Mama Rides Shotgun

by Deborah Sharp

  “I’ve got her gun,’’ Austin called out. “You all right, Mace?’’

  “Yes, and I’ve got her.’’ I straddled Belle’s body wrestler-style, my thighs pinning her thin arms to the sandspur-studded ground.

  Sticking Belle’s .22 into her waistband, Austin worked the whip again, and then again and again. In olden times, three cracks of a cow whip signaled danger or an emergency. In this case, I think she was showing off. But I didn’t mind. Austin most likely saved my life.

  “I see you got your whip back. You’re awfully good for someone who was just ‘practicing’ the day you ‘accidentally’ hit my horse.’’

  “Yeah.’’ She studied the whip, looking ashamed. “I’m sorry about that. Your tent, too.’’

  “I think this makes us even,’’ I said.

  Austin shifted her gaze to Belle, who turned her head away. She pressed her cheek into the coarse sand and sobbed, narrow shoulders jerking.

  “A little late for crying, isn’t it, Belle?’’ Austin sneered. “Mace had Carlos first. He’s not worth getting yourself thrown into jail over. I’ve been mad at Mace, too. But I’d never pull a gun on her. What in the hell is wrong with you?’’

  Austin thought my near-murder was over a man! I was grateful for her timing and expert aim. But if brains were blue ink, she didn’t have enough to dot an i.

  ___

  “Oh, honey. I can’t believe I almost lost you!’’

  Mama sat with me on a bench by the river, stroking my hair. She fluffed, and then re-fluffed my greasy bangs, and I didn’t even pull away. Maddie pressed herself against my other side, clutching my hand. Marty had flitted around nervously, finally lighting on the ground at my feet. She gripped my knee with both hands, like a bird hanging onto its perch in a hurricane.

  “I’m fine, y’all,’’ I told them for what seemed like the hundredth time.

  Austin had left me pinning down Belle while she ran for help, spreading word through the picnic grounds as she went. Mama and my sisters rushed over as soon as they heard. Sal wasn’t around, as he’d disappeared with Trey on a mission to find a cigar store. Neither was Carlos, who hadn’t even finished the parade before rushing to the hospital to try to talk to Doc.

  The Fort Pierce police came and took Belle into custody. She sat now in the back of a squad car, ducking her head from the stares of a growing crowd of riders and parade spectators.

  “I knew all along it was one of the Brambles,’’ the big-bottomed cowgirl said to her friend with the permanent curls.

  “Is it true Belle shot Doc Abel?’’ I overheard a latecomer ask her.

  “That’s right.’’ The cowgirl spoke with the authority of someone who’d learned the news a few moments earlier. “And killed her daddy, too.’’

  I still didn’t know exactly how, or more importantly why, Belle had done the things she did. She’d clammed up after Austin hit her with the whip.

  “Are you sure she said she ‘got rid’ of Lawton, Mace?’’ Maddie looked at me doubtfully.

  “Yes, Maddie. With Doc’s help. Like I told y’all, I didn’t find out more because it’s hard to think of follow-up questions when you’re counting down your final seconds on Earth.’’

  Marty squeezed so hard I knew her nails would leave marks on my knee. “Maddie, stop badgering Mace. We’re lucky she’s even here.’’

  “You’re absolutely right, Marty.’’

  Both Mama and I stiffened in surprise. Maddie giving in so easily? My formerly imminent death must have scared her pretty bad.

  “There’ll be time to figure everything out after we’ve gotten something to eat.’’ Maddie was signaling that, at least for her, things were returning to normal.

  “Speaking of food . . .’’ Mama nodded toward the crowd, where Johnny Adams approached with Audrey. Each of them carried two foil-wrapped plates.

  “Audrey thought you might be hungry.’’ Johnny’s gruff voice had gone soft.

  “Don’t listen to this old crab.’’ She poked him with an elbow. “Johnny’s the one who insisted we come over to check on you.’’

  Mama and Maddie reached up for the plates. The hand-holding and bangs-adjusting was over, which was fine with me. Still, I couldn’t eat. The top and bottom halves of my stomach were holding a tug-of-war. I toed a pebble loose from the ground, and then leaned to pick it up. I stood, and found another and then another buried in the sand.

  “I’ll get something later.’’ I slipped the rocks in my pocket. “I’m going to the river.’’

  Marty’s eyes went wide. “No, Mace! You should stay here with us!’’

  Mama stroked her fine blond hair. “Honey, don’t worry. Mace’ll be okay. She’s just going off to toss some rocks into the water.’’

  “Maybe I could go with her.’’ The voice was masculine. Slightly accented. I looked up from searching the ground to see Carlos, his eyes dark with emotion; his face full of relief.

  “We could toss rocks together,’’ he said softly, holding out his hand.

  I took two steps toward him. He took one to me. And suddenly I was in his arms. I buried my face in his clean denim shirt, inhaling the smell of laundry soap and safety. Wrapped in his tight embrace, I didn’t feel weak. I felt cared for, and doubly strong.

  He lifted my chin. We kissed, and he nipped at my bottom lip with his teeth.

  “I almost went out of my mind driving back here,’’ he whispered. “Belle poisoned her father. Doc said she tricked him to get an extra prescription for digoxin, the medicine Lawton took to regulate his heart.’’

  “And she used the drug to give him a fatal overdose. In his chili. Was I right?’’

  He nodded, and his smile was sad. I didn’t feel triumphant.

  “Belle had a second, identical cup,’’ Carlos said. “She mixed in more and more of the drug over the day, and then took Lawton’s tainted cup. She left the clean one to be found.’’

  I thought of all the devious planning Belle must have done. Somehow, her mind had become as poisoned as that cup.

  Carlos touched my cheek, looking deep into my eyes. “I flew back from the hospital, praying all the while I wasn’t too late. Then, when I arrived, someone said you’d been shot . . .’’

  “Shhh.’’ I put a finger to his lips. “I was right here, waiting for you.’’

  As we turned to the water, Carlos’ arm close around my shoulder, I glanced back at the bench. I had to smile at Mama and my sisters. They each sent a silent signal: Six thumbs up.

  “Can I warm that up for you, hon?’’

  The waitress hovered over my table at Gladys’ Diner. I covered my cup with my hand and shook my head.

  “No thanks, Charlene. I’m fuller than a drainage ditch in the rainy season. But you can bring me a tiny slice of that peanut butter pie.’’

  I was too nervous to eat much. Trey Bramble had called and asked me to meet him. He had something for me, he said. Just as I began to wonder if he was standing me up, the door opened and in he walked. He’d probably dropped ten pounds in the month since the Cracker Trail ride—weight he couldn’t afford to lose from his lean frame. His jeans hung low on his hips; his slim-cut Western shirt bagged across his chest. The dark smudges under his eyes attested that sleep was hard to come by.

  Every head in the place turned as Trey walked to my table.

  “Hey,’’ he said as he leaned in and kissed my cheek.

  “Hey yourself,’’ I answered.

  Lowering himself onto a chair, he put the stares and whispers behind his back. He slid an envelope toward me across the table.

  “Thanks for meeting me, Mace.’’ He dropped his eyes, touching a finger to the envelope. “I thought you might want these.’’

  Opening it, I swallowed a gasp. Inside were the campfire pictures Belle took of Mama, my sisters, and me. They were really good. She’d captured us completely. I traced Mama’s mischievous smile in one photo as she snatched a bite of pie from Marty’s plate.

  “Wow,’
’ I said.

  “I know.’ Trey looked at me sadly. “Belle had real talent. What a waste.’’

  Then both of us started to speak at the same time: “Trey, I’m so sorry . . .’’

  “I feel just awful . . .’’ he said.

  I motioned for him to go first.

  “I can’t even say how terrible I feel about what Belle did, Mace. I’m glad Austin was there with that cow whip. By the way, you might be interested to know she’s signed up for anger management sessions.’’

  I had to smile at the image of Austin, deep-breathing and chanting her calming word.

  “And I’m sorry, too, Trey. For everything. You lost your daddy, and now your sister, too. It’s a lot to bear. How you holding up?’’

  He drew a circle in the condensation my water glass left on the table. “You mean am I drinking?’’

  “Not only that.’’

  Charlene bustled by, raising her coffee pot to Trey. He nodded, and she poured before dashing off again.

  “I went on a week-long drunk after Belle was arrested. I barely got myself together for Daddy’s funeral.’’

  I remembered. Trey stumbled into the church service, twenty minutes late and stinking of booze. Head-shaking and tongue-clucking followed him down the aisle like wake from a boat.

  “When I woke up the day after we buried him, I decided enough was enough. The family business needs me. Belle still needs a brother. I haven’t had a drop since. Now, I know I’ve quit on my own before and always slid back. So, this time I’m getting help. I start on Monday at some fancy rehab place in Orlando.’’

  He pointed at the sugar shaker on the table. I passed it over, and he dumped what looked like a quarter of it into his black coffee.

  “I’m proud of you, Trey. I know you’ll kick it this time.’’

  “I don’t have a choice, Mace. It’s all on me now.’’

  Was responsibility what he needed all along? Or would the extra weight prove too much for Trey to carry? I guess we’d just have to wait and see.

  His eyes went again to the pictures spread out in front of us. “Belle made some beautiful photographs on that ride,’’ he said. “She took some awful ones, too. I wish I’d thrown away the film she left in her camera; never had it developed. The police have most of those pictures now, anyway.’’

  The hair rose at the back of my neck.

  Stirring the coffee he’d already stirred, Trey whispered, “She shot a picture of Daddy dying.’’ When he looked up, his blue eyes, his father’s eyes, were wet. “How could she do that, Mace?’’

  I had no answer to that.

  “This psychologist says it was wrong for Daddy to keep so much from Belle about being adopted. It made her feel like she had a secret she had to be ashamed of. The doctor says it made her become disconnected, family-wise. And that got all tangled up with Belle’s feelings about Bramble land. When she found out Daddy planned to sell a good portion of what we own, something just went wrong in Belle’s head.’’ He rubbed his eyes. “She wasn’t herself, Mace.’’

  I couldn’t tell which of us he was trying to convince. I put my hand over his on the table.

  “I’m sorry, Trey.’’

  What else could I say?

  “There were other pictures, too. The rattlesnake. The bees crammed into her camera case. Doc with his hands up and fear in his eyes. The last one she took was of you, brushing your horse after the parade in Fort Pierce.’’

  I felt a sudden chill, and it wasn’t from the diner’s rattling air conditioner. Given enough time, Belle might have snapped a picture of my gun-shot body sinking into the Indian River. I knew Trey still loved his sister, despite everything. But if I had my way, they’d lock her up and lose the key.

  “Didn’t you ever suspect anything, Trey?’’

  He blew on his coffee and sipped, a stall before answering.

  “I think I did.’’ He nodded. “But I didn’t want to face my suspicions. I left that note for you to keep looking for Daddy’s killer. I hoped and prayed it’d be anybody but Belle. But the more I thought about it, the more afraid I got that you’d keep asking questions and they’d lead you right to her.’’

  Trey traced the map of Florida on his placemat. When his finger got to the star north of Lake Okeechobee that marked Himmarshee, he spoke again.

  “I’m the one who broke into your Jeep and took back the note.’’

  I looked at him. Youth and joy were gone from his eyes. They looked pained. Empty.

  “I’ll pay for the damage, Mace.’’

  “I’m not worried about the top, Trey. It already leaked like a sieve. We’re in the dry season anyway.’’

  “No,’’ he said firmly. “I’ll get you a check. I’m just beginning to iron out Daddy’s business dealings. I’m getting Johnny Adams back his money. Daddy shouldn’t have done him like he did. And I’m going to buy out Wynonna’s half of our cattle business.’’

  “Where is your step-mama anyway?’’

  “Off to Paris, alone,’’ Trey said. “We had us a long talk before she left. Wynonna’s got issues with men.’’

  No kidding.

  “She said she’s having herself one last fling before she moves back home to North Carolina and settles down. She claims she saw a therapist back there who deals with people with her problem. So I guess she’ll go back and hope the treatment takes.’’

  So Trey was going to dry out. Austin was combating her rage. And Wynonna was working on her sex addiction. Maybe Jerry Springer should do a show next year from the Cracker Trail.

  I glanced at my watch. It was just past noon. The diner was filling up. Ranchers and citrus growers in boots and jeans strode in. The courthouse’s suit-and-tie crowd filed to tables. My eyes flickered to the entrance every time the bells on the door jangled.

  “You waiting on somebody, Mace?’’

  I felt a flush. “Kind of,’’ I answered.

  Just then, Carlos passed by the plate glass window on his way to the door. I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance of seeing him since downtown Himmarshee’s dining choices were either Gladys’ or the Dairy Queen on US Highway 441. I waved him over. The two men shook hands warily.

  “How are things down in Miamuh?’’ Trey asked.

  “I’m living up here now, becoming an authentic Himmarshean.’’

  “Don’t let him fool you, Trey. He still hates sweet tea and craves Cuban coffee,’’ I said. “But we’ll make him into a good ol’ boy yet.’’

  Carlos flashed me a smile. My stomach did a high dive.

  “I keep telling you, niña, I’ll be as country as you want, just as long as you don’t make me eat grits.’’

  Trey’s gaze went from one of us to the other, understanding dawning. He pushed back his chair and stood. “I was just about to git,’’ he said to Carlos. “Why don’t you take my seat?’’

  He held out his hand again; the two men shook. “You take good care of Mace, hear?’’

  Carlos raised an eyebrow. “She doesn’t need anybody to take care of her, do you Mace?’’

  I took a moment to think about that.

  “You’re right. I don’t need it,’’ I said. “But I’ve learned it’s not a sin to want it every now and then.’’

  THE END

  Acknowledgments

  I owe a debt to the great folks on the Florida Cracker Trail, who welcomed me on the Twentieth Anniversary of the cross-state horseback ride. Everyone was uniformly nice: not a greedy, murderous, or crazy character among them. Just as my books’ fictional town of Himmarshee is inspired by Okeechobee, the Cracker Trial served as muse. I shifted Florida geography to suit the story. The characters, good and bad, came from my imagination.

  Some real people, however, deserve a tip of this cowgirl’s hat.

  Judge Nelson Bailey educated me on Florida’s cattle history, which the ride honors, and loaned me his horse, Domino. Carol Bailey helped me resurrect long-dormant riding skills.

  Mitzi Webber and the M
iami crew rescued me one wet, frozen night, providing horse trailer and portable heater. Apologies to Mitzi’s horse, Poco, who had to sleep outside.

  Florida’s fine cattlemen and women hosted the ride, keeping agricultural traditions alive. Special thanks to Duck and Susan Smith for a ranch house tour and family tales.

  Pat’s Bar-B-Que, the chuck wagon crew, fed us so well I forgot my aches and pains.

  The mule- and horse-wagon drivers offered a few rides, giving my bottom a break.

  Deputies and police across Florida helped keep us safe; all were competent pros, unlike the sheriff from fictional Dundee, Florida.

  Dr. Robert King briefed me during the ride on medicine and matters of the heart (Dr. David Perloff did the same, back in Fort Lauderdale).

  Bit of Hope Ranch loaned a rescued horse for the final day’s parade. Thanks to Karl, a peach of a plow horse!

  As always, I want to thank my husband, Kerry Sanders, and the original Mama, Marion Sharp, for their love and support; Joyce Sweeney and the Thursday group for writing help (super title, Audrey!); and my agent, Whitney Lee, for being in my corner.

  I’m grateful for the talented staff at Midnight Ink, especially Connie Hill, whose editing skill saves me from looking stupid; Courtney Kish, who gets the word out; and Lisa Novak, whose designs make my covers pop. Illustrator Mark Gerber is an added gift.

  To those I’ve named, to anyone I missed, and especially to you, for reading Mama Rides Shotgun … THANKS.

  About the Author

  Like Mace Bauer’s, Deborah Sharp’s family roots were set in Florida long before Disney and Miami Vice came to define the state. She does some writing at a getaway overlooking the Kissimmee River in the wilds north of Okeechobee, and some at a Starbucks in Fort Lauderdale. As a Florida native and a former longtime reporter for USA Today, she knows every burg and back road, including some not found on maps. Here’s what she has to say about Himmarshee:

  Home to cowboys and church suppers, Himmarshee is hot and swarming with mosquitoes. A throwback to the ways of long-ago southern Florida, it bears some resemblance to the present-day ranching town of Okeechobee. The best thing about Mace and Mama’s hometown: it will always be threatened, but never spoiled, by suburban sprawl.