“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.