When my sisters and I were kids, we used to complain about the biological byproduct of the cattle on our ranch. Daddy would always laugh and say, That’s the smell of money, girls.

That was before his cow-calf operation started hemorrhaging cash; before the stress of losing our ranch led to his fatal heart attack. By then, the manure didn’t smell like money anymore. It just smelled like shit.

I shook my head to clear away sad memories. Mama’s always big on handing out advice, most of which I never take. But there’s one bit of her counsel that’s always stuck with me: Don’t look back, Mace. What’s passed is past, and you can’t change it. Focus on making the best of what lies ahead.

I was pretty happy about what seemed to lie ahead for Carlos and me. Come to think of it, I wasn’t exactly unhappy about what had just passed between us. Given the potential for embarrassment if caught, we’d decided against doing anything X-rated in his parked car in front of Mama’s house. I’d shuddered at the thought of her coming out to rap at the window while Carlos and I were … occupied. Getting it on in a deserted pasture was as much revisiting my misspent youth as I was willing to do.

The highway home cut right through the center of Florida’s interior—citrus and cattle country. Agriculture was still managing to hold on in the region, despite encroaching development—like the new golf course community on Himmarshee’s southern edge. Under the light of the moon, I took in the shapes and sounds that defined my slice of Florida. Sabal palms, tall and thin with a top like a Q-tip, dotted a flat landscape. Bushier cypress trees were silhouetted in the distance, like dark sentries guarding the watery perimeter of Starvation Slough. A cow lowed. A night heron squawked as he hunted in the wetlands nearby. The eyes of a small critter, maybe a raccoon or opossum, reflected my headlights from the undergrowth along the shoulder. I slowed, just in time to avoid hitting the possum that ambled onto the road.

As I drove out of the orange grove, the citrus scent began to give way to the smell of garbage. The turnoff to the city dump was just ahead. An image of Camilla’s lifeless body popped into my mind. Silently, I repeated a prayer for her soul. Mostly, I hoped she hadn’t suffered too much before she died.

The glare of bright lights in my rear-view mirror startled me from thoughts about the murdered woman. It was unusual to see another car on this stretch of road, this late at night. It looked like the vehicle was tearing up the pavement, too. Within moments, it was right on my rear. Before I knew it, a powerful, American-sounding engine was revving behind me. The car drew closer. High beams flashed. A horn honked. Big and black, with tinted windows, the vehicle came closer still.

I murmured into my mirror, “What do you want me to do, asshole? Levitate out of the way to spare you the monumental effort of passing me?’’

I stuck my left arm out the Jeep’s window, waving at Mr. Hurry Up to go around me. He could easily pass. There was nothing in the oncoming lane between here and Wachula. Finally, he got tired of riding my bumper. Gunning it, he blew by me in a blur, and I saw it was a sedan. Between the dark windows and high speed, I didn’t get a good look at the driver. It could have been Mrs. Hurry Up, for all I saw.

My headlights caught a Florida plate and a red-white-and-blue bumper sticker. But the sedan pulled ahead and disappeared before I could read what it said. I repressed the urge to honk my horn and flip him the bird. Florida’s drivers are notoriously prone to road rage. You never know what might set off somebody’s crazy fuse, even in little Himmarshee.

As the big car’s taillights became miniature red dots, I wondered where he was headed in such a rush. My mind wasn’t completely on my driving, or what happened next would never have happened. An alligator—eight or nine feet, at least—had heaved itself out of the reedy wetlands and onto the pavement. Making its way across the highway to a canal, it stretched clear across the center line: Snout in the oncoming lane, tail oscillating across my lane. In an instant, I swerved. I missed the gator, but my right front tire hit the concrete abutment of a small bridge over the slough. The car bucked. The steering wheel jerked.

And just like that, I lost control.

eighteen

The Jeep’s right side veered off the road, spitting sand and weeds every which way. I’d taken my foot off the accelerator, but I was fighting forward momentum. Over-correcting could flip me into the canal where the gator now lurked.

Suddenly, I heard a voice, low and calm, in my head: Mama’s third husband, who’d taught me to drive. Take a deep breath. You know what to do.

Once, when No. 3 was giving me a lesson, an oncoming car strayed into my lane. I went off the road, and he guided me back: Ease off the gas. No brake. If the drop-off’s sharp, turn back sharply. If it’s smooth, nice and easy.’’

Holding my breath, I executed a turn between sharp and smooth. The Jeep leveled out; tires gripped pavement. Number 3 may have been a bad match for Mama, but he was a good man—and a great driver. I let out my breath, until the Jeep traveled a few more yards.

Bumpedty-bump, bumpedty-bump, bumpedty-bump.

Uh-oh. The right front tire must have blown hitting the concrete curb of the bridge. I punched the button for my emergency flashers and slowed to a stop. Before I got out of the vehicle, I listened for the deep bellow of a big gator. I hoped he’d moved on. A tire iron was no match for a riled-up, nine-foot reptile with seventy-five or eighty sharp teeth.

_____

Sweaty, grease-stained, and mosquito bitten, I got back in my Jeep. Still, I was grateful—first, that things hadn’t ended worse; and second, that Husband No. 3 also taught me to change a tire.

As soon as I settled into the driver’s seat, I noticed my cell phone was lit. Between swearing at the balky lug nuts and swatting at swarms of bugs, I must have missed it ringing. The caller ID said Maddie. She’d left a voice mail.

The first thing I heard was a sob, and then a couple of sniffles. “It’s me, Mace. I tried you at home, but no answer.’’

There was a long pause. She took a deep breath. “Kenny never came home from work, and he still hasn’t called. He’s not answering my text messages, either.’’

She blew her nose.

“I’m so angry … but I’m also wuh-wuh-worried.’’ Breaking on the last word, her voice became a sob.

After a moment, she seemed to collect herself. “I don’t mean to pile all this on you. There’s no need to come over here. I’m fine. Fine.’’ She repeated herself for emphasis.

“It’s such a long way, and it’s already so late.’’

I started my Jeep.

“I’m going to try to get some sleep. Everything will look better in the muh-muh-morning.’’

That last, choked-out word pierced my heart. I made a U-turn, heading back to Himmarshee and my hurting sister.

nineteen

Maddie’s front windows were dark; the spot where Kenny always parked his truck conspicuously empty. The place looked sad and lonely. Or, maybe I was just projecting my sister’s abandonment onto the inanimate house.

When I pulled around to the side of the house, I saw the dim blue glow of a TV coming from Maddie and Kenny’s bedroom. So she was still up. I hurried to the front door and retrieved the key from its hiding spot under her pot of dying geraniums.

I called out as soon as I opened the door so as not to startle her …

or raise her hopes it was Kenny coming home. No answer came from her room, but I heard the rustle of bed linens being thrown aside. She was up and waiting for me by the time I walked down the hallway.

“I told you not to come. I’m fine.’’

That was a lie. Maddie’s eyes were swollen nearly shut from crying. She wore a ratty bathrobe and just one sock, all stretched out with no elastic at the top. The other was probably lost somewhere in her bed. Used tissues spilled from the pocket of the robe. Beyond her, I saw more tissues all over the bed, a snowdrift of crumpled white.