Free Mama Rides Shotgun by Deborah Sharp Page A

on a horse.’’
    Sal shrugged. “He says he knows how to ride. I offered to tell him where to buy some Western-style clothes. But he said he was all set.’’
    A smart decision for Carlos, I thought, fighting off an image of the two Urban Cowboys in matching electric blue.
    “Okay, then. G’night, now,” I said, slipping out the door before they could grill me further—or see how my hands were shaking from the news about Carlos.
    As I walked back to the tent, my mind was spinning so fast I barely noticed the cold. I took a few deep breaths, trying to imagine how I’d react the first time I saw him. Sal hadn’t said when Carlos planned on coming. Did I have time to prepare myself? I couldn’t believe it. Cold as it was, my palms were damp with nervous sweat underneath those stupid socks.
    I glanced at the horses, secure in their enclosure. Then I stared into the sky, searching for answers in the spray of stars that glittered there. Something small rustled through the drought-dry grass of the pasture. I could smell hay and spilled feed through the open slats of our horse trailer.
    The sound of whistling drifted toward me on the night air. Whistle While You Work. I had to smile, thinking that poor Doc Abel really could use a course on melody. Before, his tuneless whistle had seemed creepy; now it was somehow comforting. It meant someone else was up. I wasn’t the only one unable to get to sleep. Or, maybe Doc was just taking a potty break.
    Dodging horse and cow patties on the ground, I hummed along. As I drew nearer to the tent, I was almost enjoying my part in our Disney-movie duet. And then, just a few yards from the tent, my song went silent. I stopped in my tracks, staring straight ahead in the moonlight. I could just make out my sleeping bag, sticking halfway out on the ground through the tent’s open entry flap. I distinctly remembered closing it, since working a zipper in hand socks was a challenge.
    I fumbled for Trey’s flashlight, still in my coat pocket. It flickered, then lit to show the shredded sides of the tent, gaping open like wounds. Down filling spilled onto the ground from deep gashes in the sleeping bag. Feathers clung to a wet, sticky-looking substance. It turned the pale orange of the bag into something dark; something frightening.
    Under the dimming beam of the flashlight, the stain on my bag looked an awful lot like blood.

Snores rumbled from inside Sal’s Cadillac. How in the world could he sleep with Mama rattling the windows like that? I tapped at the glass by her head.
    “Wake up,’’ I whispered. “It’s me again.’’
    I’d left my campsite without touching anything, backing away from my shredded tent the way I’d come. I didn’t want to trample any evidence that might be collected. Not that my case would be a high priority for the crime lab at the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. On further inspection, the dark stain on my sleeping bag turned out to be red wine. Merlot, probably. When I got close enough to sniff, my campsite smelled like Happy Hour at a yuppie bar.
    I rapped harder on the car window.
    “Mama, open up. It’s colder out here than a freezer full of sheared sheep.’’
    The front-seat car door swung open. Mama had shifted in her sleep, and now the other side of her bouffant ’do drooped, too. At least she was symmetrical.
    “What in the blue blazes is wrong with you, Mace?’’ She rubbed her eyes. “We shouldn’t all have to suffer just ’cause you’re too stubborn to admit you can’t take the cold.’’
    “Scoot over, Mama.’’ I slid in. The seat was blessedly warm where she’d slept. “This isn’t about the temperature. My tent’s not an option. Somebody took a hunting knife or a kitchen cleaver to it. My sleeping bag, too. They’re both ripped to ribbons.’’
    Mama gasped. Sal stirred in the back seat.
    “Are you okay?’’ She put a hand on my cheek, making sure I was whole.
    “I’m fine. Just pissed off. I wasn’t there