Gil stood up, his own temper heated. “That’s great. Try to offer some helpful advice only to have it thrown in my face. I don’t need this. I’m out of here.” He strode across the room, regret chasing him with every step.
“That’s right. Run like you always do.” The angry voice followed him.
“I’m going into town before I say something we’ll both be sorry for.” He slammed the door on his way out. The echo reverberated in the aged walls, and the black-and-white photos of his ancestors rattled in his ears as though chanting good-bye.
SEVEN
GIL OPENED THE DOOR AND THE JINGLE OF THE BELL ANNOUNCED HIS arrival in the café. Memorabilia covered the walls, and it didn’t take long to notice his retired high school football jersey, No. 12. The green and yellow shirt hung center stage in the restaurant, complete with an autographed picture of him in his 49er uniform.
A handful of patrons dotted the small establishment in booths, tables, and at the counter, where employees served old-fashioned fountain drinks. The smell of grease hung in the air, mingled with small talk. Gil prayed no one would recognize him, and that he might be able to eat in peace for once.
He sat in an abandoned booth, and before he opened a menu, one brave soul from across the room sauntered over, an icy cola in hand.
“Aren’t you Gil McCray?” The giant stranger could have been a football player himself. “That was a tough break last night. What are you doing in Diamond Falls? Visiting family?”
Gil nodded and glanced through the menu items, craving a double cheeseburger with bacon and all the extras.
“You ought to try the cottage fries. They’re made for real men.” The guy pushed a piece of paper toward Gil. “Would you mind signing this for my son? He plays football at the high school.”
Gil smiled, like always. “Sure, what’s his name?”
“Girard.” The man grinned and stood a bit taller when Gil returned the paper. Two more patrons lined up behind him, napkins in hand.
A young waitress came to take his order, unaffected by the commotion at his table. He saw the moment recognition dawned, when her face lit with excitement.
“What can I get you, Mr. McCray?”
As Gil gave his order, another customer walked in, and he noticed the familiar face. She gazed at his little following, and he waved. Dr. Evans didn’t return the gesture, but walked to the counter and took a seat on one of the swiveling stools. He got the impression she didn’t share the community’s awe at having a celebrity among them. If anything, his presence seemed to trigger the opposite response.
Annoyance. He remembered how her red hair flew wild in the breeze as she rode his father’s horse. Now it was bound in braids. Not as pretty as before, and it seemed almost to protest, as several curly strands fought their way to freedom.
Gil excused himself from his admirers and made his way to the counter. “Any change in Dusty?”
The lady vet stared ahead at the mirrored wall. “If we don’t get him up on his feet soon, all our efforts may have been for nothing.”
He straddled the stool beside her. “It’s that bad?”
She turned to him, dark shadows under her eyes, her shoulders slumped. “You don’t believe me?”
“It’s not that . . . it’s just I thought he was doing okay this morning.”
“Your horse is far from okay.” She rose from her seat and drummed her fingers on the counter. Within minutes, the waitress returned with her carry-out dinner. “Put it on my account, will you, Clara?”
“Sure thing,” the woman said. “You take care of yourself, Mattie, and next time maybe we can visit longer — ”
The doc had already headed for the door.
“Mind if I join you?” Gil called out before she slipped away. “To help with Dusty, I mean?”
Mattie stopped and nodded toward those who waited at his table. “I wouldn’t want to take you from your fan club.”
Gil groaned and hurried to the booth to grab his coat. The door chimed and he knew Mattie had left the restaurant. Apologizing to those around him, he threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table, then followed the doc outside. Puffs of vapor floated in the cold darkness as he ran to catch up to her.
“I wasn’t that hungry,” he said, realizing he much preferred this woman’s company to the fans inside the café.
“Suit yourself, just don’t get in the way.” She hopped into her truck and backed onto the brick street.
Gil followed in the pickup he’d borrowed from Jake and drove the three blocks to the clinic. He parked outside the barn where light streamed from the windows. Upon entering, he felt the warmth from a portable gas heater that kept the chill from the shed.
Mattie and her technician were trying to nudge Dusty to his feet. “Come on, boy,” Dr. Evans coaxed.
Gil joined her. He hated seeing the look of defeat in his horse’s one remaining eye. “Let’s go, Dusty. Get up, boy.”
The aged gelding lifted his head, and his ears angled toward Gil’s voice. He rocked forward, but immediately fell back from exertion. After two more tries, Dusty struggled halfway up on wobbly legs. Unable to hold himself, he lunged and his knees buckled onto the soft bedding. With a heavy groan, he laid his neck on the straw, his breath labored.
“Can’t we lift him with straps or some sort of leverage?” Gil’s heart ached for the injured animal.
“Let him know you love him, that you still care.” Mattie pressed her hands on the gelding’s rump and goaded him to sit up.
Gil faced Dusty and their vision locked. In that instant, Gil thought of the many times he’d pushed Dusty to go one more circle, trained him with his very heart to dig deeper, turn shorter, and run with greater speed and precision. He knew the horse was in pain, but he urged him on now, the consequences of failure too great.
“Come on, boy. Do this for us, for all we’ve been through. Show these folks what champions are made of.” This time when he called Dusty’s name, the horse made a grand effort and slowly rose to his feet.
Overcome with gratitude, Gil punched his fist in the air.
The doc tended to Dusty at once, and when she got him stabilized, he hung his head to the ground, his back arched in pain.
Gil stroked the gelding’s neck the way he’d always done when the horse achieved a goal.
Dusty turned his head and nickered. To Gil, that one response told him his horse hadn’t forgotten. That he needed his master’s help once more. Gil silently begged God’s forgiveness for abandoning Dusty all those years ago. At the very least, he should have visited more often or rented a stable in California.
“He needs exercise.” Mattie moved from behind the horse and grabbed a nearby pitchfork to clean the stall. “Get him to take a few steps if you can. He’s a bit skittish on his blind side, so always let him know you’re coming. Even if he stands only a few minutes, he’ll be that much stronger.”
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, MATTIE SAT WITH HER BACK AGAINST THE wooden stall and faced the chestnut gelding, which rested on a fresh bed of straw. She opened the sack from the café and pulled out a handful of fries and the half-eaten hamburger.
“I heard you’ve had a run of bad luck.” Gil settled down beside her, uninvited. “Mind if I ask about that?”
“Yeah, I mind.” Mattie took a bite of the fries, now cold, but still tasty to her famished stomach. She licked the salt from her fingers, debating whether to share her troubles with a total stranger. “I guess you have a right to know.” Realizing he hadn’t eaten either, she split what was left of her sandwich and offered him a portion.
“No, thanks.”
Mattie shrugged and took a bite of the hamburger. When she’d finished chewing, she said, “In the last three months, several of my patients have died. Of course, that happens in this business . . . but rumors are starting to spread.”
Gil’s eyebrows rose, and Mattie figured he was weighing whether his first instinct about her might be accurate — that she was an incompetent female, not capable
of practicing good veterinary medicine. “You don’t come off as one who’d worry about rumors. How many patients have you lost?”
Mattie blew out a deep breath and brought her knees to her chin. She nibbled on her hamburger. “In September, I lost a horse that had broken his neck by getting caught between the bars of a pipe fence. Then two fillies died from the West Nile virus . . . Need I go on?”
She wiped her mouth and attempted to stand, not willing to sit a moment longer and allow her pity party to flame the fire within. Gil caught her arm and pulled her down. His greater strength was obvious, but even stronger was the tingling sensation that rushed up through her shoulder and down her backbone.
“That doesn’t sound so bad. I’ve seen football teams with worse streaks than yours.”
“Yes, but then in December, I treated six head of cattle over at the Carter place that had pneumonia — and lost three. To top it off, last week a seven-year-old Rottweiler died. His hind leg had been shot off during hunting season.”
Mattie’s body tensed, reminded of the painful moment. “I thought the dog was on the mend, that he would make it.” This one time, she’d allowed herself to become attached to a patient. She’d let that big dog into her heart and paid the price. “I went to feed him the next morning, and he was gone. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers in the air.
She stared at the gelding, which had slipped off to sleep. “Treating your horse isn’t easy for me. It seems like such a long shot.”
Gil picked up a piece of straw and stripped it down the middle. “Few things in this life are easy. I think God teaches us with the hard lessons.”
His statement caught Mattie off guard. “Are you a Christian?” In all her visits with John, he never mentioned one word of religion. It surprised her that his son would do so now.
“My mother took Frank and me to church every Sunday, sometimes against our will.” He grinned, and she noticed his even white teeth. “I don’t think I understood what it meant to be a Christian, though, until a few years ago when a teammate asked me to go to Bible study with him. It’s a lot more than going to church.” Gil laughed, and his eyes lit with pleasure. “Most people don’t associate football with religion, but you’d be surprised how many Christian athletes there are.”
This piece of information added a new dimension to Mattie’s estimation of Gil McCray. She tried not to let it impress her. “Why did you return?”
“That’s the second time I’ve been asked that today.” Gil stretched his long legs out on the straw and shook his head. “I honestly don’t know. To see Dusty, my dad — to have closure. Like I said — hard lessons.”
Mattie found herself wanting to know this man better, even though he’d abandoned his family and played a sport that seemed senseless to her. “How long will you be in Diamond Falls?”
“Actually, I need to leave in a few days to take care of some team business.”
Of course. Why would he stay? She tried not to let this bother her. “Will you come back?”
Gil kneaded his forehead. “How long will it take Dusty to heal?”
Hadn’t the man heard a word she’d said? Right now, her record with high-risk patients equaled that of a losing football team. She took one last bite of her hamburger and shoved the remains in the sack. “Your horse has heart, but he has a long haul ahead of him. With no further complications, Dusty could be out of here in four weeks, sooner if he receives the love and care of someone he trusts.”
“Will you take care of him while I’m gone?”
“That’s my job.”
“No, I mean, will you encourage him to get better? Treat him like he was your own?”
Mattie’s throat tightened. “Dusty’s your horse. He’d be more receptive to your attention than to mine. If you want what’s best for him, you should consider staying longer.”
“That’s not an option, at least not now. Will you fill in for me? Until I can get back . . .” His brow furrowed with expectation. “I’ll pay for the extra effort.”
Gil knew, as she did, that Dusty’s chance of healing would increase if they added love to the equation. Someone who cared. But after so much recent loss, her only defense had been to distance herself from her patients. How could he make such an unfair request? She closed her eyes and felt assurance that she was not alone.
“Well, Miss — Doc Evans?”
Mattie stood and tossed the paper sack into an aluminum trash bin. Her intuition told her not to become involved in such a precarious situation, but how could she not? She wanted Dusty to live too.
“I’ll do my best. But I warn you, Dusty might not be alive when you get back.”
EIGHT
GIL CLIMBED INTO JAKE’S TRUCK AS THE TOWER CLOCK ON THE courthouse chimed eleven. He sat in the chilled cab and stared out the front window until the glass fogged with steam. Though late, he had one more thing to do before going back to his father’s ranch.
The yellow headlights shone on the brick paved streets, and a few blocks later, they lit the way down the gravel road. A lone cedar marked the small cemetery he last visited for his mother’s funeral.
With trembling fingers, he shut off the motor and made his way in the faint moonlight to the family headstones. Synthetic poinsettias decorated each, and Gil wondered if his dad had brought them, or someone else. He knelt down and pulled the faded flowers from the moist ground.
“I’ll bring you fresh ones next time, Mama.”
Gil fingered the inscription on the cold marble stone. Emily Jean McCray, loving wife and mother.
“I’m sorry for worrying you all those years ago and causing you grief, Mama. I wish I’d been a better son.” His voice sounded foreign in the crisp night air as he stared up and watched a shooting star trail its way across the atmosphere. He edged closer to his brother’s grave.
“Why did you have to go and die, Frank?” He picked up a clump of dirt and threw it into the dark, heard it hit against the dead grass. “We could have gone on in rodeo; you might have married Jenna. I could have stayed home to take care of Mama.”
Gil gripped the edge of the headstone until his fingers tingled from the pressure. A sob escaped his mouth. Frank had always been good at everything he did — his father’s pride and joy. Gil figured that was the reason for his own secret fascination with Jenna. But he never wished his brother dead.
Jenna. He compared Doc Evans to her sister, but the resemblances seemed few. Jenna was tall, with dark hair and an unpredictable hunger for mischief that matched Frank’s. Gil thought back to that reckless summer night when his life had turned into one big ball of barbed wire.
A huge, tangled mess.
An owl screeched high overhead, and at the shrill sound Gil lived the nightmare once again . . .
He and Jenna had been skinny-dipping out by Coover’s Bridge less than a mile from the highway when they’d heard the first siren. Gil ignored the intrusion and reached out for Jenna, more interested in holding her glistening curves close to his body. The moon shone down on them, and her creamy skin glowed next to his.
“How come you stayed with me tonight, ’stead of going with Frank?” Gil rested his hand on her cheek and kissed her neck, tasting the muddy creek water on his lips.
Jenna’s laughter rose to the top of the cottonwoods. “Frank’s such a bore. A midnight swim sounded more fun than sitting around with a bunch of guys drinking beer and talking about rodeo. Besides, I’ve seen the way you look at me.”
The girl played with fire, but she had no idea how hot the coals burned. He picked Jenna up and twirled her in the waist-high water, the celebration in his heart bittersweet. He’d betrayed Frank by making love to this girl, and nothing would ever be the same again.
Not ready to give in to his conscience, he kissed Jenna hard on the mouth, and they both fell into the water. In a fit of laughter, they splashed each other until two more sirens interrupted their fun. Curiosity aroused, they grabbed their clothes on the bank and hopped into Gil’s half-ton t
o follow the flashing red lights to the site of the accident.
A beat-up Chevy truck lay overturned in the ditch. Gil recognized the vehicle at once, and he and Jenna raced down the steep hill, their clothes clinging to their wet skin. The passenger had received a fatal blow against the windshield, and paramedics worked to pull the teenage boy from the crushed cab. The driver, thrown from his window, lay covered on the ground.
Drawn by pure terror, Gil tore the white sheet from the body and nearly retched. The lifeless form of his brother lay bloodied and mangled on the ground. Tears streamed down his face as he fell to his knees. Gil held Frank’s limp frame close to his chest and willed himself to feel the warmth of life in his veins, the beat of his heart, which failed to oblige. Unable to believe his brother dead, Gil rocked him in his arms and called out Frank’s name in the dark night . . .
Haunted by the memories, Gil swayed back and forth on the cold cemetery ground.
Again, he heard the owl’s shriek. He’d been wrong to come here. The pain was still too great. Grief left him numb, yet the torment of what he’d done to his brother gnawed at his stomach until he wanted to cry out from guilt.
Christian or not, could there really be forgiveness for such a crime?
With doubt hounding him, he lumbered to the truck and followed the winding road to his father’s home.
As the miles crept by, Gil thought about the kids who’d hit his horse two nights ago. He’d heard the driver had been intoxicated and that the other boy had died. The notion to visit the teenager who’d lived through the accident weighed on his shoulders, and he resolved to go to the hospital the next day. Barely able to keep his eyes open, he arrived at the ranch too tired to find his way into the dark house. Instead, he stretched out on the seat of the truck and slept.
The next morning as the sun shone down on Gil’s face, the passenger door screeched open, followed by a low whistle.
Snow Melts in Spring Page 4
