes. He coughed. When he raised his face, my heart ached at the grief I saw written there. I had the strangest urge to wrap my arms around him and comfort him with a kiss.

Trey stared at me with his daddy’s blue eyes, and I wondered if he could read my thoughts. It surprised me to realize I wouldn’t mind if he did.

Our eyes locked. A flash of desire arced between us. It must have spilled out into the cool air, because Sal dropped his hand from Trey’s shoulder and took a step back. His gaze shifted, first to Trey and then to me.

“Guess I’ll get back to the fire,’’ he mumbled as he backed away from us. “See if Rosie needs anything.’’

I lifted my hand in a wave, not wanting to pull my eyes from Trey’s. “Bye, Sal,’’ I said.

“Bye,’’ Trey echoed, never breaking my gaze. “And, Sal? Thanks.’’

The light in our clearing dimmed as Sal walked away, carrying the lantern I’d brought. Trey pulled a small flashlight from his pocket; flicked it on and off so I could see he had it. Neither of us said a word. Cattle lowed in a distant pasture. Crickets chirped. Clouds floated across a dinner plate moon.

“Do you . . .’’

“Would you . . .’’

Both of us spoke at the same time.

“You first,’’ I said.

“I was just going to ask if you wanted to sit over there on that log for a while. I could really use a friend.’’

I wasn’t about to say I wanted to be more than that. I wasn’t even sure myself where that spark of desire for him had come from. Maybe it was a combination: My memories of him as Himmarshee High’s golden boy. The sorrow I felt that he’d lost his daddy. The mess I’d made of my short-lived affair with Carlos Martinez.

I let Trey Bramble lead me to that fallen log.

Once we were settled side-by-side, our thighs almost touching, he offered a cigarette from his pack. I shook my head no.

“I’m down to a half-pack a day,’’ he said, careful to blow the smoke away from me. “I’ve been trying to quit. But this sure isn’t the time.’’

He wet his fingers to extinguish the match, then tucked it into the top pocket of his shirt. I liked that he was mindful about the threat of wildfires during Florida’s winter dry season.

“I haven’t had the chance to tell you, Trey. I’m sure sorry about your loss. My own daddy died when my sisters and I were little. It’s an awful thing to bear.’’

“I still can’t believe he’s gone, Mace. Daddy was bigger than life.’’

He took two last drags, stubbing out the cigarette under his boot. As with the match, he put the crushed butt into his pocket.

“I just wish things had been right between us,’’ Trey continued. “I’ll never forgive myself for being such a bastard. I was a major disappointment.’’

My mind flashed back to the tight, angry set to Lawton’s mouth when he’d talked about his son to Mama and me. I didn’t know enough about their relationship to reassure Trey that his father had loved him. But I did know what I’d seen at the ranch house. I took the plunge.

“Was the trouble between you and Lawton over Wynonna?’’

A look of pure surprise flitted across his face. “Wynonna? Hell, no. Things had gone sour between Daddy and me way before she came on the scene. But it didn’t help I despised her. He wanted me and Belle to like her. But neither of us trusted her as far as we could toss her.’’

I watched a tiger beetle crawl over the rough bark of our downed tree. Finally, I said what I had to say.

“That’s not how it looked to me tonight at the ranch house.’’

Trey raised his eyebrows. “How what looked?’’

“You and Wynonna. I came in from making a phone call in the kitchen, and she was massaging your chest, real sexy-like. She didn’t look like somebody you despised.’’

He touched the front of his shirt, as if feeling for evidence of Wynonna’s caress. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, Mace. I was pretty drunk tonight. Passed out. I don’t even remember seeing Wynonna until out there at the campfire, after my sister Belle woke me up and broke the news about Daddy.’’

I stared into his eyes. “So, there’s nothing between you two?’’

“Good God, no. Well, nothing but a lot of hard feelings. I wouldn’t put it past Wynonna, though, to set her sights on me now that Daddy’s gone. That way she might guarantee there’d be no fight over his money. The woman is a conniver, plain and simple.’’

I looked down at the beetle again. It had stopped at my right leg to confront what must look like a mountain range of denim. I gently brushed the bug to the ground.

“You believe me, don’t you?’’ Trey took my chin in his hand and lifted my face to his. His blue eyes were pleading. “Mace?’’

I leaned forward, just a couple of inches. But it was enough. Trey met me more than halfway. I felt the rough edge of his beard against my face. He must have showered, because he smelled like soap. But he hadn’t taken the time to shave. His lips brushed mine, softly at first and then more insistently. His hand moved to cup the back of my head. He entwined his fingers into my hair. He’d just pulled us even closer, when a woman’s angry voice broke the spell.

“Well, that’s a fine how-do-you-do. I drive all the way here to comfort you about your daddy, and you’ve already found some trashy little tramp to take my place.’’

I pushed away like Trey was radioactive. But the trashy tramp part of me wished we’d kissed a little longer before I did.

“Who’s she?’’ The other woman shouted, as she stormed toward where we sat on the log. “I can tell you right now, whoever she is, you and her both are gonna be sorry, Trey.’’

She thrust a lantern into my face. I about tumbled backwards off the log, until Trey caught me.

“This is Mace Bauer,’’ he said, seeming not the least bit embarrassed. “She’s a good friend of mine from high school.’’

She lifted the light in her hand up and down, getting a good look at me. Her other hand was fastened at her tiny waist, just above the swell of her hip. Her jeans were painted on. Sun-tanned cleavage spilled from her tight, checkered Western blouse.

I wasn’t sure of the greeting etiquette after someone has called you a tramp. A handshake? A head nod? I settled on saying, “Hey.’’

“Charmed, I’m sure.’’ She tossed her perfect auburn curls in my direction. “And I’m Austin Close. Trey’s fiancée.’’

“She was Trey’s fiancée, Val. Can you imagine?’’

Val seemed less interested in my plight than in the pad of hay I was dividing to drop on the ground.

“You should have seen it, girl. It was pure humiliation.’’ I leaned my face against her muscular neck and whispered into her mane. “Oh, Trey tried to explain. Not that there could be any explanation. ‘Save it for somebody who gives a shit,’ I told him. And, no, I’m not real proud that I cussed a man who just lost his daddy.’’

Val nudged my hip with the top of her head. It might have been sympathy; then again, she might just have ear mites.

My sister Maddie says it’s weird that I talk to animals. I don’t agree. It’s not like I think they’re going to talk back.

Brandy, Mama’s loaner horse for the trail ride, ambled over to get her share of the late-night snack. I tossed half the hay to her and half to Val, the quarter horse I’d borrowed to ride.

Nothing like food to create a captive audience.

“So,’’ I continued, edging closer to Val, “I just grabbed the flashlight Trey left on the log and hightailed it out of there. Of course, I lost a little steam when I ran into a clump of palmetto so thick I had to turn around and stalk right back past to find a way out.’’

Brandy munched away. Val shook her head.

“We’ll get the vet to take a look at those ears, girl.’’ I ran a hand over Val’s back and across her broad chest. She was the perfect horse for working cattle: strong, quick, and agile. My family quit keeping stock after Daddy lost our ranch. But we still had plenty of friends in the cattle business. I’d had no trouble scaring up two horses and a trailer when Mama announced we were making the ride.

“Okay, then.’’ I gave Val a last pat on her rump. “Time for me to turn in and dream about what an idiot I am.’’

I heard the whirr of a power window sliding down. Sinatra crooned softly in the near-distance.

“Mace!’’ Mama’s whisper came from the front seat of Sal’s enormous Cadillac. He’d parked on one side of our makeshift horse paddock; my tent was on the other. “Quit talking to the horses and get some sleep. Are you sure you don’t want to join us, honey? The temperature’s supposed to really drop, and this sure beats the heck out of the ground. I can bunk in the back seat with Sal, and you’ll have the front all to yourself.’’

I couldn’t think of anyplace I’d rather not be.

“No, thanks. Mama,’’ I whispered back. “The tent will do just fine.’’

___

The ground under my sleeping bag felt like a slab of concrete that someone had left overnight in the freezer. In addition to my thermal long johns, I had a long-sleeved T-shirt tied around my head and the turtleneck of my sweater pulled up over my mouth. I’d slipped a dirty pair of socks over my hands. My nose was the only body part I hadn’t covered, and I could no longer feel it on the front of my face. My version of cold-weather wear was no match for the temperature plunge. It had to be in the thirties, which feels sub-zero to a native Floridian like me. I envied the horses the thicker coats they grow each winter.

Holding my breath against the onslaught of cold, I climbed out of my sleeping bag, pulled on boots and a parka, and fled my tent for Sal’s car.

“Let me in. I changed my mind,’’ I hissed, rapping on the passenger-side window. “I need to get warm.’’

Mama pushed open the car door and scooted over on the wide leather seat. Her hair looked like a platinum-colored soufflé, except collapsed to one side. “C’mon in, honey. We’ll turn the heater on for a little bit.’’ She cranked the car engine and put a hand to my face. “My stars, Mace! Your cheek is like ice. And are those socks clean?’’

Sal grumbled something, stirring in the back seat like a poked bear in hibernation.

“I left my gloves in the horse trailer.’’ I held up my hands. “This is what I could find.’’

“Sally, honey, toss Mace that extra blanket from the floor back there.’’

An unintelligible mumble sounded from behind us. A few seconds later, a wool blanket sailed over the seat.

“Who’d have thought I’d need an Arctic-rated sleeping bag in the Sunshine State?’’

“I’ve got some hot chocolate in my thermos. Want a cup?’’ Mama asked.

I nodded from beneath the blanket, willing the car’s heater to hurry up and blow warm.

Before long, I was sipping chocolate and feeling almost toasty. The gauges and dials on the dashboard glowed, burnishing the golden interior of Sal’s car. I felt as snug as a honeybee inside its hive.

“Feeling better, darlin’?’’

“Mmm-hmm.’’ I savored the hot chocolate. “Thanks, Mama.’’

“Then maybe you’d like to tell me,’’ she leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest. “What in the world is going on between you and Trey Bramble?’’

I groaned.

“Sally told me he left the two of you alone in the woods.’’

“There’s nothing going on, Mama. We talked, that’s all.’’

“Sally said it looked like talking was the last thing on your minds.’’

“Mama, I’m tired. Can we dissect my dating life tomorrow?’’ Or never, I thought.

“So, you’re dating now? I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Mace. The man is obviously a drinker.’’ Mama should know. We both remembered Husband No. 2.

“We’re not dating. It’s just an expression. Besides, Trey is engaged.’’

“Engaged?’’ Mama screeched. “Honey, if he’s engaged and coming on to you, then he’s not worth a milk bucket under a bull.’’

Sal sat up in the backseat. I swear I felt the big car sway.

“The way that guy looked at you?’’ His voice was thick from sleep. “Fuhgeddaboutit. That’s not the way a guy getting married should be looking at another girl.’’

“Could we change the subject, please? How ’bout this weather change?’’ I said. “Brrr! Did you know it was supposed to get this cold?’’

“All I know is when you gotta girl you really love, you’re not looking for something on the side.’’ Sal rested his crossed arms, like hairy hams, over the back of the seat and gazed at Mama.

I motioned to her to fluff the smashed side of her hair. But she didn’t see me, since she was busy returning cow eyes at Sal.

“I thought Mace might find that kind of relationship with Carlos Martinez, but that love affair didn’t take either,’’ Mama said to Sal, her tone confiding.

“Hello? I’m right here. Stop talking about me like I’m not.’’

“Yeah, what happened between the two of youse, Mace? Martinez is a good man.’’

“How about some Sinatra?’’ I said. “Wouldn’t a little music sound good right now?’’

“I’ll tell you what happened, Sally,’’ Mama said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Carlos wanted to coddle her, and Mace felt smothered. You can’t blame the man for trying to keep her safe, not after what happened to his poor wife. But Mace likes to be the one who takes care of people. And she takes pride in being independent and strong. Well, except for cold weather.’’ She patted my cheek. “You’re a bit of a baby when the temperature drops below fifty, honey.’’

“Listen, Dr. Phil, as much as I want to stick around for the psychotherapy, I’m going back to my tent. Thanks for the chocolate and the extra blanket.’’ I slid toward the car door.

“Hang on there, Mace. I gotta reason for asking about Martinez,’’ Sal said. “He’s coming back to Himmarshee.’’

My heart felt like it wanted to sprout wings and fly out of my mouth. I swallowed, but it seemed to have lodged in my throat. I guess I wasn’t over Carlos after all.

“Is that so?’’ I finally said, forcing my voice to be steady. “Good for him. I guess that means he dealt with the stuff he had to deal with down in Miami.’’

“Guess so,’’ Sal said. “And you won’t believe this: he’s signed up to join the Cracker Trail for a couple of days. Says it’s the perfect way to ease back into the pace up here before he starts work again.’’

Mama said, “Now, I like Carlos a lot—especially after he stopped trying to send me to the Big House. But the man doesn’t seem like he’d know a fetlock from a forelock. I cannot picture him on a horse.’’

Sal shrugged. “He says he knows how to ride. I offered to tell him where to buy some Western-style clothes. But he said he was all set.’’

A smart decision for Carlos, I thought, fighting off an image of the two Urban Cowboys in matching electric blue.

“Okay, then. G’night, now,” I said, slipping out the door before they could grill me further—or see how my hands were shaking from the news about Carlos.

As I walked back to the tent, my mind was spinning so fast I barely noticed the cold. I took a few deep breaths, trying to imagine how I’d react the first time I saw him. Sal hadn’t said when Carlos planned on coming. Did I have time to prepare myself? I couldn’t believe it. Cold as it was, my palms were damp with nervous sweat underneath those stupid socks.

I glanced at the horses, secure in their enclosure. Then I stared into the sky, searching for answers in the spray of stars that glittered there. Something small rustled through the drought-dry grass of the pasture. I could smell hay and spilled feed through the open slats of our horse trailer.

The sound of whistling drifted toward me on the night air. Whistle While You Work. I had to smile, thinking that poor Doc Abel really could use a course on melody. Before, his tuneless whistle had seemed creepy; now it was somehow comforting. It meant someone else was up. I wasn’t the only one unable to get to sleep. Or, maybe Doc was just taking a potty break.

Dodging horse and cow patties on the ground, I hummed along. As I drew nearer to the tent, I was almost enjoying my part in our Disney-movie duet. And then, just a few yards from the tent, my song went silent. I stopped in my tracks, staring straight ahead in the moonlight. I could just make out my sleeping bag, sticking halfway out on the ground through the tent’s open entry flap. I distinctly remembered closing it, since working a zipper in hand socks was a challenge.

I fumbled for Trey’s flashlight, still in my coat pocket. It flickered, then lit to show the shredded sides of the tent, gaping open like wounds. Down filling spilled onto the ground from deep gashes in the sleeping bag. Feathers clung to a wet, sticky-looking substance. It turned the pale orange of the bag into something dark; something frightening.

Under the dimming beam of the flashlight, the stain on my bag looked an awful lot like blood.