Mama Rides Shotgun (14 page)

“You’re looking good, Mama,”
I called out.

“Show him who’s boss,’’ Maddie added.

I hadn’t had time yet to dress Maddie down for telling my secrets. Shotgun had gotten a little skittish when the three of us drew close to the wagons. He didn’t behave as badly as Carlos’s thoroughbred had, but bad enough that Mama had to show him a firm hand. She spun him around a few times. Then she urged him once to the rattling wagon, and then back again.

A retired rodeo cowboy named Del, relegated by age and injuries to riding a lawn chair in the back of a mule wagon, watched as Mama worked with Shotgun. Del lifted a plastic cup to his mouth, spit a stream of tobacco juice, and then spoke.

“I’ve seen worse riders, I’ll tell you that.’’ His voice sounded like a truckload of rocks being dumped into a pit. “In fact, this here little ol’ gal’s a better rider than a buddy of mine, back in rodeo. One time, a bronc threw him up so high that a bird had time to build a nest between his hair and his hat before he hit the ground.’’

Del spit in the cup again.

“That’s the God’s honest truth.’’

As we all laughed, I wished Marty had been up to riding with us. I felt a rush of love for Mama and my sisters. I was even willing to forgive them for sticking their noses in my business. We were bonding on the Cracker Trail, just like Mama said we would.

I just hoped nothing happened to make us lose that warm, family feeling.

___

“Where are you?’’ Maddie shouted into her cell phone. “This signal’s awful out here.’’

So much for Florida pioneer authenticity. I wasn’t going to complain in this case, though. Maddie was talking to Marty—or trying to, anyway. And I was anxious to see how our little sister was doing.

We’d made it to the lunch site, a wide pasture ringed by hickory trees, sabal palms, and big live oaks. The smell of grilled sausage with green peppers and onions drifted our way. We sat on the ground in the shade, our horses tied nearby, as Maddie tried to decipher if Sal and Marty were going to meet us in time to eat.

“What are they saying, honey?’’ Mama asked.

Maddie waved her hand in irritation. “Shush, Mama. I can barely hear her as it is.’’

She yelled into the phone, “We’re to the left of the food trailer as you come into the pasture. There’s a big red pickup parked about twenty-five feet away from us.’’

Marty may not have heard her, but everyone else at the lunch site had. A couple seated on a fallen log frowned at Maddie before they moved to enjoy nature’s glories somewhere else.

“I lost her.’’ Maddie shook the phone and held it to her ear. “Yep. She’s gone. Damn it.’’

“Language, Maddie,’’ Mama said.

We always got a kick out of Mama telling us that, seeing as she could cuss a blue streak when she felt like it. But she always asked Jesus for forgiveness afterwards.

“Sal knows where he’s going, right?’’ I asked Mama.

We were relying on him again, with Marty’s help, to move vehicles and gear ahead so we’d have everything once we rode into the evening camp.

“Well, of course he knows, Mace. Sal’s made a detailed map,’’ Mama said.

He had a map yesterday, too, and managed to get lost. I had the feeling without the Bronx Zoo or Yankee Stadium as landmarks, Sal missed his bearings.

“Well,
I
think we should go ahead and eat,’’ Maddie said.

As soon as we agreed Maddie and Mama would line up for our food while I stayed with the horses, they were off. My sister always manages to move fast when food’s at the finish line.

“Get me a lemonade,’’ I called after them. “And extra onions on my sausage sandwich.’’

“I guess that means you’re not planning on kissing anyone this afternoon.’’

Startled, I looked up to see Wynonna smiling down at me. Maybe I was distracted by my stomach grumbling and the horses moving around in the woods, but she moved with surprising stealth for a woman in red alligator boots with heels.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,’’ she said. “Mind if I sit down?’’

I motioned at the ground across from me. “Be my guest.’’

As she sat, she grinned and said, “So, how’s your mama getting along on Shotgun?’’

“He’s great,’’ I smiled back. “We sure appreciate you letting her ride him.’’

Wynonna waved her hand as if to say it was nothing. Then her grin faded, replaced by a serious expression.

“I wanted to ask you about Trey, Mace.’’

Uh-oh.

“I wondered if you’ve had a chance during the ride to really talk with him?’’

I studied her, trying to determine her game. She returned my gaze with guileless eyes, wide with concern.

“Why?’’ I hedged.

“Because I’m worried about him, that’s why. Your mama told me you two went to school together. I thought maybe he might have said something to you about what he’s going through.’’

“Well, he’s grieving for his father, of course.’’ I was still being careful.

“Of course,’’ Wynonna said. “What about his drinking, though?’’

“He said he wants to quit.’’

“Well, I don’t think he has. He disappeared about forty-five minutes into the ride this morning. Nobody’s seen him since. Trey always goes off alone when he wants to get good and drunk.’’

I wasn’t sure what to say. I hoped she was wrong, for Trey’s sake. A backslide right now sure wouldn’t boost his confidence. Not about his ability to quit drinking, and not about his fitness to step into his daddy’s shoes. Was Wynonna driven to talk to me by compassion for her late husband’s son, or by some other emotion?

An image of her caressing Trey’s chest came into my mind. I wanted to question her about that night. But I had to tread cautiously, knowing she’d just lost her husband. Where was Marty with her soft touch when I needed her?

“Wynonna, please don’t take this wrong, but is there something going on between you and Trey?’’

Shock made a brief appearance on her face, followed by a flush of anger. “What the hell do you mean by that?’’

Looks like I hadn’t been cautious enough. I explained how I’d seen them on the couch.

“Are you sure about that?’’

I nodded, but now I remembered the lights in the ranch house were dim that night. Had I really seen what I thought I saw?

“Mace, I was half-crazy with shock and grief. I was exhausted. I don’t even remember sitting next to Trey, let alone rubbing on him. Doc Abel gave me something to help me calm down. Maybe it made me act crazy. Or maybe I fell asleep and dreamed I was with Lawton, like I’ve done ever since he died.’’

She looked wounded. I started to apologize. But Wynonna, rising and brushing bits of dead grass from her jeans, didn’t give me the chance.

“Not that I feel much like eating lunch now, but I’ll be on my way. I can see you’re like all the others, Mace. Judging me.’’ Her voice sounded more disappointed than angry. “But it hurts worse with you. I thought you and your mama were becoming my friends, you know?’’

Tears welled in Wynonna’s green eyes. And I sat there like a big, mean jerk as she walked silently away.

___

We’d almost finished lunch. After the sandwiches and on into the chocolate pudding, I filled in Mama and Maddie on my scene with Wynonna.

“Do you think she’s lying?’’ Mama asked, licking her plastic spoon clean to the handle.

“I can’t tell. All I know is I felt awful when she left,’’ I said.

Maddie and I had started tidying up the lunch trash when Mama announced she’d ride out to the highway to look for Sal. That figured. She’d do anything to get out of her share of work.

After fifteen minutes or so, we started to wonder where she’d gotten to. There was no sight of Sal or Marty, and now Mama was missing, too. We decided to go find her.

“Give me a leg up on this horse, Mace,’’ Maddie said. “I’m not as young as I used to be.’’

I cradled my hands, readied them under Maddie’s boot, and helped her hoist herself onto the saddle.

“Oooof!’’ I exhaled loudly.

“I heard that!’’ Maddie snapped.

We’d started across the pasture when Mama suddenly called out from the edge of a woodsy hammock: “Yoo-hoo, girls! I found them. They’re getting their lunch plates. Wait right where you are, and all of us will be right over.’’

I waved at her to signal we’d heard her. I thought for a moment she was waving back. But then I saw she wasn’t waving. Her arms whirly-gigged up and down, around her head and back again. She twisted and turned in the saddle, swatting at the air.

“What in the hell?’’ Maddie said.

Mama’s horse lowered his head and bucked. Then he reared up on his hind legs. She hung on. As Maddie and I raced our horses across the field, Mama gave a panicked yelp. She only had time for one word before Shotgun lit off at a gallop into the woods.

“Bees!’’ Mama screamed.

Hooves pounded. Brush crashed.
Shotgun tore through the hammock—careering across the sandy path at one moment, darting through trees the next.

I kept to the path, trying to outrun Mama so I could turn and slow Shotgun as soon as I overtook them. Behind me, Maddie kept yelling “Pull back, Mama! Pull back!’’

Of course, that’s just what Mama was trying to do. But her hundred-pound frame tugging on the reins was no match for a runaway horse. Shotgun sped onward as if nothing but a ghost rode on his back. Mama’s purple hat was gone. But still she hung on.

She leaned left, missing a low-hanging branch.

I held my breath.

She leaned right, catching a face-full of sabal palm.

I winced, as if the fronds had scraped me.

She ducked low, and the resurrection ferns growing on an oak limb grazed the top of her head.

I whispered a prayer.

Ahead, sunlight streamed through the canopy where the thicket of trees began to thin.

“Hang on, Mama. You’re almost out of the woods,’’ I yelled.

The words were barely out of my mouth when I spotted the ancient live oak, fat branches spreading low in all directions. Even if she missed the first branch or the second, the third would surely get her.

“Lean left, Mama. No, right!’’ Maddie’s voice was frantic.

Mama had a split second to decide what to do. I saw her drop the reins and push toward the saddle’s side. She was going to bail. But just as she did, her stirrup snared the heel of her boot. Hanging upside down by her foot, Mama bounced against Shotgun’s belly for what seemed like an eternity. And then she dropped to the ground. I couldn’t tell if the horse’s churning hooves had caught her in the head. But I prayed that they hadn’t.

Shotgun bolted on toward the sunlight, riderless, empty stirrups flying. Shouts of
Whoa!
and a commotion of riders rushing to stop the horse came from the clearing beyond the trees.

Maddie caught up with me, screaming Mama’s name. I couldn’t get my lips and tongue to cooperate on a single sound. We were off the horses and by Mama’s side in an instant. The entire terrifying race had taken just moments. But that’s all the time you need to have your whole life change.

“Mama?’’ Maddie’s voice trembled, and I was suddenly ten years old again, watching with my sisters as Daddy was loaded into an ambulance after the heart attack that killed him.

As we kneeled next to Mama, I silently promised God I’d quit my every bad habit if only she was okay. Bits of leaves and twigs clung to her platinum hair. Dirt streaked her face where she’d fallen. The fabric of her plum-colored cowgirl blouse gaped open at the shoulder, showing an angry red scratch. I finally found my voice.

“Mama, wake up!’’ I said. “Maddie and I are here. Everything’s going to be okay.’’

She didn’t stir. She looked so small, so broken, lying there as still as death.

“Can you hear us, Mama?’’ Maddie’s voice shook; her face was white. She looked as scared as I felt. “Please, open your eyes.’’

I was barely conscious of a jumble of sounds: Someone yelled
Got ’im!
Voices filled the woods as folks spread out to search for Shotgun’s missing rider. The strains of “Whistle While You Work” floated on the air.

Mama’s left eyelid twitched. I grabbed Maddie’s hand. As her eyes fluttered open, Mama took a shuddery breath. Then, she squeezed her lids shut again.

“Good Gussie,’’ Mama whispered. “That hurt.’’

The clamor grew around us as riders, some leading horses, closed in. All I saw was a circle of blue-jeaned legs and boots, including Wynonna’s of red alligator.

“Step back! Give her some air.’’ The voice was male, ringing with authority and a slight accent. Carlos pushed his way to us and stooped beside Mama.

“What’s your name?’’ he demanded, bringing his dark eyes close to hers.

“Rosalee Stinson Bauer Cummings Burton Deveraux,’’ she recited.

Maddie smiled at me, and I squeezed her hand. Not a single married name missed.

“What hurts?’’ asked Carlos, still in charge.

“What doesn’t?’’ Mama winced.

“What day is today?’’

“February 18th. The day I wished I’d never rode Shotgun.’’

She propped herself up to her elbows, legs still stretched out on the ground.

“Careful,’’ a helpful someone said from the crowd. “She might have broken her back.’’

Mama straightened to a sitting position, her eyes going wide.

“You’re fine, Mama,’’ I reassured her, regaining some calm. “We just saw you use your arms. Can you feel your toes?’’

She wagged her right boot back and forth. Then she yelped and grabbed at her ankle when she tried to do the same with the left.

“She probably wrenched that in the stirrup,’’ I said to Maddie.

“Let me take a look at it,’’ Carlos said, shouldering me aside.

“Excuse me, I’m also trained in first aid. I’ve handled plenty of injuries in my job at Himmarshee Park. And she’s my mama. Not that we don’t appreciate you taking over.’’

“We need to get that boot off and take a look,’’ Carlos ordered, as he loosened her laces.

“Right.’’ I pushed him aside and eased off her boot.

“Ouch!’’ Mama said.

“Careful, Mace!’’ Maddie scolded.

“And check the pulse at her ankle to make sure nothing’s impeding the blood flow,’’ I continued, directing my words at Carlos, “which would be a lot easier for me to do if you’d just scoot out of the way.’’

“
Perdóneme.
’’ Carlos made a display of showing me his palms. “I forgot how much you like to be in control.’’

“Would you two please shut up?’’ Mama said. “
I’m
the injured party. How about if the both of you cooperate to help get me up and out of here?’’

Before we could argue over who’d take the lead, an anguished bellow shook the leaves on the trees: “Rosie!’’

“Over here, Sal,’’ I yelled.

“I’m fine, Sally,’’ Mama added, then lowered her voice from a shout to a whisper. “Girls, if Marty’s with him, do
not
tell her how close that was.’’

Mama should know me better than that. I might bicker with my former boyfriend over her prostrate body, but I’d never say a word to worry Marty.

Sal came crashing through the woods like a wounded bear. Marty followed close behind, her frightened blue eyes the only color on her face.

“She’s okay, Marty.’’ Sal said, exhaling a huge sigh of relief.

“We saw your horse. People said . . . we thought . . .’’ Marty didn’t finish before the tears started rolling down her cheeks.

“Oh, look at you two!’’ Mama held up her arms from the ground like she wanted a hug from each of them. “I took a spill, that’s all. It’s nothing but a little twisted ankle.’’

Sal raised his eyebrows at Carlos, who nodded in agreement.

“She’ll be fine,’’ I said pointedly, though Sal hadn’t asked me.

At that, Sal leaned over and scooped Mama off the ground. He carried her out of the woods in his arms, as gentle as a bridegroom on his wedding night.

___

Someone had found Doc Abel. As I watched him expertly test the joint, peering at Mama’s foot over his glasses, my mind went back to that long-ago day he’d ministered to a riding-related injury for me. Pronouncing nothing broken, he already had Mama’s ankle elevated and packed in ice. Before he climbed aboard a wagon for the rest of the day’s ride, he warned Mama, “Now, don’t get back in that saddle again until I give the okay!’’

We were lucky to have Doc along on the Cracker Trail.

My sisters and I skipped the after-lunch half of the ride to help Sal ferry horses, vehicles, and our injured mama to Basinger, the next campsite along the trail. I hadn’t seen Carlos since we argued over who should be in charge of helping Mama.

Now, the sun was beginning to sink in the sky. A clump of sabal palms sent long, skinny shadows across the pasture where we’d made camp. Field sparrows flitted here and there, hunting insects. Mama was ensconced on an upholstered chair Sal had scrounged up from somebody’s camper. He also found a wooden chair and two pillows for her to use to rest her ankle. She was relishing her starring role in a drama.

Marty, Maddie, Sal, and I sat on the ground around her. We moved to make way as a new group of well-wishers stopped by to get the story from the horse-rider’s mouth. We’d now gotten to the third or fourth re-telling, with Shotgun’s speed and the perils of the woods magnified in each rendition.

“So, Shotgun and I were just standing there, pretty as you please, when all of a sudden those bees came out of nowhere,’’ Mama said. “That horse snorted and bucked like a demon. I swear all four feet were off the ground. Then he took off, faster than a speeding bullet,’’ she said.

Sal took his cue: “Marty and I came back with our plates, and we couldn’t find her.’’

Marty shuddered: “We were scared to death.’’

“Well, not me,’’ Sal amended. “But I was worried once we saw that horse run by without Rosie in the saddle.’’

I’d almost stopped listening. Until, suddenly, some fragments in my brain snapped together into one full piece.

“Did anybody hear about any other horses getting stung?’’ I searched the faces of the other riders gathered around Mama.

Shoulders shrugged. Heads shook.

“I wasn’t too far away from that spot where your mama’s horse got spooked,’’ one cowboy finally said. “If there were bees, there couldn’t have been too many. I didn’t hear a hive, and I didn’t see a thing.’’

I digested that tidbit of information.

Before Mama got wound up again to start on her story, I spoke. “I sure don’t mean to be rude, y’all, but I think Mama needs to get a little rest. We’ll bring her over to the campfire for dinner, and you can get all the details you want then.’’

Like a leading lady given the hook, Mama started to protest, “Mace, I’m not the least little bit tired . . .’’

Maddie, after hearing Mama’s story two times too many, became my ally: “Mace is right. And I’m sure all these nice folks have some chores they need to get to.’’ She leveled her sternest principal stare, and the crowd scattered like eighth-graders caught with cigarettes. “Besides, Mama, just think how many people at dinner won’t have heard your story yet.’’

That thought seemed to cheer Mama. Her mind was probably turning to what fruit-colored outfit she’d choose for her dinner show performance.

In the meantime, I had a few questions myself for Mama. Something about Shotgun and that swarm of bees just didn’t sit right with me.