“You’re pathetic, Trey.’’

I suspected the only thing keeping Wynonna from spitting on the floor as she said his name were company manners and a pricey-looking bearskin rug.

“Why don’t you stay right there on the floor, lowdown as you belong, while I make us some coffee? I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you, stepson.’’

“Don’t tell me, Wynonna. Let me guess-sh. You’ve finally managed to figure out a way to get all my Daddy’s money.’’

“So then Lawton told me I’d been the prettiest girl ever at Himmarshee High. I believe that’s the last thing I heard the poor man say.’’

As Mama’s voice floated from the front porch through the open window, I quickly looked at Trey. Not even a twitch. He’d moved from the floor to a couch, where he was sitting straight up, sound asleep. Or passed out, one.

I wasn’t at all surprised that Mama would choose to remember a compliment to her as Lawton Bramble’s final words on this earth.

“The man always did have charm, may he rest in peace,’’ she was saying to Doc Abel, as the door opened.

I put a finger to my lips and glared at her, pointing at Trey. Mama clapped a hand over her mouth, at least having the good grace to look embarrassed. Hurrying over, she perched like a small bird on the fat arm of the leather chair where I sat.

“Sorry, Mace,’’ she whispered in my ear. “My stars! That poor boy looks like something the dog’s dragged out from under the porch. He doesn’t know about his daddy yet?’’

“No thanks to you,’’ I whispered back.

Across the big room, Trey’s legs were stretched out to a low coffee table. His head slumped forward onto his chest.

“He’s been drinking,’’ I said. “I’m not even sure he noticed I was here. Wynonna’s gone to make some coffee. No sign of Belle.’’

Barely glancing at Trey, Doc plodded toward us. “That boy’s gonna have to straighten up now,’’ he said in a purposely loud voice. “It’s time for Mr. Lawton Bramble III to put aside all his foolishness and become a man.’’

That seemed harsh, considering Trey wasn’t even aware yet he’d lost his father. Then again, I didn’t know the family dynamics as well as Doc Abel did. I’d never met Trey’s sister. She was younger, and I’d heard she studied art and languages at boarding schools in Europe.

“I’m gonna head out to my car and get my medical bag,’’ he said, speaking more softly now. “I want to be ready in case I need to administer anything to the family members tonight.’’

“Hang on a sec, Doc. I’ll step out with you,’’ I said.

The night was dark enough now to see stars scattered across the sky. Orange blossoms from surrounding groves scented the air. Sounds from the Cracker Trail riders carried from the campsite, a quarter-mile or so away. Someone strummed a guitar, the melody faint. Someone else showed off with a cow whip, loud as a gunshot.

“Listen to that whip crack,’’ Doc Abel said. “That’s why they called the old-time Florida cow hunters ‘Crackers.’’’

I walked with him across a rutted dirt driveway to his ancient station wagon. Doc Abel had to be the only person in three counties with a Saab. It’s mainly trucks and SUVs in this part of Florida, where cows still outnumber people and all the wild land has yet to be paved. I drive a beat-up Jeep. Mama has a 1967 Bonneville convertible. Her car’s turquoise, which is about as exotic as it gets in our little hometown of Himmarshee. We’re in the middle of the state: three-and-a-half hours north of Miami’s sin and sunshine, south enough of Orlando to stay out of Mickey Mouse’s big shadow.

Doc opened his car door and leaned into the back seat.

“Mama showed you the body, right? What’d you think?’’ I asked him. “Was it a heart attack?’’

“That seems fairly certain, given Lawton’s poor health.’’ He straightened, holding his black bag.

“But he should still be checked out, right?’’

“I checked him out,’’ Doc said, “and the cause of death is clear. Everything I saw is consistent with cardiac arrest.’’

When I didn’t say anything, Doc added, “That means a heart attack.’’

“I know,’’ I said. “That’s how my daddy died.’’

Doc closed the backseat door and leaned against it. “I’m sorry. How old were you when you lost him?’’

“Ten. Maddie was almost fourteen. Marty was just eight.’’

“That’s tough for girls, growing up without a father.’’

“Well, we had a few stepfathers along the way.’’

“It’s not the same, though, is it?’’

I shook my head. As I did, I caught a glimpse of something circular and ceramic on the front passenger seat of Doc’s Saab. He saw me staring at it through the window.

“Your mother told me about the trouble y’all had last summer, and about how you want to make sure there’s nothing suspicious about Lawton’s death. She said you were worried someone might mess with that tasting mug. So I brought it with me, for safekeeping.’’

I started to protest. He held up a hand.

“I’ll hang onto the cup and the crusty stuff inside until the cause of death is absolutely certain. But I can tell you right now, with nearly sixty years of medical experience, the man died of a heart attack. It happens.”

He shrugged, like Lawton’s death was of minor consequence.

I know it happens, I felt like saying. I just got through telling you it happened to my own daddy. I was having trouble getting a read on Doc Abel. One moment, he seemed kindly; the next, almost mean.

Before I had the chance to figure out what I thought about him, Wynonna called out from the porch. “Doc?’’ Her voice trembled. “You better come on in here.’’

We hurried inside to find Mama gently shaking Trey by the shoulders. He was now stretched out on the couch.

“We tried to get him up and get some coffee into him so we could tell him what happened,’’ Wynonna said.

“He’s not responding,’’ Mama added, shaking hard enough now to loosen Trey’s fillings.

Squeezing past Mama, Doc slowly lowered his bulk beside the couch. The floor seemed to shudder when his knees made contact with the bearskin rug. His fingers moved expertly to the pulse point at Trey’s wrist. He leaned toward his mouth and sniffed.

“Stinkin’ drunk, is all he is. Like usual.” Wrinkling his nose, Doc dropped Trey’s wrist like it was something nasty. “Other than a liver well on its way to being pickled, the boy’s fine.’’

After the laborious process of rising from the rug, Doc collapsed into a heavy, cowhide-upholstered chair. As I listened to his ragged breathing, my eyes returned to Trey. Drool dribbled from his open mouth. His head lolled to one side. A brewery’s worth of beer-stench escaped from his pores.

An image formed in my mind of a very different Trey. We were in high school. He’d just led the Himmarshee Brahmans to a state football championship. He strutted the halls with a perky blonde cheerleader on each arm—a king in a cowboy hat.

What in the world had happened to Trey Bramble?

Outside, a dog began to bark. A moment later we heard clunks and squeaks as a vehicle jounced over the unpaved drive.

“That’ll be Belle, Lawton’s daughter.’’ Wynonna was pulling at the skin on her hands again. “I called her earlier, and caught her on her cell. She was already on her way here for dinner. I didn’t want to tell her about Lawton on the phone, you know?’’ She looked first at me, then at Mama, for reassurance.

“You did the right thing, honey.’’ Mama covered Wynonna’s nervous hands with her own. “That’s not the kind of news anybody should get while they’re driving.’’