I couldn’t tell which of us he was trying to convince. I put my hand over his on the table.

“I’m sorry, Trey.’’

What else could I say?

“There were other pictures, too. The rattlesnake. The bees crammed into her camera case. Doc with his hands up and fear in his eyes. The last one she took was of you, brushing your horse after the parade in Fort Pierce.’’

I felt a sudden chill, and it wasn’t from the diner’s rattling air conditioner. Given enough time, Belle might have snapped a picture of my gun-shot body sinking into the Indian River. I knew Trey still loved his sister, despite everything. But if I had my way, they’d lock her up and lose the key.

“Didn’t you ever suspect anything, Trey?’’

He blew on his coffee and sipped, a stall before answering.

“I think I did.’’ He nodded. “But I didn’t want to face my suspicions. I left that note for you to keep looking for Daddy’s killer. I hoped and prayed it’d be anybody but Belle. But the more I thought about it, the more afraid I got that you’d keep asking questions and they’d lead you right to her.’’

Trey traced the map of Florida on his placemat. When his finger got to the star north of Lake Okeechobee that marked Himmarshee, he spoke again.

“I’m the one who broke into your Jeep and took back the note.’’

I looked at him. Youth and joy were gone from his eyes. They looked pained. Empty.

“I’ll pay for the damage, Mace.’’

“I’m not worried about the top, Trey. It already leaked like a sieve. We’re in the dry season anyway.’’

“No,’’ he said firmly. “I’ll get you a check. I’m just beginning to iron out Daddy’s business dealings. I’m getting Johnny Adams back his money. Daddy shouldn’t have done him like he did. And I’m going to buy out Wynonna’s half of our cattle business.’’

“Where is your step-mama anyway?’’

“Off to Paris, alone,’’ Trey said. “We had us a long talk before she left. Wynonna’s got issues with men.’’

No kidding.

“She said she’s having herself one last fling before she moves back home to North Carolina and settles down. She claims she saw a therapist back there who deals with people with her problem. So I guess she’ll go back and hope the treatment takes.’’

So Trey was going to dry out. Austin was combating her rage. And Wynonna was working on her sex addiction. Maybe Jerry Springer should do a show next year from the Cracker Trail.

I glanced at my watch. It was just past noon. The diner was filling up. Ranchers and citrus growers in boots and jeans strode in. The courthouse’s suit-and-tie crowd filed to tables. My eyes flickered to the entrance every time the bells on the door jangled.

“You waiting on somebody, Mace?’’

I felt a flush. “Kind of,’’ I answered.

Just then, Carlos passed by the plate glass window on his way to the door. I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance of seeing him since downtown Himmarshee’s dining choices were either Gladys’ or the Dairy Queen on US Highway 441. I waved him over. The two men shook hands warily.

“How are things down in Miamuh?’’ Trey asked.

“I’m living up here now, becoming an authentic Himmarshean.’’

“Don’t let him fool you, Trey. He still hates sweet tea and craves Cuban coffee,’’ I said. “But we’ll make him into a good ol’ boy yet.’’

Carlos flashed me a smile. My stomach did a high dive.

“I keep telling you, niña, I’ll be as country as you want, just as long as you don’t make me eat grits.’’

Trey’s gaze went from one of us to the other, understanding dawning. He pushed back his chair and stood. “I was just about to git,’’ he said to Carlos. “Why don’t you take my seat?’’

He held out his hand again; the two men shook. “You take good care of Mace, hear?’’

Carlos raised an eyebrow. “She doesn’t need anybody to take care of her, do you Mace?’’

I took a moment to think about that.

“You’re right. I don’t need it,’’ I said. “But I’ve learned it’s not a sin to want it every now and then.’’

THE END

Acknowledgments

I owe a debt to the great folks on the Florida Cracker Trail, who welcomed me on the Twentieth Anniversary of the cross-state horseback ride. Everyone was uniformly nice: not a greedy, murderous, or crazy character among them. Just as my books’ fictional town of Himmarshee is inspired by Okeechobee, the Cracker Trial served as muse. I shifted Florida geography to suit the story. The characters, good and bad, came from my imagination.

Some real people, however, deserve a tip of this cowgirl’s hat.

Judge Nelson Bailey educated me on Florida’s cattle history, which the ride honors, and loaned me his horse, Domino. Carol Bailey helped me resurrect long-dormant riding skills.

Mitzi Webber and the Miami crew rescued me one wet, frozen night, providing horse trailer and portable heater. Apologies to Mitzi’s horse, Poco, who had to sleep outside.

Florida’s fine cattlemen and women hosted the ride, keeping agricultural traditions alive. Special thanks to Duck and Susan Smith for a ranch house tour and family tales.

Pat’s Bar-B-Que, the chuck wagon crew, fed us so well I forgot my aches and pains.

The mule- and horse-wagon drivers offered a few rides, giving my bottom a break.

Deputies and police across Florida helped keep us safe; all were competent pros, unlike the sheriff from fictional Dundee, Florida.

Dr. Robert King briefed me during the ride on medicine and matters of the heart (Dr. David Perloff did the same, back in Fort Lauderdale).

Bit of Hope Ranch loaned a rescued horse for the final day’s parade. Thanks to Karl, a peach of a plow horse!

As always, I want to thank my husband, Kerry Sanders, and the original Mama, Marion Sharp, for their love and support; Joyce Sweeney and the Thursday group for writing help (super title, Audrey!); and my agent, Whitney Lee, for being in my corner.

I’m grateful for the talented staff at Midnight Ink, especially Connie Hill, whose editing skill saves me from looking stupid; Courtney Kish, who gets the word out; and Lisa Novak, whose designs make my covers pop. Illustrator Mark Gerber is an added gift.

To those I’ve named, to anyone I missed, and especially to you, for reading Mama Rides Shotgun … THANKS.

About the Author

Like Mace Bauer’s, Deborah Sharp’s family roots were set in Florida long before Disney and Miami Vice came to define the state. She does some writing at a getaway overlooking the Kissimmee River in the wilds north of Okeechobee, and some at a Starbucks in Fort Lauderdale. As a Florida native and a former longtime reporter for USA Today, she knows every burg and back road, including some not found on maps. Here’s what she has to say about Himmarshee:

Home to cowboys and church suppers, Himmarshee is hot and swarming with mosquitoes. A throwback to the ways of long-ago southern Florida, it bears some resemblance to the present-day ranching town of Okeechobee. The best thing about Mace and Mama’s hometown: it will always be threatened, but never spoiled, by suburban sprawl.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title_Page

Copyright

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three