Mama Rides Shotgun

“Pssst,’’ I whispered. “You awake, Sister?’’

She twisted in her sleeping bag toward me. “I feel like a sausage stuffed in a nylon casing, and this ground is like granite. Of course I’m awake,’’ Maddie grumbled.

“What do you think will happen tomorrow?’’

“I imagine we’ll get through the day. Then we’ll return our horses and the three of us will squeeze into my car and we’ll head home.’’

Maddie’s tone was practical; matter-of-fact. I didn’t buy it.

“So you don’t think anything bad will happen?’’

She was quiet for a long time.

“I pray it won’t, Mace,’’ she finally said. “Now, try to get some sleep, Sister. We’ve got an early morning to make Fort Pierce.’’

I lay there, awake, until Maddie dozed off and began to snore. She started quiet, and then got going loud enough to shake the stakes in the ground. She was definitely Mama’s daughter.

I fumbled in the corner for my boots. That’s where I’d stashed my ear plugs so I could find them easily in the dark. I plucked out my watch: seven minutes past one.

The night was still, aside from Maddie’s snores. The air in the tent felt close, stinking of mildew and horse hair. I peered at Marty’s face. She looked peaceful, untroubled. I hoped she was dreaming of butterscotch pie. Maddie’s mouth was creased in a frown. I wondered if she was worried about the parade, or just scolding some eighth-grader in her dream.

Every so often, voices crackled in the distance over police radios. Sheriff Roberts’ deputies still combed the camp, looking for the weapon used to shoot Doc. I pla

Surely, given everything that had happened since Lawton died, there’d now be an autopsy to prove what killed him. It may not have been the chili in the cup we’d found, but I was certain it wasn’t a heart attack. And I was at least halfway certain Wyno

I shifted, trying to get comfortable. Maddie was right about the ground. Had it been that hard when we were kids? Hoots of laughter drifted over from somebody’s camp. I wondered who was still up, and what was so damn fu

I looked at my watch again. One twenty-three. Jeez. Give the cow whip a rest.

As if in answer, the loud pop came again. Fu

I waited at the mule wagons in a fragrant cloud of roses, vanilla, and a hint of butterscotch toffee. Mama insisted on dousing me for my sunrise photo session with her favorite perfume. I smelled like a florist sharing space with a candy factory inside a horse stable.

“Trust me, Mace,’’ Mama had said. “Carlos won’t be able to resist you when you smell so sweet.’’

I wasn’t sure about Carlos. But the closest mule sneezed as I drew near.

For the photos, I’d chosen my last clean shirt. Denim, of course, which Marty claimed brought out the blue of my eyes. Even Maddie contributed, tying a bandana at a jaunty angle inside my collar.

“It’ll hide the dirt creases on your neck,’’ she said.

I glanced at my watch. Again. Six-forty a.m. Belle had said she’d bring Carlos. We were supposed to meet at six-thirty. Just as I was wondering if I’d been duped, she called my name.

I turned, and my heart sank. Belle’s face was full of pity. She was alone; and she didn’t have her camera. I cursed Mama’s stupid cologne and the jaunty neckerchief. I smeared the back of my hand over my mouth to wipe off the lipstick Marty applied. I felt like a perfect fool.

“Listen, Mace, I’m so sorry.’’

Belle looked at me like I was six years old and she had to break the news that my puppy just died. She put a hand on my wrist. I shook it off.

“It’s fine. I didn’t want my picture taken anyway. Plus, I left my sisters with all the work of getting the horses ready. I better get on back to help them break down camp.’’

I hoped she wouldn’t hear the tears trying to force themselves into my throat.

“I tried really hard to talk Carlos into coming, Mace.’’ Belle, too, seemed on the verge of crying. “He just flat-out refused. He’s very stubborn.’’

Was that supposed to make me feel better? I wondered if Carlos asked about me, or even bothered to make up an excuse. But I was too proud to find out.

As if she read my mind, Belle said, “For what it’s worth, I think he still cares about you. Otherwise, why wouldn’t he just walk over here, smile, let me shoot a few photos, and then walk away? I think it hurts him too much to be around you.’’

When I still hadn’t spoken, she said, “Do you want me to tell him anything?’’

I shook my head, not trusting my voice.

“All right, then. I’m really sorry, Mace.’’ She rested her hand on my arm again. This time I left it there. “Maybe you two will iron things out once you get back to Himmarshee. I hope so, anyway.’’

Me, too, I thought as I nodded. Still I said nothing.

“Goodbye then.’’ Belle patted my arm and then dropped her hand, looking at me with kind eyes. “Maybe we’ll see each other again after the ride.’’

The next time I’d see Belle would likely be at her daddy’s funeral. The thought sobered me up quick. Here was a woman mourning that kind of loss, and she was comforting me over boyfriend trouble. I suddenly felt pretty stupid. I found my voice.

“Thanks, Belle. I know you tried. And you’re right: Carlos is as stubborn as a . . .’’

The animal closest to us picked just that moment to stamp his foot and shake his harness. Belle looked at him and laughed. Bad as I felt, I had to laugh, too.

___

“Sheriff Roberts?’’ I knocked on the side of the interview camper. “Mind if I come in?’’

He got up to open the door, rocking the trailer with his weight.

“I was wondering when I’d hear from you. Weren’t you one of the gals with Ms. Bramble yesterday when I stopped by to talk with her?’’

“Yessir,’’ I said, feeling that sudden flush of nerves again.

“I hear you’re some kind of Jessica Fletcher.’’

“Pardon?’’

“Murder, She Wrote. On TV?”

“Oh, yeah.’’ I nodded, politely, I hoped. “I’ve caught a couple of old reruns. It’s not really my kind of show. Doesn’t it seem unrealistic that everywhere that woman goes, someone up and gets killed?’’

“It’s just TV.’’ He gestured for me to sit across from him at Jack Hollister’s fold-down dining table. “Now, who do you think shot Doc Abel?’’

Over the next fifteen minutes or so, I told the sheriff everything that had happened before Doc got hurt, begi

“I think Doc knew too much,’’ I wrapped up. “Whoever shot him must have wanted him out of the way.’’

The toothpick between the sheriff’s lips had barely moved as I spoke. He listened closely, hardly uttering so much as an “uh-huh,’’ or a “Go on.’’ Finally, he shifted the toothpick.

“What time do they start serving breakfast at the food trailer?’’

“Come again?’’ I said.

“Breakfast,’’ he repeated. “It’s been a long night and I’ve had enough coffee to float a battleship. I need some food in my stomach.’’