I hoped I wasn’t blushing. I didn’t care much for the way Lawton treated his land, or for his politics or business practices. Gossip was he was cruel; but he was all charm today. Magnetism oozed off him like musk. And there was no ignoring the force of those blue eyes. No wonder everyone from the governor on down asked how high when Lawton said jump.

Mama patted the hand he’d placed on the horn of her saddle. “I’ve tried to tell Mace exactly the same thing about how pretty she is, Law. I mean, look at that hair: so thick and black. The girl at Hair Today, Dyed Tomorrow says Mace looks just like a silent movie queen. But she doesn’t do a thing with what God gave her. She goes around looking like one of those critters she traps crawled up on her head and built itself a nest. Mace, honey, turn around so Law can see all those snarls in the back of your hair.’’

I shot Mama a murderous look.

“I’m not a heifer at auction!’’

Lawton rocked back a little and hunched his shoulders up to his ears. He might be rich and powerful, but this discourse on my poor grooming was turning him into the Shrinking Man.

“Mama, as much as I’m enjoying your hair-care tips,’’ I said, “I’m hungry. I want to get out of the saddle, get these horses taken care of, and get some grub.’’

Relief passed over Lawton’s face. He took off his hat and brushed a hand through hair that was steel-gray, but still thick. “That’s just what I came to tell y’all. I’ve got a cook site just over in that next clearing, and I’m making a batch of my famous Cow Hunter Chili. I’m gonna serve it at supper, so you better be hungry.’’

Mama’s hand fluttered up to cup the side of her face. It was the left hand, the one with the enormous diamond engagement ring from Sal Provenza.

“Oh, Law, my constitution is much too delicate for that five-alarm recipe of yours.’’

Truth is, Mama has a stomach like an iron-sided battleship. I’ve seen her down jalapeños whole on Mexican Fiesta Night at her church.

“But if your handsome son is going to be at supper,’’ Mama continued, “we’d sure like to stop by and say hello.’’

I noticed the slightest pressure at Lawton’s mouth. “Trey’s here.’’ He didn’t elaborate.

“How is that darlin’ boy?’’ Mama pressed ahead, her matchmaking obsession overriding her observational powers.

“Fine.’’ The set of Lawton’s mouth was grimmer than mine.

“You must be so proud of him. I heard he’s stepping into the family cattle business,’’ Mama plowed on, oblivious.

“Don’t believe everything you hear, Rosalee.’’

Mama finally caught on to Lawton’s cold tone of voice. Even in the dim light of the dying sun, I could see a muscle twitching in his clenched jaw. What had gone on between father and son?

“Oh . . . oh, my,’’ Mama sputtered. “I certainly didn’t mean . . .’’

Lawton cut her off with a smile. “Don’t worry your pretty head, Rosalee. It’s just family stuff. You know how families are.’’

“Don’t I ever,’’ I said.

“Anyway, I’ve gotta get back to my chili and ratchet up the spices. We’ll see y’all in a couple of hours, okay?’’

As Lawton left, Mama swung out of her saddle. I did the same. We worked silently for some time, putting up a temporary paddock; trading the horses’ bridles for halters, tethering them by lead ropes to the trailer. I’d just lifted off Val’s blanket and saddle, when Mama could stand the silence no longer.

“What do you think that was all about, Mace?’’ She whispered, though Lawton was well out of hearing range. “He turned as cold as a mother-in-law’s kiss, didn’t he? All I did was ask about Trey.’’

Lawton Bramble III—Trey—had been three years ahead of me in high school. Quarterback on the football team, straight-A student, the air of privilege that comes from being the son of the richest cattleman in three counties. He was exactly the kind of boy Mama would have loved for me to date. And exactly the kind who wouldn’t have given a second glance to a tomboy like me.

“Don’t ask me, Mama,’’ I shrugged, stowing Val’s saddle in the trailer. Predictably, Mama had made no move to finish with her horse. I lifted off Brandy’s saddle, too. “Just family I guess, like Lawton said.”

Dusk was coming on fast now. Crickets sang. A barred owl called. The air was crisp and chilled. The ride is held every year in February, when it can get cold in the center of Florida. But it rarely freezes. And most riders would rather bundle up with a couple of extra layers than camp along the Cracker Trail in the summer, when it’s so hot the hens are laying hard-boiled eggs.

By the time I watered and fed the horses, my own stomach was grumbling. I had to wait for Mama to decide what outfit to wear, then fix her hair and apply fresh makeup. Who brings mascara and blush-on to a trail ride? I glanced at my watch: More than two hours had passed since we spoke to Lawton. His chili would be spicy enough to peel paint by now.

Finally, we were ready to head over to the Bramble homestead. Several cattle-raising families along the trail generously opened their land each year to the trail riders. The cynic in me always figured that in Lawton’s case, he did it mostly so he could show off.

We started through the hammock, dodging low branches above and clumps of palmetto at our feet. A full moon was just beginning to peek above the clouds on the horizon, adding its glow to the flashlight I carried to find our way. Something small and wild scurried through the dry brush and leaves.

I held back a thorny vine so Mama could pass under. We came out of the oaks and onto a treeless pasture. Light shone from a lantern and campfire in the distance. Just as we started toward it, a woman’s scream stopped both of us short. With barely a glance at each other, we began running toward the sound.

“Oh, my God,’’ the woman screamed again. “It’s Lawton. He’s dead.’’

A young woman stood wringing her hands over Lawton Bramble’s body. He was stretched out on the ground at his cook site, a dark stain spreading around him. Mama grabbed my arm. I drew her close, and we approached the scene together.

“I don’t know what happened.’’ Tears on the woman’s face glistened in the firelight. She stared down at Lawton. “I came to check on him and his crazy chili. This is how I found him. I don’t know what happened,’’ she repeated, her voice getting smaller.

She was pulling so hard at the skin of her hands I thought she might strip it off. The eyes she aimed at Lawton were glassy.

“Mama, check to see if you can find a pulse.’’ I spoke softly, already suspecting by the unnatural body position and the blood that Lawton was dead. “I’m going to tend to this one here. I think she might be going into shock.’’

Mama stretched up to whisper in my ear before she hurried away. “Her name’s Wynonna, Mace. She’s Lawton’s brand-new wife.’’

Guiding Wynonna to a low plank bench, I gently sat her down. I removed the fleece vest I wore over my turtleneck, and zipped it tightly around her. It barely fit across her bust.

“Now, put your head down on your knees.’’ I spoke as distinctly and calmly as I could. “Take some slow, deep breaths. That’s good. In. Out.’’

Basic first aid is a job requirement at Himmarshee Park, where I work. We’ve had some experience at the park with emergencies, medical and otherwise. Wynonna did just as I told her, which was an encouraging sign.