A small crowd milled around Mama’s horse, Brandy. Wynonna was there, wearing red alligator boots and tight blue jeans. Her highlighted hair was caught up in a bright red alligator-hide clip. She hunkered down next to Mama and a blacksmith. The three of them studied the soft padding on the underside of Brandy’s foot. The eyes of everyone else in the crowd were on Wynonna. I wondered how it felt having people stare at you every second.

“Is everything okay?’’ I called to Mama.

She waved her ring hand at me. “We’re fine, Mace. Brandy’s bruised her frog. Mike here thinks maybe it was that patch of spilled rock we went through, where they were fixing the highway culvert. Or maybe a beer bottle tossed in the grass out the window of somebody’s car. He says she’ll be fine with a little rest.’’

Wynonna looked up, concern darkening her lovely green eyes.

“I hate to see Rosalee miss the ride,’’ she said. “I told your Mama she can borrow one of our horses. One of Lawton’s men is loading him into a trailer right now. It’ll do Shotgun good to be ridden. He’s getting fat and lazy.’’

“Shotgun?’’ Maddie butted in. “That doesn’t sound like a horse a senior citizen should be riding.’’

Mama straightened, set her plum-colored cowboy hat firmly, and raised her voice to carry: “Why, Maddie, I’m still in my fifties.’’

That was a lie. She’d turn sixty-three on the Fourth of July.

“And I’ve been riding since before you girls were born.’’

Mama stalked off, as dignified as possible in plum-colored pants. It didn’t help that she was leading a limping horse and a three-hundred-pound Bronx cowboy in rhinestones.

Wynonna laughed. “Like I told your mama, pay no mind to that name. Shotgun’s the gentlest horse we have. Lawton should have renamed him, but it got to be a running joke. Not that Shotgun can’t go fast when you want him to, but he’s not too fond of it. And he’s even-tempered. He’ll walk a plank if you ask him to, just so long as he’s walking.’’

“Well, the name is stupid, then,’’ Maddie muttered.

“Watch it, Maddie,’’ I whispered. “The woman is grieving.’’

“How’s Belle this morning?’’ Maddie asked Wynonna.

That’s my sister: From frying pan to fire.

Wynonna’s mouth tightened. “I have no idea. Belle doesn’t clear her schedule with me.’’

Maddie said, “We just hope she’s all right, after last night.’’ I jabbed her in her oblivious ribs.

“Belle’s fine.’’ The voice belonged to Trey, who had walked up behind us. “She says she’s taking a break from the trail today. Wants to shoot some pictures of birds and wildlife along the Kissimmee River.’’

“Mornin’ Trey.’’ Wynonna’s voice was as sweet as cane syrup.

He nodded curtly, but kept his eyes on me. “They’re serving breakfast, Mace. Want me to get you and your sister a couple of plates?’’ Wynonna wasn’t included in the offer.

By the time we’d eaten and cleaned up, the Bramble ranch hand was delivering Shotgun. The pastureland was so dry, dust clouds billowed out from beneath the rig as he drove into camp.

Trey waved at the man to stop, then hurried to get the horse. The rest of us followed, watching as Trey untied Shotgun from inside, and then prodded him to back out of the trailer. Stepping calmly to the ground, the horse stood waiting—as docile as a pony in a petting zoo.

Trey patted the animal on the rump. “Shotgun, huh?’’

“Is that a problem?’’ I asked him.

“Not at all. Sweetest horse we’ve got. Belle trained him, and my little sister is a real horse whisperer.’’

Wynonna said, “Trey’s right about Belle. She and I may have our issues, but I’ve never seen a steadier hand with horses.’’

Mama and Sal were back, after making arrangements to have her temporarily lame horse trailered to the evening camp. Shotgun was saddled up and ready to ride. All Mama had to do was swing up and go. But first she needed a boost. She looked around and fluttered her eyelashes. Three cowboys, Trey included, stepped forward to help.

“Thank you kindly,’’ she said to the Brambles’ hand, who had leaped from the driver’s seat of the truck to give Mama a leg up.

Only I saw the self-satisfied curve to her lips as she settled herself prettily on the horse’s back. My boots would grow cobwebs while I waited for someone to help me into my saddle. Mama’s power over men still held in her sixties—that decade she refused to own up to.

She performed a couple of figure-eights around the cook site, getting used to Shotgun. A chestnut-colored quarter horse, he looked responsive. Without too much urging, she got him into a lope. He seemed eager to please. She ran him at medium-speed through a barrel-racing pattern, circling around the garbage cans at either end of the site. He turned well, cutting like a charm.

Mama waved at Sal, who beamed like a proud papa at her horsemanship.

Marty, still shaky and pale from her migraine, joined us for the end of Mama’s show. Wearing dark sunglasses, she nursed a cup of hot tea. She planned to drive Maddie’s car to catch up with us at the lunch site. We hoped she’d feel like riding again by the afternoon.

The three of us watched our mother in silence.

“She looks good on that horse,’’ Marty finally spoke in a whisper, wincing with each word. “What’s its name?’’

Maddie and I exchanged a look.

“Buttercup,’’ I lied.

The trail boss set his hat and raised the shout, “Headin’ out! Headin’ ooooouuuuttt!’’

The morning air was sweet with the smell of orange blossoms and expectation. Leather rubbed and creaked on the saddles of a hundred-plus horses. Riders jostled, finding their positions as the day and the trail ahead beckoned.

I glanced behind me at Mama and Shotgun. The horse plodded along steadily. Mama seemed relaxed, already chattering away to the rider beside her. I dipped my chin at Maddie, motioning for her to turn around and look.

“Mama would talk the ears off a row of corn,’’ Maddie said, but she was smiling. “Did you get a load of that outfit on her fiancé this morning?’’

“Yeah, that get-up’s bad enough. Hard to believe, he has another one. Same style. Neon blue. I’m almost afraid to see what he’ll come up with tomorrow.’’

“You’d think Mama would have set him straight on what to wear.’’

“Are you kidding?’’ I said. “She probably helped pick them out. Did you see that plum-colored creation she had on today? Daddy would have fallen off his horse laughing.’’

“Nah, he wouldn’t have, Mace. Mama could do no wrong as far as Daddy was concerned. Remember how they were together?’’

I nodded, my mind drifting back twenty-plus years. I was just a kid when our father died of a heart attack. It was an awful shock. Daddy had hardly been sick a day in his life. But he’d gotten in over his head, trying to make a go of a cow-calf operation. Afterward, everyone said it was the stress of losing our ranch that killed him. That was one reason I was perfectly content drawing a regular paycheck from the Himmarshee Parks Department. Running my own business wasn’t for me. Too many headaches and heartaches.

My sisters must have felt the same way, because the school district cut Maddie’s checks, and Marty worked for the county library. None of us had set the world on fire. Then again, we all were healthy and relatively happy. Looking at the Bramble family, with all that money, I couldn’t say the same for them.