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brightening the sky above us.
    “Speaking of men, Mace, you might be curled up alone with Lawton’s cur in the tent tonight. I called Sally from the ranch house earlier. He’s driving over to meet us on the ride.’’
    “Sally’’ is Mama’s irritating nickname for her fiancé, Salvatore Provenza—would-be husband No. 5. Somehow, I couldn’t picture the ex-New Yorker with the mysterious past as Cracker Trail material.
    “What in the world is a guy from the Bronx going to do on a trail ride where everyone else is on horseback?’’
    “Don’t ask me, Mace. He got a burr under his saddle about me being out here in the woods when I told him about Lawton. Why does everyone think I’m gonna get into trouble every time someone I know turns up dead?’’
    Yeah, imagine that, I thought.
    “Anyhoo, Sally says he wants to come up here and poke around. He says he’ll keep a low profile.’’
    I pictured Sal: three-hundred-some pounds; a taste for pastel-colored golfing duds; and a Bronx honk that could stop the D train at Yankee Stadium. Amid a group of slow-talking, jeans-wearing, native Florida Crackers, Big Sal screamed “high-profile.’’
    “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Mama.’’
    “I couldn’t persuade him otherwise, Mace. After all, the man is crazy about me.’’ She fluffed her platinum-hued hairdo. Amazingly, it hadn’t lost much height at all after a full day’s ride. “He wants to be here to protect me if problems arise.’’
    Big Sal may have been terrific in his mystery profession up north in New York. But down south, he was out of his element. Suppose someone had killed Lawton? If Sal pushed too hard, too fast, there was no telling what might happen. Desperate people do desperate things.
    Mama stopped in the pasture. “Which way, Mace?’’
    We’d come to a fork along the unpaved road that wound through the Bramble property. To the right, I could hear the distant sound of traffic on State Road 64. The shell-and-sand surface was also more compressed in that direction, indicating heavier travel.
    “Let’s go left,’’ I said. “That’ll probably take us to the back pasture, where the camp is set up.’’
    As we set out, Mama picked up where she left off. “Personally, Mace, I think it’s a waste of time for Sally to come all the way up here. Doc Abel was Lawton’s doctor forever, and he seems certain his heart killed him.’’
    The image of Wynonna rubbing Trey’s chest on the living room couch popped into my mind. I was just about to open my mouth to tell Mama what I’d seen when the loud crack of a cow whip snapped the sense back into my head. An aspiring cow hunter was brushing up on technique. We’d almost arrived at the camp where the rest of the riders had gathered.
    “We’d better get it straight what we’re gonna say about Lawton, Mama.’’ I unwound the chain that secured the gate between the Bramble homestead and the outlying pastures. A hand-lettered sign hung from the barbed wire fence:
    Cracker Trail Campers:
Please close gate behind you. Cattle will scatter.
    As Mama and I stepped through, Tuck whined and looked back in the direction of the ranch house.
    “C’mon, boy. It’s okay,’’ I said.
    He sat down in the sandy road and hung his head.
    “All right, then. We’ll see you later.’’
    I gave him a parting pat, and then swung the gate shut, wrapping the chain around twice.
    “Poor thing,’’ Mama said. “He’s waiting for Lawton.’’
    Before long, we’d found our way to the center of camp. Wood smoke rose from a big fire. The smell of steaks sizzling wafted from the cook wagon. A Toby Keith CD blasted from the speakers inside somebody’s RV.
    “Daddy would roll over in his grave if he saw the fancy rigs people bring on the Cracker Trail these days.’’ I gazed around at gleaming trucks and matching horse trailers, luxury RVs and campers.
    “Nonsense, Mace. Your daddy went with the times. You can put all the disapproval you want