“In and out. You’re doing fine.’’ I rubbed her back, feeling her breathing start to slow.

I glanced toward Mama. Kneeling, her fingers resting lightly at the side of Lawton’s throat, she looked at me and shook her head. No pulse.

She drew a compact from her jacket pocket and whipped it open. Mama couldn’t possibly be checking her lipstick at a time like this. Could she? I was relieved when she held the glass of the mirror down low, close to Lawton’s mouth.

After a moment, she raised the mirror and looked toward us again. She shook her head. No sign of breath.

Mama might be ditsy, but she’s not squeamish about death. She grew up on a farm. She volunteers at the hospital. And, less than a year ago, she discovered the body of a murder victim in the trunk of her turquoise convertible.

Giving Lawton’s cheek a gentle pat, Mama stood and started toward us. The sharp snap of her compact closing seemed to bring Wynonna back into the world. She lifted her face from her knees, two dark streaks of mascara marring her creamy skin.

“Our five-month anniversary is next Thursday.’’ She sniffled. “Lawton was taking me to Paris. I guess I’ll never get to see that Eiffel Tower now.’’

I immediately raised my eyebrows at Mama, now standing beside us at the bench. She leaned down to whisper, “Let it go, Mace. The woman’s just had an awful shock. Folks can’t be held accountable for what they say when a loved one dies so suddenly.’’

She laid a hand on Wynonna’s hair, stroking blond highlights. “Honey, do you want us to take you over to the house? Can we call someone to be with you?’’

Wynonna jumped off the wooden bench, her eyes focused now. “Oh, my Lord! What am I going to tell Trey? And Lawton’s daughter, Belle? They’ve been after him something fierce to listen to his doctors about his cholesterol.’’

“So, you think he had a heart attack,’’ I said.

“His last report from Dr. Perloff was real bad.’’ Her green eyes widened in alarm. “Why? Don’t you think that’s what it was?’’

All three of us looked across the campfire at Lawton’s body. A horse whinnied in the distance, answered by a second horse’s whicker.

“Well, there is the blood,’’ I finally said, hesitant to bring up something so gruesome to so recent a widow. At least I didn’t add how many people feared or hated Lawton Bramble, and might want to see him dead.

“What blood?’’ Confusion played across Wynonna’s pretty features.

“Uhm, Mace, honey?’’ Grabbing at my arm, Mama tugged me off the bench toward the body.

“Quit, Mama,’’ I said, trying to shake her off.

She didn’t say anything, just kept dragging me closer. Finally, she stopped next to him, out of Wynonna’s hearing. “Take a deep breath, honey.’’

I did as I was told. And as I breathed, the aroma of spicy Cow Hunter Chili filled my nose.

“Oh,’’ I said, embarrassed.

The pot of chili Lawton had been tending must have toppled when he collapsed. Examining the scene more closely now, I saw a scattering of beans and ground beef mixed into the dark stain on the sandy ground. He wore a white chef’s apron over his jeans and Western-style shirt. Bright red letters on the apron proclaimed, It Ain’t Hot Enuf Yet! An oversized soup mug, decorated with a tongue in flames, sat sideways on the ground a few feet from his body. It still had about a fourth of a cup of Lawton’s chili inside.

Neither of us noticed that Wynonna had crept up behind us. Then we heard her gasp.

“That big ol’ mug is his special tasting cup,’’ she said, tears choking her voice. “Nobody ever touches that chili cup but Lawton.’’

Sobbing, Wynonna collapsed onto Mama. In high-heeled boots, she towered nearly a foot over Mama’s four-foot-eleven-inch frame. When Mama staggered under the onslaught, I stepped in to provide some ballast.

“We should get a doctor, or at least an ambulance, out here to do what’s right for Lawton,’’ Mama said, craning her neck around Wynonna’s generous bustline to find me. “Mace, honey, why don’t you call somebody on your cell-o-phone?’’

“My cell phone is in the saddlebag, Mama.’’

“There’s . . . no . . . reception . . .’’ Wynonna said between sobs. “We’ll have to walk up to the house . . . to . . . place a . . . to place a . . . call.’’

She seemed to be making an effort to control herself. She stepped away from us and gave her tight blouse a tug to rearrange it at the waist. She ran her hands through her hair, lifting and patting it back into place. Mama offered her a handkerchief from the pocket of her own powder-blue jeans. Taking the lacy blue hanky, Wynonna dabbed daintily at her nose.

“I think I’m ready to go up to the house,’’ she said, squaring her shoulders. “I’d just like to pick up that chili cup and take it with me. I want something to remember him by.’’

Something about the way Wynonna had gotten a hold of herself so quickly rubbed me the wrong way. It seemed brave, yes. But brave like she was playing the role of a distraught but determined widow in a movie. Then again, everybody grieves in different ways. Who am I to say what’s normal and not?

The three of us walked back to Lawton’s body. Now that the initial shock had passed, I immediately noticed that the air was thick with the smell of tomatoes, spiced beef, and beans. Wynonna gave us a shaky smile.

“With Lawton, it was always Cow Hunter Chili this, and Cow Hunter Chili that. ‘Cow hunters’ is what they called the old-time Florida cowboys, you know?’’

I nodded.

“He sure loved making that chili, Lawton did.’’

Mama cleared her throat. “Do you want to say your goodbyes, honey? Mace and I will stand right here with you ’til you’re done.’’

Wynonna’s tears glistened again in the light of the fire. She closed her eyes and started murmuring something that sounded like a prayer. Mama put an arm around her waist. I stood awkwardly on Wynonna’s other side, hands dangling from my wrists. As she went on, I lowered my eyes out of respect.

Gazing down, I noticed something silvery shimmering near Lawton’s right leg. Probably a tasting spoon or a cooking utensil of some sort, I thought. But it looked too bulky for that. I took a couple of steps closer. Wynonna stopped praying.

I squinted in the flashlight beam. The object was nearly hidden under Lawton’s thick leg, but the shape was unmistakable. It was a gun.

Bending at the waist, I took a better look. Lawton wore an old-fashioned holster, a nod to the turn-of-the-century Florida frontier men who once rode the Cracker Trail. I got on my knees, lowered my head, and peered as close as I could at his right thigh. The gun was a Colt .44, lifted free of the holster.

Now, why would Lawton have had to pull that six-shooter if all he was doing when he died was making chili?

“Mace, honey? What’s going on? What’re you doin’ crawling around down there on the ground?’’

“That’s a good question.’’ Wynonna echoed Mama, her voice as cool as the darkening night. “What is it you find so interesting about my husband’s body?’’

I stood and brushed dirt and bits of dead grass from the knees of my jeans. “I’m sorry, Wynonna. I didn’t mean any disrespect.’’

She narrowed her eyes at me.

“Fact is, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to touch anything else. Or, for you to cart off that chili-tasting mug of Lawton’s.’’ I worked at keeping my voice neutral. Respectful. “I think we ought to leave everything here, just as we found it.’’