Mama Rides Shotgun

by Deborah Sharp

  “That’s great, Maddie. Trey thinks he knows where Belle might be. Do you want to come with us?’’

  I could almost see Maddie’s mind working, distaste for the woods weighed against me discovering something she wouldn’t know.

  Trey frowned at her. “Let’s go if you’re going.”

  She nodded, and the three of us struck out across the clearing.

  The moon was high in the sky now, the air not nearly as cold as the night before. Sounds carried through the quiet woods: the bark of a dog; the lowing of cattle; faint laughter from a far campsite. We rustled through the brush without speaking, Maddie’s and my flashlights trained on Trey’s path in front of us. My sister breathed raggedly behind me, but she was keeping up.

  Soon, we came out of the woods to the bed of a mostly dry creek. In summer, when the rains are heavy, it would be full and flowing. But now, in the dry season, it was barely a trickle in many spots. That made for easier passage. We moved quickly through desiccated marsh grasses, so brittle they crumbled to fluff as we passed. We followed the exposed bank, dark and mucky, until the water widened.

  Just ahead was a stand of bald cypress, shadowy sentinels gleaming in the moonlight.

  “Belle,’’ Trey called out. “Honey, it’s me. It’s Trey.’’

  No answer came from the trees.

  “That’s where she’ll be if she left camp under her own power.’’ He nodded ahead as Maddie and I caught up. “We played here all the time as kids, trying to figure out which cypress knee looked like which TV star or rock singer.’’

  “Belle,’’ I yelled, as we started into the trees.

  A night heron’s squawk was the only response.

  I was concentrating on the ground, trying not to trip over the root-like bumps of the cypress knees, when I heard Trey gasp in front of me. I stopped and raised my eyes to see what he had seen.

  Belle lay face-up on the white, sandy soil of the creek bed. She was motionless. Her coppery hair formed a corona around her head, flowing like blood from the exposed sandbar into the water.

  Trey splashed into the creek, moving as fast as he could in boots and jeans across a deep swath in front of Belle. In the light of the lantern, his face was drawn and pale. He looked terrified of what he’d find when he reached his sister.

  Maddie and I watched from our vantage point on the high bank, flashlights trained on the water to reflect the telltale glint of gator eyes. The last thing Trey needed was a hungry alligator on his hands. As I swung the flashlight back and forth across the creek, I thought I saw Belle move. But then she was still. No noise, not even a moan, came from the sandbar.

  “Belle,’’ Trey yelled, as he thrashed into shallower water. “Belle!’’

  This time I was certain I saw movement. As Trey climbed onto the sand, moving on hands and knees to his sister, she turned her head away. Firmly. I looked at Maddie to see if she’d seen the same thing.

  “What the hell?’’ Maddie muttered under her breath, her face a picture of confusion.

  A gator grunted in the far distance, hidden somewhere in the reeds. I swung the flashlight about, but didn’t see anything close enough to worry over.

  “Belle, honey, look at me,’’ Trey put his hand on his sister’s shoulder, his voice a bit lower, a bit calmer. “It’s all right. Look at me.’’

  Belle shook her head, her fiery curls wet and glistening in the lantern light. She turned her whole body onto her side, facing away from Trey. He stood, and called to us across the creek, “She’s okay. Everything’s okay.’’

  Well, not really, I thought. His sister was stretched out on a sandbar in the middle of a creek close to midnight. She’d had her head half in and half out of the water, with who knows how many alligators lurking nearby. Something definitely was not okay.

  “I’m going over there, Maddie.’’ I leaned down to unlace my boots. “I’ll cross about twenty feet downstream, just where the sandbar tapers off. It’s nearly dry.’’

  “Well, you’re not leaving me here alone.’’ She grabbed me for balance as she began to take off her own boots.

  Rolling up the legs on our britches, we waded into the creek.

  “Ohmigod! I felt something slimy!’’ my sister said.

  “Shush, Maddie. This is serious.’’

  “I am serious. It felt disgusting.’’

  When we reached the sandbar, Belle was sitting, her head resting on pulled-up knees. Trey murmured to her, too quietly for me to hear his words. As we walked up, she lifted her face. Her eyes were red and swollen. They seemed unfocused. I couldn’t tell whether the wetness on her cheeks was from creek water or tears.

  “I’m sorry.’’ Her voice was barely audible. She swiped her fingers under her eyes. “I didn’t mean to worry anybody. I just wanted to get away. All day on the trail, people were so nice. They said how sorry they were about Daddy; asked how I was doing. Once I got to camp, it all just hit me. He’s really gone. I wanted to keep running into the woods until maybe I wouldn’t think about it anymore. Then I got to this place, where Trey and I used to play, and I thought maybe the water would wash all the sadness out of my head.’’

  “Did it work?’’ Maddie asked.

  Belle stared into space without speaking. “No,’’ she finally said, letting loose fresh tears.

  My sister leaned over, surprisingly tender, and stroked Belle’s wet hair. I saw flecks of sand in the red curls, along with a flash of the motherly way Maddie was with her daughter, Pam.

  Belle, sobbing, lifted her arms like a child. Maddie pulled her close. As Belle’s hands went around my sister’s neck, the lantern light revealed a dark, familiar-looking stain on the cuff of her long-sleeved, cream-colored shirt.

  “What’s that on your sleeve, Belle?’’ I asked.

  Holding out her wrist, she stared at the cuff like it belonged to someone else. As she turned over her palm, we could see a red gash from the heel of her hand to her pinky finger. Trey took a sharp breath. Belle looked at the wound blankly. I began to wonder if she was on drugs.

  I gently pulled her hand toward me, holding it under my flashlight. She didn’t resist.

  “That doesn’t look too bad.’’ I said. “You must have bled onto Poco after you did it.’’

  Belle’s eyes suddenly widened. “Poco!’’ she breathed.

  “Don’t worry. Mace and her sister and the folks next to our camp took care of everything,’’ Trey said. “Poco’s fine.’’

  “How’d you cut yourself?’’ I asked.

  She lifted her hand again, staring like it was the first time she’d ever laid eyes on it.

  “Belle?’’ Trey prodded, when she failed to respond.

  Maddie and I exchanged a look.

  “I’m not sure,’’ she said, slowly shaking her head. “I remember I was getting Poco’s bridle off, and then I went to get something from the trailer. There’s so many sharp things in there, metal edges and pointy corners. I don’t even remember cutting myself. It doesn’t really hurt.’’

  That could be drugs talking, I thought. A palm cut, even when it’s not deep, usually stings like the dickens.

  “We should be going,’’ Trey said. “With all the horses and riders on our property, we don’t know what’s been in this creek. You should get some antibiotic cream on that cut, Belle.’’

  Belle gazed up at the moon, which had turned the cypress branches silver.

  “I don’t want to go yet.’’ She leaned back unsteadily, taking two tries to balance on her elbows. “I love our family’s land so much, Trey. It’s the place I feel I belong. The only time I’m really happy is when I’m out here, just walking or taking photos.’’

  Trey said, “Belle’s nature pictures are in a big gallery in Stuart. Sell pretty well, too.’’

  “Just listen to the sound the creek makes as it flows past,’’ she said dreamily.

  We were all quiet, hearing the water gurgle and sigh.

  “Isn’t that beautiful? That’s as famili
ar to me as the sound of my own heartbeat,’’ Belle said.

  Trey smiled at his sister. “Belle, honey, we should go.’’

  Ignoring him, she said, “When Trey and I were little, I’d come out here and sit for hours, wouldn’t I, Trey? I used to think the cypress knees looked like all the characters from the Care Bears. I’d tell the trees all my troubles.’’

  “My daughter used to love the Care Bears,’’ Maddie said. “Pam’s not too much younger than you, Belle. She’s away at college now.’’

  Belle didn’t seem to hear my sister.

  “I love the water.’’ She trailed the fingers on her good hand into the creek. “I used to wish I could load my sorrows into a little boat, and then just watch them float away.’’

  Trey said, “Let’s go, Belle,’’ with a stern edge to his voice. “We’ve put Mace and her sister out enough for one night.’’

  “Despite everything, I miss Daddy, Trey. Don’t you?’’

  Trey pinched at the bridge of his nose. I couldn’t be sure whether he was irritated at his sister, or holding back tears of his own.

  Maddie got up and announced, “I think you two could use some time alone.’’ Her words barely seemed to register with Trey or Belle. “Mace and I can find our way back.’’

  What that meant was I’d find our way back. Maddie had trouble navigating from the principal’s office to the parking lot. Fortunately, I’d spent a lot of time in the woods.

  We’d crossed over, donned our boots, and proceeded a bit along the bank when Maddie finally whispered, “Drugs, don’t you think?’’

  “I do,’’ I said, “but I don’t know whether that’s so bad under the circumstances. She seems grief-stricken over her daddy.’’

  We were much younger than Belle when our father died. But I remembered Mama taking a regular dose of little orange pills in those first awful days after his heart attack. Maybe Doc Abel had given Belle something similar.

  “I don’t disagree with you, Mace. But don’t you wonder about what Belle said?’’

  I stopped in the clearing, trying to place whether a fence line I saw in my flashlight beam had been on my left or my right coming in. My right, I was suddenly certain. Maddie had been to my left.

  “What Belle said about what?’’ I asked, picking up the pace as I followed the fence.

  “All that about her troubles,’’ Maddie answered. “What kind of troubles could the pampered daughter of the richest man in three counties possibly have had?”

  I woke up cranky after Maddie and I fought all night over space in her moldy tent. I hated to think how tight it would be with Marty in there, too. Maddie’s a bulldozer, asleep or awake. She’d probably roll our sister and her sleeping bag right out the zippered door.

  “You snore, Mace.’’

  “I do not!’’

  “I heard it with my own ears. Sounded like somebody using a chain saw.’’

  “You were probably hearing yourself, Maddie. When you got going, I thought there was a wild hog snuffling for acorns in the tent.’’

  We brushed the horses’ backs and bellies, making sure there were no sweat- or dirt-matted spots to irritate them under their saddles. Despite our bickering, Maddie and I worked well as a team. We’d already fed and watered the horses, cleaned up and packed most of our stuff, and got the tent broken down. And we still had a half-hour before Johnny and his crew would start serving breakfast.

  “I think I’m having the pancakes,’’ I said. “Are you getting biscuits and gravy?’’

  She hefted a saddle onto her horse’s back. “I’m having both.’’ She licked her lips. “Lord knows I’m working off the calories.’’

  Before I could come back with something sarcastic, I heard a rustle in the dry pasture behind us. My arm froze over Val’s back as I wondered if a horse brush would make an effective weapon. I turned to see who was there.

  “Sal! You shouldn’t go sneaking up on people.’’ I let out the breath I was holding.

  He was wearing another The-Duke-Meets-Elton-John cowboy outfit, only this one was burgundy. I couldn’t believe they’d made two of those rhinestone-studded monstrosities.

  “Sorry, Mace. I don’t know how to act around horses.’’ He looked nervously at Val’s hind end, where I was picking some burrs out of her tail.

  “Don’t worry about it,’’ I said. “But it’s always better to say something, give some kind of verbal warning.’’ Both for me and the horses, I thought.

  “Your mother’s over at the chuck wagon. Her horse has some kind of problem,’’ Sal said, taking a long detour around Val. “Something about a toad. She wants to know if you know anyone who might be able to loan her another horse today.’’

  Maddie and I were saddled up and off in a flash. I asked Sal if he wanted a ride, doubling with me for the short distance on Val. He grimaced like I’d offered to pull off his fingernails.

  A small crowd milled around Mama’s horse, Brandy. Wynonna was there, wearing red alligator boots and tight blue jeans. Her highlighted hair was caught up in a bright red alligator-hide clip. She hunkered down next to Mama and a blacksmith. The three of them studied the soft padding on the underside of Brandy’s foot. The eyes of everyone else in the crowd were on Wynonna. I wondered how it felt having people stare at you every second.

  “Is everything okay?’’ I called to Mama.

  She waved her ring hand at me. “We’re fine, Mace. Brandy’s bruised her frog. Mike here thinks maybe it was that patch of spilled rock we went through, where they were fixing the highway culvert. Or maybe a beer bottle tossed in the grass out the window of somebody’s car. He says she’ll be fine with a little rest.’’

  Wynonna looked up, concern darkening her lovely green eyes.

  “I hate to see Rosalee miss the ride,’’ she said. “I told your Mama she can borrow one of our horses. One of Lawton’s men is loading him into a trailer right now. It’ll do Shotgun good to be ridden. He’s getting fat and lazy.’’

  “Shotgun?’’ Maddie butted in. “That doesn’t sound like a horse a senior citizen should be riding.’’

  Mama straightened, set her plum-colored cowboy hat firmly, and raised her voice to carry: “Why, Maddie, I’m still in my fifties.’’

  That was a lie. She’d turn sixty-three on the Fourth of July.

  “And I’ve been riding since before you girls were born.’’

  Mama stalked off, as dignified as possible in plum-colored pants. It didn’t help that she was leading a limping horse and a three-hundred-pound Bronx cowboy in rhinestones.

  Wynonna laughed. “Like I told your mama, pay no mind to that name. Shotgun’s the gentlest horse we have. Lawton should have renamed him, but it got to be a running joke. Not that Shotgun can’t go fast when you want him to, but he’s not too fond of it. And he’s even-tempered. He’ll walk a plank if you ask him to, just so long as he’s walking.’’

  “Well, the name is stupid, then,’’ Maddie muttered.

  “Watch it, Maddie,’’ I whispered. “The woman is grieving.’’

  “How’s Belle this morning?’’ Maddie asked Wynonna.

  That’s my sister: From frying pan to fire.

  Wynonna’s mouth tightened. “I have no idea. Belle doesn’t clear her schedule with me.’’

  Maddie said, “We just hope she’s all right, after last night.’’ I jabbed her in her oblivious ribs.

  “Belle’s fine.’’ The voice belonged to Trey, who had walked up behind us. “She says she’s taking a break from the trail today. Wants to shoot some pictures of birds and wildlife along the Kissimmee River.’’

  “Mornin’ Trey.’’ Wynonna’s voice was as sweet as cane syrup.

  He nodded curtly, but kept his eyes on me. “They’re serving breakfast, Mace. Want me to get you and your sister a couple of plates?’’ Wynonna wasn’t included in the offer.

  By the time we’d eaten and cleaned up, the Bramble ranch hand was delivering Shotgun. The pastureland was so dry, dust clo
uds billowed out from beneath the rig as he drove into camp.

  Trey waved at the man to stop, then hurried to get the horse. The rest of us followed, watching as Trey untied Shotgun from inside, and then prodded him to back out of the trailer. Stepping calmly to the ground, the horse stood waiting—as docile as a pony in a petting zoo.

  Trey patted the animal on the rump. “Shotgun, huh?’’

  “Is that a problem?’’ I asked him.

  “Not at all. Sweetest horse we’ve got. Belle trained him, and my little sister is a real horse whisperer.’’

  Wynonna said, “Trey’s right about Belle. She and I may have our issues, but I’ve never seen a steadier hand with horses.’’

  Mama and Sal were back, after making arrangements to have her temporarily lame horse trailered to the evening camp. Shotgun was saddled up and ready to ride. All Mama had to do was swing up and go. But first she needed a boost. She looked around and fluttered her eyelashes. Three cowboys, Trey included, stepped forward to help.

  “Thank you kindly,’’ she said to the Brambles’ hand, who had leaped from the driver’s seat of the truck to give Mama a leg up.

  Only I saw the self-satisfied curve to her lips as she settled herself prettily on the horse’s back. My boots would grow cobwebs while I waited for someone to help me into my saddle. Mama’s power over men still held in her sixties—that decade she refused to own up to.

  She performed a couple of figure-eights around the cook site, getting used to Shotgun. A chestnut-colored quarter horse, he looked responsive. Without too much urging, she got him into a lope. He seemed eager to please. She ran him at medium-speed through a barrel-racing pattern, circling around the garbage cans at either end of the site. He turned well, cutting like a charm.

  Mama waved at Sal, who beamed like a proud papa at her horsemanship.

  Marty, still shaky and pale from her migraine, joined us for the end of Mama’s show. Wearing dark sunglasses, she nursed a cup of hot tea. She planned to drive Maddie’s car to catch up with us at the lunch site. We hoped she’d feel like riding again by the afternoon.

  The three of us watched our mother in silence.