Mama spooned the last bite of her strawberry pie into Sal’s mouth. As nauseating as the display was, I knew it was a sign of true love. She’s serious about sweets, never sharing lightly.

I’d given Sal my camp chair and taken a seat on the ground. I shifted, trying to avoid a sharp stob sticking up from the pasture. It was about to draw blood on my butt cheek, right through my jeans. After Sal finished chewing, he leaned back contentedly in my chair. I watched as the supposedly indestructible fabric strained at the seams. I’d bet Mama’s fiancé exceeded the chair’s load capacity, even before he Hoovered that strawberry pie.

“So, you say this Lawton guy keeled over while he was making chili?’’ Sal pulled a toothpick from behind his ear and stuck it in his mouth, staring all the while at Doc Abel.

“It was his heart. And it wasn’t unexpected.’’ Doc sat rigid in his chair, meeting Sal’s stare head on.

“Sally’s not suggesting anything to the contrary.’’ Mama placed her hand on Doc’s arm. Her immaculate manicure was a marvel, considering we were camping in the woods. “He’s from the Bronx in New York, so his questions don’t always come out sounding right.’’

Ring, ring, I thought. That’s the kettle, calling the pot black.

“Rosie’s right about that. I’m just a big bull in the teacup shop half the time.’’ Sal clapped Doc’s shoulder, causing him to wince. “Do you like cigars, Doc? I gotta couple of Cubans I’ve been saving. A buddy brought ’em for me through Mexico. We can have a smoke, so long as you don’t squeal to nobody about where they came from.’’

Doc looked torn. “Smoking isn’t good for your health. On the other hand, I haven’t had a proper cigar in years. What the heck?’’ He shrugged. “Life’s short, as Lawton’s unfortunate death demonstrated today.’’

Sal reached into the neon blue expanse of his jacket and pulled out a leather cigar case, an engagement present from Mama. He handed a cigar to Doc, who sniffed as if it were a fine wine. Putting it between his lips, Doc puffed as Sal torched the tip with a cigar lighter. Once it was glowing, Doc leaned back, exhaling with a happy sigh. He looked like he’d died and gone to that heaven that he didn’t believe in.

When Sal lit up, a cigar-scented cloud swirled around us, warring with the wood smoke from the campfire. Sitting across the way, the big-bottomed cowgirl sniffed, then made a big show of waving her hand in front of her face.

The smell of cigars has never bothered me. They remind me of Mama’s Husband No. 3, who I liked. He was a nice man, just a bad match for Mama. Number 3 taught me to drive in an orange grove he managed west of Fort Pierce. I can still remember the smell in his pickup truck: cigar overlaid with orange blossoms.

“You’re doing just fine, Mace,’’ he’d say, as we bounced along the rows between trees. “Go ahead and give her some gas.’’

I’d floor it, and he’d smile around the cigar he planted between his lips.

Staring into the fire, I flashed back to being fifteen. I’d felt like the queen of the world high up in the cab of that old truck. Watching the flames, I drifted off, almost rolling again with the truck over the rough ground in that long-ago grove. I suddenly snapped back to the present when I heard Sal mention my name.

“What’d I miss?’’

He flicked an ash. His cigar was about two-thirds gone. They must have been talking around me for a while. Had I dozed off?

“I was just telling Doc you’re suspicious after that murder you and your mother got mixed up in last summer.’’ Mudder, he pronounced it. “You’re inclined to see foul play around every corner, even where there ain’t none. It’s only natural, Mace.’’

Mama scrubbed with Sal’s hanky at a glob of pie he’d dropped on his gaudy Western wear.

“When you open the trunk of your convertible, like I did, and find a dead man stuffed inside like he was a Samsonite suitcase, foul play seems obvious,’’ Mama said. “But, Mace, this looks completely different than my murder victim. It’s clear that Lawton spent his time on earth, died of natural causes, and went on to meet his maker.’’ Here Mama paused to look at Doc. “That’s what Doc says, all except the part about Lawton going to heaven, of course.’’

Oh, Lord. Not the afterlife again.

“Y’all aren’t looking at the whole picture, Mama. Don’t forget Lawton had pulled his gun. And something about that scene just didn’t set right with me.’’

“You’ve seen a lot of crime scenes, huh, Mace?’’ Sal held out his cigar and gazed at it, confident he’d made his point.

I had no comeback. I twisted my body around in an effort to find a comfortable spot—and make Sal feel guilty about taking my chair. As I did, I noticed two teen-aged riders nearby, straining forward in their seats to hear what we’d say next. When the closest one saw me looking, she ducked her head and started fiddling with a big silver buckle on her belt.

“Little pitchers . . .’’ I whispered, nodding in the girls’ direction.

“. . . have big ears,’’ Mama completed the old saying.

I shut up and went back to watching the fire. I was too tired to argue anyway. But I still had my doubts—about the natural causes, and also about heaven. Not that I didn’t believe. I just wondered if Lawton would be asked to make a U-turn at the Pearly Gates. He’d womanized. He was estranged from his only son. And he’d done a friend wrong in love and business. And those were just the sins we knew about.

If there were things in Lawton Bramble’s life bad enough to keep him out of heaven, wouldn’t they be bad enough to get him murdered?

I was pondering that when an excited murmur began to ripple through the campfire crowd. The trail boss was leading Wynonna to the big oak log he’d already used to address the Cracker Trail gathering. People parted, like Wynonna was Princess Di brought back from the dead.

At the log, Jack offered Wynonna his arm. She steadied herself, climbing up in her high-heeled boots. I couldn’t help but notice she’d had time to trade in the black pair she’d worn earlier for a fancier set. These were light blue suede, with a swirl of turquoise snaking up the sides.

Jack coughed a couple of times. But he didn’t need to get anyone’s attention. The dinner camp was as silent as a church, every eye riveted on Wynonna. The broad-beamed cowgirl and her curly-headed pal studied the Widow Bramble like they were in charge of phoning in a report to People magazine.

“I’ve just come to say a few words to welcome you to the Bramble ranch,’’ Wynonna said, tears threatening to spill from her green eyes. “Lawton would have wanted that. He’d have wanted y’all to feel at home here, on family land. I’m sure everyone has heard by now that my husband suffered a fatal heart attack this afternoon.’’

The crowd murmured in affirmation.

“The trail boss passed along prayers and condolences from many of you. I want you to know the family—Trey and Belle and I—appreciate it.’’

I glanced around, and noticed the rest of Lawton’s family hadn’t come over with their young stepmother. Had they asked Wynonna to speak, or had she taken on the role on her own?

Brushing her frosted bangs from her forehead, she scanned the large crowd. “I just want y’all to know you’re welcome here, despite Lawton’s death. He really looked forward to being your host. He was all set to catch somebody’s tongue a’fire with that Cow Hunter Chili.’’ Her smile wavered. She touched a wadded up tissue gently to each eye. “I’m sorry,’’ she said.