“Would you two please shut up?’’ Mama said. “I’m the injured party. How about if the both of you cooperate to help get me up and out of here?’’

Before we could argue over who’d take the lead, an anguished bellow shook the leaves on the trees: “Rosie!’’

“Over here, Sal,’’ I yelled.

“I’m fine, Sally,’’ Mama added, then lowered her voice from a shout to a whisper. “Girls, if Marty’s with him, do not tell her how close that was.’’

Mama should know me better than that. I might bicker with my former boyfriend over her prostrate body, but I’d never say a word to worry Marty.

Sal came crashing through the woods like a wounded bear. Marty followed close behind, her frightened blue eyes the only color on her face.

“She’s okay, Marty.’’ Sal said, exhaling a huge sigh of relief.

“We saw your horse. People said . . . we thought . . .’’ Marty didn’t finish before the tears started rolling down her cheeks.

“Oh, look at you two!’’ Mama held up her arms from the ground like she wanted a hug from each of them. “I took a spill, that’s all. It’s nothing but a little twisted ankle.’’

Sal raised his eyebrows at Carlos, who nodded in agreement.

“She’ll be fine,’’ I said pointedly, though Sal hadn’t asked me.

At that, Sal leaned over and scooped Mama off the ground. He carried her out of the woods in his arms, as gentle as a bridegroom on his wedding night.

___

Someone had found Doc Abel. As I watched him expertly test the joint, peering at Mama’s foot over his glasses, my mind went back to that long-ago day he’d ministered to a riding-related injury for me. Pronouncing nothing broken, he already had Mama’s ankle elevated and packed in ice. Before he climbed aboard a wagon for the rest of the day’s ride, he warned Mama, “Now, don’t get back in that saddle again until I give the okay!’’

We were lucky to have Doc along on the Cracker Trail.

My sisters and I skipped the after-lunch half of the ride to help Sal ferry horses, vehicles, and our injured mama to Basinger, the next campsite along the trail. I hadn’t seen Carlos since we argued over who should be in charge of helping Mama.

Now, the sun was beginning to sink in the sky. A clump of sabal palms sent long, skinny shadows across the pasture where we’d made camp. Field sparrows flitted here and there, hunting insects. Mama was ensconced on an upholstered chair Sal had scrounged up from somebody’s camper. He also found a wooden chair and two pillows for her to use to rest her ankle. She was relishing her starring role in a drama.

Marty, Maddie, Sal, and I sat on the ground around her. We moved to make way as a new group of well-wishers stopped by to get the story from the horse-rider’s mouth. We’d now gotten to the third or fourth re-telling, with Shotgun’s speed and the perils of the woods magnified in each rendition.

“So, Shotgun and I were just standing there, pretty as you please, when all of a sudden those bees came out of nowhere,’’ Mama said. “That horse snorted and bucked like a demon. I swear all four feet were off the ground. Then he took off, faster than a speeding bullet,’’ she said.

Sal took his cue: “Marty and I came back with our plates, and we couldn’t find her.’’

Marty shuddered: “We were scared to death.’’

“Well, not me,’’ Sal amended. “But I was worried once we saw that horse run by without Rosie in the saddle.’’

I’d almost stopped listening. Until, suddenly, some fragments in my brain snapped together into one full piece.

“Did anybody hear about any other horses getting stung?’’ I searched the faces of the other riders gathered around Mama.

Shoulders shrugged. Heads shook.

“I wasn’t too far away from that spot where your mama’s horse got spooked,’’ one cowboy finally said. “If there were bees, there couldn’t have been too many. I didn’t hear a hive, and I didn’t see a thing.’’

I digested that tidbit of information.

Before Mama got wound up again to start on her story, I spoke. “I sure don’t mean to be rude, y’all, but I think Mama needs to get a little rest. We’ll bring her over to the campfire for dinner, and you can get all the details you want then.’’

Like a leading lady given the hook, Mama started to protest, “Mace, I’m not the least little bit tired . . .’’

Maddie, after hearing Mama’s story two times too many, became my ally: “Mace is right. And I’m sure all these nice folks have some chores they need to get to.’’ She leveled her sternest principal stare, and the crowd scattered like eighth-graders caught with cigarettes. “Besides, Mama, just think how many people at dinner won’t have heard your story yet.’’

That thought seemed to cheer Mama. Her mind was probably turning to what fruit-colored outfit she’d choose for her dinner show performance.

In the meantime, I had a few questions myself for Mama. Something about Shotgun and that swarm of bees just didn’t sit right with me.

“What do you remember before you saw the bees?’’

Mama and I sat in Sal’s big Cadillac, alone at the spot they’d chosen for their camp. My sisters were off tending the horses. Sal had gone to find someone to help him with Maddie’s tent. Carlos had remained scarce since our ridiculous spat over who’d rescue Mama.

“I don’t remember anything out of the ordinary, Mace. If I’d known I was going on a death ride, I might have paid more attention.’’

She sat in the front seat with her ankle on her pillows. I was stretched out in the back.

“Mama, there has to be something. Sounds? Sights? Just be quiet for a minute and try to think.’’

She closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the driver’s window.

Willie Nelson’s “Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys,” drifted over from the speakers of someone’s CD player. The crack of a cow whip rang out. Cheers and whistles came from a makeshift barrel-racing course on the far edge of camp.

“I’m sorry, Mace,’’ Mama finally said. “When I shut my eyes, all I can see is a maze of tree limbs and the ground coming at me.’’

I felt for her. She wasn’t shying from the attention she was getting now, but she must have been awfully scared in those woods on the runaway Shotgun.

“All right, did you notice any people, then? You weren’t too far from the cook site. Did you see Johnny Adams, for example?’’

She shook her head.

“How about anyone in the Bramble family? Wynonna was in that crowd of people that gathered around where you fell off.’’

“Jumped off, Mace.’’ She turned sideways to glare at me. “I jumped off on purpose.’’

“Whatever, Mama. Did you see Wynonna before you saw the bees?’’

She started to say no, and then clapped a hand to her cheek. “Wait! When I was riding through the woods to holler to y’all, I saw Trey! He was half-hidden in some trees. And Mace, I think he’s drinking again.’’

I felt my heart sink.

“He pulled a silver flask out of his pocket, and poured half of it into a plastic cup from the lunch wagon. He looked around, real sneaky-like, and then took a big swallow.’’

“Maybe it was vitamin water, or something like that,’’ I said lamely.

She looked at me with pity. “Oh, honey, don’t do that.’’ We both remembered her Husband No. 2.

“And then Belle walked up to him,’’ Mama continued, sounding more certain as her memory filled in the blanks. “I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Belle looked upset. When Trey took out the flask again, she put her hand on his arm to stop him. But he shook her off and poured in the rest of it anyway.’’