The outriders patrolled the mounted and waiting crowd, their eyes never still. They looked for any problem that had the potential to become a crisis. Here, a weekend cowboy needed a red ribbon tied to his horse’s tail, a sign to steer clear because the horse kicked. There, another horse spooked at the sharp snap of a cow whip. Embarrassed but unhurt, the rider landed hard on the sandy ground.

Little got by the outriders.

“Listen up,’’ the one closest to us shouted. “We can’t say it enough about them cow whips. This is called the Cracker Trail Ride. It honors the Florida pioneers. They used to call ’em Crackers for those loud-assed whips they used.’’ He looked down the line of riders, not focusing on any one person. Still, all of us knew what was coming next. “Now, if your horse don’t like the sound of a cow whip, that’s your problem. Not the Cracker Trail’s. You need to get ’em used to that sound, ’cause you’re gonna be hearing it a lot.’’ He shifted a wad of tobacco under his lip. “And if they can’t get used to it, you and your horse are gonna have to find another trail to ride.’’ The outrider gazed down the line again, lingering for a moment on the woman whose horse dumped her off. She got busy fiddling with a leather strap on her saddle.

“We just can’t take the chance of a horse bolting out into the road or knocking somebody off whenever they hear a whip crack.’’ He spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the pasture. It hit a soda apple, poisonous to cattle. I wondered whether tobacco worked as a weed control.

“We’ll be off in a few minutes,’’ the outrider said. “Let’s have us a good ride.’’

He gave a quick smile, but the serious look stayed in his eyes. Keeping track of more than a hundred riders of various ages and abilities is hard work and heavy responsibility. It’s definitely more challenging than working cattle. More like herding cats.

Mama took the opportunity of our delay to catch up on her socializing. The last I’d seen her, she was jabbering away, somewhere near the back of the crowd.

Sal enlisted another non-rider to help him move my Jeep and the horse trailer, as well as his own car, to our next camp. The organizers provide buses to ferry riders at each day’s lunch break. While the horses rest, the riders travel back to the morning camp, collect their rigs, and then drive everything ahead and park it at the night camp. Then it’s back on the buses to the lunch spot, meet up with the rest of the ride, and continue all afternoon on horseback to the new camp.

Everybody hates all that back-and-forth and gobbling lunch, so I was grateful to Sal for letting me bypass the bus rides and leap-frogging. He said he was comfortable doing the driving, and if God had intended for him to learn to ride, he’d have put a herd of horses in the Bronx.

With the fog nearly cleared, the sun was starting to heat up the day. A yellow sulphur butterfly floated past. A scrub jay called from the low branch of a pine. I lifted my face to the warmth. As I was praying the temperature wouldn’t plunge again overnight, I felt Marty nudge my left leg with her stirrup.

“There’s Carlos,’’ she whispered out of the side of her mouth. “On your right. About four o’clock.’’

Oh, crap. My poor neck.

Once I got my head turned, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Carlos had traded in his driving-up-from-Miami clothes—a navy blue crewneck sweater and tennis shoes—for riding gear. And, unlike Sal with his gaudy glitter, Carlos had got it exactly right. His brown boots were appropriately scuffed. He’d angled his straw cowboy hat—a Resistol—just so. He wore a long-sleeved denim shirt, faded and soft. And his jeans were by Wrangler—the brand favored at rodeos from Florida to Washington State.

“The man looks gorgeous, Mace. I’ll give him that. That white hat with his dark eyes and skin? Umm-umm,’’ Maddie leaned in close from my right side so I could hear her lips smack.

Begrudgingly, I agreed that he looked hotter than a stolen pistol.

“But let’s see if he knows the north end of that horse from the south,’’ I said. “That’s a thoroughbred he’s riding, and he looks like a handful.’’

Carlos eased his horse to the front of the line, where the mule- and horse-drawn wagons were gathered. Even the most placid of horses will sometimes get spooky around pulled wagons. The look of them and the sounds they make can take some getting used to. And a thoroughbred, with its high spirits and often nervous temperament, is far from placid. I watched to see how Carlos would handle the horse.

One of the wagons had been having a problem with a brake that rubbed. As the driver circled the pasture to test his repair, Carlos urged his bay-colored horse toward the mule-drawn contraption. The thoroughbred’s ears went back. He rolled his big eyes until the whites showed, looking at the wagon as if to say “What in the hell is that, and how’s it going to hurt me?’’

The wagon clattered by, squeaking and rattling. The horse went into a fast sidestep, trying to flee. Carlos turned the reins, shifted in the saddle, and used the pressure of his legs on the horse’s belly to force him straight back to what he feared. Tossing his head, the horse turned round and round in a tight circle. Carlos repeated the same actions again, firm but not cruel. By the time he’d done it a third and fourth time, the horse walked along behind the wagon, as docile as the family dog.

“Looks like he has a little more experience than riding a police car through Miami’s concrete jungle,’’ Marty said.

“Hmmm.’’ I left it at that, not caring to add that the man whose skills I’d mocked could handle a horse just as well as I could.

At just that moment, he glanced my way. If my neck had been in better shape, I would have snapped my head around before he caught me looking. But it wasn’t, so he did. I could hardly ignore him now. Especially since he was heading my way.

“Hey,’’ I said as he rode up.

“Mace.’’ He stopped, and touched the brim of his hat. No smile. “Where’s your cowboy friend from earlier this morning? You looked like such good buddies, I thought maybe you two would be riding double on the same horse.’’

Maddie snorted. Marty giggled. I ignored his comment.

“Speaking of riding,’’ I said, “how come you never told me you were so at home on a horse?’’

“What, and spoil your notion that you were Ms. Rodeo Rider and I was just a city boy who wouldn’t know a saddle from a squad car?’’

I think I might have blushed. That sounded just like the way I’d have put it.

“Where’d you learn to ride?’’ Maddie asked.

“My grandfather had cattle in Cuba. After Castro took over, my family didn’t own the ranch anymore.’’ His eyes got a pained, far-away look. “My dad still worked there, though. And he taught me everything he knew about horses.’’

“Well, he must have taught you well,’’ Marty said. ‘You ride like a dream.’’

“Gracias,’’ he said, giving Marty a grin that showed off his white teeth.

When he turned back to me, the smile was gone. “You know, niña, you don’t have the market cornered on cowboys. We had them in Cuba, too. We called them guajiros.’’

With that, he tipped his hat and galloped away.

“It’s a good sign he’s angry about seeing you with Trey,’’ Marty said. “It means he still cares.’’

“Or, it means he doesn’t like her well enough to even try to be nice,’’ Maddie said.

I didn’t reply to the theories of either of my sisters. I just sat there, thinking of the sight of his strong thighs in the saddle, and of the thrill I’d felt the first time he called me niña. Then, his voice had been low and sexy. The Spanish word for girl had sounded like a caress. Now, it sounded like a slap.