buddies, I thought maybe you two would be riding double on the same horse.’’
Maddie snorted. Marty giggled. I ignored his comment.
“Speaking of riding,’’ I said, “how come you never told me you were so at home on a horse?’’
“What, and spoil your notion that you were Ms. Rodeo Rider and I was just a city boy who wouldn’t know a saddle from a squad car?’’
I think I might have blushed. That sounded just like the way I’d have put it.
“Where’d you learn to ride?’’ Maddie asked.
“My grandfather had cattle in Cuba. After Castro took over, my family didn’t own the ranch anymore.’’ His eyes got a pained, far-away look. “My dad still worked there, though. And he taught me everything he knew about horses.’’
“Well, he must have taught you well,’’ Marty said. ‘You ride like a dream.’’
“ Gracias, ’’ he said, giving Marty a grin that showed off his white teeth.
When he turned back to me, the smile was gone. “You know, niña , you don’t have the market cornered on cowboys. We had them in Cuba, too. We called them guajiros .’’
With that, he tipped his hat and galloped away.
“It’s a good sign he’s angry about seeing you with Trey,’’ Marty said. “It means he still cares.’’
“Or, it means he doesn’t like her well enough to even try to be nice,’’ Maddie said.
I didn’t reply to the theories of either of my sisters. I just sat there, thinking of the sight of his strong thighs in the saddle, and of the thrill I’d felt the first time he called me niña. Then, his voice had been low and sexy. The Spanish word for girl had sounded like a caress. Now, it sounded like a slap.
___
“Headin’ out!’’ came the call, repeated by riders up and down the length of the pasture. “Headin’ ooooouuuuttt!’’
County sheriff’s deputies had pulled their squad cars onto State Road 64, lights flashing, near the entrance to Bramble land. They blocked traffic so the long line of riders could cross the highway and proceed onto a grassy, roadside swale that makes up much of the Cracker Trail. Today’s highways follow the old paths made by the state’s cattle-raising pioneers. In the old days, cowmen moved their herds from east to west, where they’d load the cattle onto ships on Florida’s Gulf Coast, bound for markets in Cuba. Our ride reverses the direction, signifying their return trip—minus their cattle, and, hopefully, with some money in their pockets.
Once we’d crossed the road and got on our way, the ride began to settle into a pattern. Horses and riders found their strides. Maddie and Marty had been able to rustle up two horses from a group that brings abused and abandoned animals on the ride—partly as rehabilitation, partly in an effort to find homes for the horses. Maddie’s mount walked faster than mine; Marty’s a bit slower. So, it wasn’t long before I was on my own in the line. I enjoyed the passing scenery: an orange grove to the right; a fenced horse pasture to the left. Whinnying loudly, an Appaloosa mare cantered along on her side of the fence, looking like she wanted to break out and join the herd of Cracker Trail horses passing by.
I knew from the last couple of days that Mama’s horse and mine kept a similar pace. Just as I began to wonder where she’d gotten to, I heard her voice behind me.
“Oh, yes, my daughter Mace and I were right there when Wynonna found poor Lawton. She was so distraught. But, of course, I did what I could to make her feel better. I don’t know what it is, but people just naturally turn to me in times of trouble.’’
I heard whoever Mama was bragging to murmur politely, not that she needed any encouragement to continue.
“Now, my daughter Mace, on the other hand, she doesn’t have a natural gift with people. She’s better with animals, quite frankly.’’
“Aw, the poor thing! She’s a loner, then. No boyfriend?’’
I recognized that other voice. I pulled up on the
Maddie snorted. Marty giggled. I ignored his comment.
“Speaking of riding,’’ I said, “how come you never told me you were so at home on a horse?’’
“What, and spoil your notion that you were Ms. Rodeo Rider and I was just a city boy who wouldn’t know a saddle from a squad car?’’
I think I might have blushed. That sounded just like the way I’d have put it.
“Where’d you learn to ride?’’ Maddie asked.
“My grandfather had cattle in Cuba. After Castro took over, my family didn’t own the ranch anymore.’’ His eyes got a pained, far-away look. “My dad still worked there, though. And he taught me everything he knew about horses.’’
“Well, he must have taught you well,’’ Marty said. ‘You ride like a dream.’’
“ Gracias, ’’ he said, giving Marty a grin that showed off his white teeth.
When he turned back to me, the smile was gone. “You know, niña , you don’t have the market cornered on cowboys. We had them in Cuba, too. We called them guajiros .’’
With that, he tipped his hat and galloped away.
“It’s a good sign he’s angry about seeing you with Trey,’’ Marty said. “It means he still cares.’’
“Or, it means he doesn’t like her well enough to even try to be nice,’’ Maddie said.
I didn’t reply to the theories of either of my sisters. I just sat there, thinking of the sight of his strong thighs in the saddle, and of the thrill I’d felt the first time he called me niña. Then, his voice had been low and sexy. The Spanish word for girl had sounded like a caress. Now, it sounded like a slap.
___
“Headin’ out!’’ came the call, repeated by riders up and down the length of the pasture. “Headin’ ooooouuuuttt!’’
County sheriff’s deputies had pulled their squad cars onto State Road 64, lights flashing, near the entrance to Bramble land. They blocked traffic so the long line of riders could cross the highway and proceed onto a grassy, roadside swale that makes up much of the Cracker Trail. Today’s highways follow the old paths made by the state’s cattle-raising pioneers. In the old days, cowmen moved their herds from east to west, where they’d load the cattle onto ships on Florida’s Gulf Coast, bound for markets in Cuba. Our ride reverses the direction, signifying their return trip—minus their cattle, and, hopefully, with some money in their pockets.
Once we’d crossed the road and got on our way, the ride began to settle into a pattern. Horses and riders found their strides. Maddie and Marty had been able to rustle up two horses from a group that brings abused and abandoned animals on the ride—partly as rehabilitation, partly in an effort to find homes for the horses. Maddie’s mount walked faster than mine; Marty’s a bit slower. So, it wasn’t long before I was on my own in the line. I enjoyed the passing scenery: an orange grove to the right; a fenced horse pasture to the left. Whinnying loudly, an Appaloosa mare cantered along on her side of the fence, looking like she wanted to break out and join the herd of Cracker Trail horses passing by.
I knew from the last couple of days that Mama’s horse and mine kept a similar pace. Just as I began to wonder where she’d gotten to, I heard her voice behind me.
“Oh, yes, my daughter Mace and I were right there when Wynonna found poor Lawton. She was so distraught. But, of course, I did what I could to make her feel better. I don’t know what it is, but people just naturally turn to me in times of trouble.’’
I heard whoever Mama was bragging to murmur politely, not that she needed any encouragement to continue.
“Now, my daughter Mace, on the other hand, she doesn’t have a natural gift with people. She’s better with animals, quite frankly.’’
“Aw, the poor thing! She’s a loner, then. No boyfriend?’’
I recognized that other voice. I pulled up on the
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