Mama Rides Shotgun

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 ca

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 spi

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.