She looked so dejected, I threw her a bone. “I guess if I had to pick a feeling, it’d probably be afterward, when I felt really grateful to be alive.’’

She nodded, as if that satisfied her.

“Why so many questions?’’ I asked, leaving out the adjective “weird.’’

“I’m an actor.’’ She ran a hand through her russet curls. “I use feelings for motivation: How would someone feel in a certain situation; how would they react? What does someone do when they think they might die?’’

“You mean besides trying to avoid dying?’’

She smiled.

“I get it,’’ I said. “I guess.’’

She switched gears. “Good thing about that gorgeous cowboy, huh?’’

“What do you mean?’’

“The one who saved you. He looked like the real deal.’’

She ran a tongue around her lips, a she-wolf drooling over raw meat. Toby dropped her hand.

“What’s the story with him?’’ Jesse asked. “Is he single?’’

I felt my face get hot and a rush of some type of emotion. What was it? Jealousy? Aggravation? Pity for poor Toby, who seemed so taken with this tramp?

“You planning on putting another cowboy’s spurs on your charm bracelet, Jesse? It must be getting pretty crowded after your little exhibition at the bar last night.’’

Toby rubbed at the knee that got bashed in the bar fight. He cast his eyes to the ground; his mouth was grim. He had no trouble getting in touch with his feelings, it seemed. Was that why he was such a good actor? A young DiCaprio, Tilton had said.

I consulted his face, like a road map to his emotional state: disappointment. Jealousy. Embarrassment. Toby would make a terrible poker player.

After the two of them left, no longer holding hands, I finally got the chance to check on the horses. No problems there, thank goodness. I filled their water trough, and then tossed enough hay for all the horses in the corral.

I was inside the trailer, stowing tack and grooming gear, when I heard a familiar voice. The tone was angry, though I couldn’t make out the words. Even so, I knew it was Mama. I hurried outside, but didn’t see her. Maybe she was around the back of the trailer.

As I followed the sound, her voice went low, dangerous: “I know what you did to my daughter.’’

I hugged the metal of the trailer, inching my way closer. Then I heard Mama utter these words: “Hurt her again, and I’ll kill you.’’

I leapt away from the horse trailer. I looked to the left of Mama. I looked to the right. I looked in front of her and behind her. I was certain of it: There wasn’t another soul around. Apparently, she was leveling threats at a vacant field.

“Mama?’’

She turned, a bright smile on her face. “Hi, honey!’’ She glanced at a sheaf of paper in her hand. “Which way sounds better, Mace? I know what you did to my daughter … or, I know what YOU did to my daughter … Did you notice I added that finger-point there, on the word you? I improvised.’’

I just stared at her. What the hell?

“Honey, I can hardly believe it! Paul’s made my dancehall girl a speaking part. What do you think about that?’’

That was a question that would require some additional thought. In the meantime, I noticed Maddie coming toward the corral, carrying a take-out box with three cold drinks.

“We’re in back of the trailer,” I called.

I waited for my big sister, knowing she’d want to hear all about Mama’s venture into the movie business, too.

“Sweet tea, from Gladys’ restaurant.’’ Maddie held out the container for us to help ourselves. “C’ndee Ciancio might be a catering whiz with tiramisu and pasta fagioli, but the woman cannot make iced tea to save her life. The sugar’s got to go in when the water’s boiling hot.’’

Thanking Maddie, we took our plastic cups.

“Well, I’m glad the tea’s not hot now. I hope it’s not too cold, either,’’ Mama said. “I have to protect my throat. The voice is a tool, you know.’’

“Well, something is a tool,’’ I said.

My sister raised her eyebrows.

“Go ahead and tell her, Mama,’’ I said.

“Which of these do you think sounds better, Maddie?’’

Mama gave her line reading again—twice—and then filled both of us in on how the movie’s director decided her star quality was simply too luminous to hide in the background of a scene.

“Does Sal know about this?’’ Maddie asked.

“Sal is my husband, girls. He’s not my master. Besides, if he really loves me, he’ll want me to do what I love. I just know he’s going to be so proud of me!’’

I heard a crack of thunder. A storm was headed our way.

Paul Watkins held his lips inches from Mama’s. He stroked her arm suggestively, and then whispered into her ear. Suddenly, she hauled back to slap him across the face.

“I know what you did to my daughter!’’

Beside me, Marty flinched and let out a small gasp. Maddie and I just chuckled. Paul grabbed Mama’s wrist to stop the slap seconds before it connected. Then the two of them turned away from the dancehall, a replica in every detail, except it had no walls. The director and the newest star in the Hollywood firmament were all smiles.

“Don’t worry. She’s just acting,’’ Paul said to Marty. “Your mother barely needs me to rehearse her. She’s a natural.’’

“Well, she’s a natural something all right,’’ Maddie muttered.

“I heard that!’’ Mama frowned at my sister. “You are not going to spoil my big moment with your negativity.’’

Lightning and thunder had postponed any outdoor scenes involving the horses. When the first drops fell, Mama had left Maddie and me at the corral without a second thought. “Girls, I can’t stand out here in the rain,’’ she said. “Suppose I’m needed on the set? My hair and face would be a wreck.’’

She’d tented a nylon tarp over her platinum locks and made a dash for it. “Meet you at the dancehall!’’

“Humph.’’ Maddie donned the rain poncho she’d brought. “That’s a new excuse.’’

“Mama will never run out of reasons to get out of work,’’ I said.

While Maddie and I finished with the horses, Marty called to say she was on her way back to the movie set. We had told her where to meet us, but had revealed nothing else.

Now, Mama turned her attention, and a 100-watt smile, back to Paul. “So, what would you say Ruby’s motivation is? What kind of life has she had? I want to know everything about her.’’

Her hand rested on Paul’s arm. Her eyelashes fluttered like butterflies circling an overripe piece of fruit.

“Well,’’ the director leaned back and stroked his chin, “Ruby has always been a beautiful woman.’’

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, I can relate to that.’’ As Mama nodded like a bobble-headed doll, we rolled our eyes.

“She’s always been able to get exactly what she wants from men.’’

“Goes without saying.’’

“But she’s had some tough breaks,’’ Paul said. “Some difficult times.’’

“Been there, done that, too.’’

“So she becomes a prostitute out of desperation.’’

“A Protestant?’’ Mama cupped a hand to her ear.

“A prostitute,’’ Paul repeated.

Mama’s mouth dropped open. Maddie gulped. Marty giggled.

“Didn’t you tell me Ruby was a dancehall gal?’’ Mama’s question came out in a squeak.

“A euphemism,’’ Paul said. “That’s what Ruby tells her mother in letters home to Georgia.’’

A parade of emotions marched across Mama’s face: Disgust. Ambition. Indecision.

“I don’t suppose she can get saved, can she, Paul? Have her come to our lord Jesus?”

He shook his head, ponytail bouncing against his back. “No time. There’s just the one scene, Rosalee. But it’s an important one.’’

Mama chewed at her lip.

“It’s crucial, in fact.’’

She tapped her cheek, considering. “Well … if it’s crucial. Essential to the story?’’