“Speaking of men, Mace, you might be curled up alone with Lawton’s cur in the tent tonight. I called Sally from the ranch house earlier. He’s driving over to meet us on the ride.’’
“Sally’’ is Mama’s irritating nickname for her fiancé, Salvatore Provenza—would-be husband No. 5. Somehow, I couldn’t picture the ex-New Yorker with the mysterious past as Cracker Trail material.
“What in the world is a guy from the Bronx going to do on a trail ride where everyone else is on horseback?’’
“Don’t ask me, Mace. He got a burr under his saddle about me being out here in the woods when I told him about Lawton. Why does everyone think I’m gonna get into trouble every time someone I know turns up dead?’’
Yeah, imagine that, I thought.
“Anyhoo, Sally says he wants to come up here and poke around. He says he’ll keep a low profile.’’
I pictured Saclass="underline" three-hundred-some pounds; a taste for pastel-colored golfing duds; and a Bronx honk that could stop the D train at Yankee Stadium. Amid a group of slow-talking, jeans-wearing, native Florida Crackers, Big Sal screamed “high-profile.’’
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Mama.’’
“I couldn’t persuade him otherwise, Mace. After all, the man is crazy about me.’’ She fluffed her platinum-hued hairdo. Amazingly, it hadn’t lost much height at all after a full day’s ride. “He wants to be here to protect me if problems arise.’’
Big Sal may have been terrific in his mystery profession up north in New York. But down south, he was out of his element. Suppose someone had killed Lawton? If Sal pushed too hard, too fast, there was no telling what might happen. Desperate people do desperate things.
Mama stopped in the pasture. “Which way, Mace?’’
We’d come to a fork along the unpaved road that wound through the Bramble property. To the right, I could hear the distant sound of traffic on State Road 64. The shell-and-sand surface was also more compressed in that direction, indicating heavier travel.
“Let’s go left,’’ I said. “That’ll probably take us to the back pasture, where the camp is set up.’’
As we set out, Mama picked up where she left off. “Personally, Mace, I think it’s a waste of time for Sally to come all the way up here. Doc Abel was Lawton’s doctor forever, and he seems certain his heart killed him.’’
The image of Wynonna rubbing Trey’s chest on the living room couch popped into my mind. I was just about to open my mouth to tell Mama what I’d seen when the loud crack of a cow whip snapped the sense back into my head. An aspiring cow hunter was brushing up on technique. We’d almost arrived at the camp where the rest of the riders had gathered.
“We’d better get it straight what we’re gonna say about Lawton, Mama.’’ I unwound the chain that secured the gate between the Bramble homestead and the outlying pastures. A hand-lettered sign hung from the barbed wire fence:
Cracker Trail Campers:
Please close gate behind you. Cattle will scatter.
As Mama and I stepped through, Tuck whined and looked back in the direction of the ranch house.
“C’mon, boy. It’s okay,’’ I said.
He sat down in the sandy road and hung his head.
“All right, then. We’ll see you later.’’
I gave him a parting pat, and then swung the gate shut, wrapping the chain around twice.
“Poor thing,’’ Mama said. “He’s waiting for Lawton.’’
Before long, we’d found our way to the center of camp. Wood smoke rose from a big fire. The smell of steaks sizzling wafted from the cook wagon. A Toby Keith CD blasted from the speakers inside somebody’s RV.
“Daddy would roll over in his grave if he saw the fancy rigs people bring on the Cracker Trail these days.’’ I gazed around at gleaming trucks and matching horse trailers, luxury RVs and campers.
“Nonsense, Mace. Your daddy went with the times. You can put all the disapproval you want into your voice. But that doesn’t change the fact that there’s nothing noble about sleeping on the cold, hard ground inside a tent that stinks of mildew.’’ Mama pouted. “And I still don’t see why we couldn’t rent us a nice little pop-up camper to bring.’’
“Because the original Florida cow hunters didn’t have campers, Mama. Or heated horse trailers. Or recreational vehicles. The ride is supposed to honor our Florida pioneer history. It ought to be authentic.’’
“Yeah? Well, I notice you don’t mind doing your business in the portable potties the Cracker Trail Association hauls along.’’
A low chuckle sounded behind us, coming from the food trailer.
“Your Mama’s got you there, darlin’.’’
We turned to see a strapping older man with a full head of wiry grey hair. Stacks of paper plates and napkins in plastic bags nearly hid his face. Mama’s hand flew to smooth her ’do. She tried to get a glance at her reflection in the generator used to power the electric lights around the chuck wagon.
“The first Florida Crackers didn’t have disposable utensils, neither. Nor wet coconut cake nor cold banana pudding for dessert,’’ the man said. “But that hasn’t stopped anyone with a sweet tooth from trying to weasel seconds out of my servers.’’
“Why, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,’’ Mama said, eyelashes fluttering in time to her words. “I’m Rosalee Deveraux, and this is my middle daughter, Mace.’’
He shifted the paper goods away to reveal his face. Strong cheekbones. A cheerful smile, which stopped just short of his dark eyes. “Hell, Rosalee, I’d never forget you! I’m Johnny Adams. Remember, I moved away to Sebring during high school?’’
Mama’s flirtatiousness disappeared, replaced by a mournful tone. “Oh, Johnny! I’m afraid I have some awful news about Lawton Bramble. I know y’all were as close as brothers once.’’
A hard look flitted across his face. “That was a long time ago, Rosalee.’’
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, standing right here by the food trailer.’’ Mama glanced around, like there might be a better spot for breaking bad news. Then she blurted out, “Lawton’s gone, Johnny. He had a heart attack and died.’’
She reached out a comforting hand, but Johnny didn’t seem to need it. When Mama revealed that Lawton was dead, the hard look never left his face.
The big campfire roared, sending sparks into the night. Johnny Adams stared at the white-hot logs as they collapsed in the flames. His face was unreadable. Mama said he’d been as close as a brother once to Lawton. What memories was he calling up out of that fire?
“All right, then. We need to tell the trail boss,’’ Johnny finally said. “He’ll bring everybody together, and we’ll make the announcement about Lawton just before dinner.’’
“I’ll go and tell him,’’ Mama said. “Jack will probably have some questions about how it happened and all.’’
I pictured Jack Hollister, our trail boss, trying to get a straight story from Mama. She might get distracted onto a tangent about Wynonna’s high-heeled boots, and forget to mention that Lawton was dead.
“I’ll come with you,’’ I said to Mama.
___
“Well, I for one am shocked that Lawton and that new wife aren’t nowhere to be seen. You’d think they’d have been out here to greet us by now.’’
The whisper in the dinner chow line came from a middle-aged cowgirl whose bottom was too broad for her jeans.