“Whoo-wee, I ain’t seen nobody do this for a long time. You okay there, Son?” Jake asked.
Gil lifted his head, his shoulders pinched from lying in such an awkward position, his toes and fingers nearly frozen. “I didn’t want to wake the old man last night.”
Jake nodded thoughtfully. “He’s gettin’ older. Probably wise to let go of hard feelings. Start afresh.”
Not up to a lecture, Gil cocked an eyebrow and rubbed his neck. “Does Mildred still make breakfast for you? I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse.”
The ranch hand chuckled. “I’m headed that way now. Tuesday mornings she makes biscuits and sausage gravy. ’Course it’s turkey sausage, but it beats cold cereal.”
Gil rolled out of the side of the truck and walked with Jake to the house. “Thanks again for letting me borrow your wheels last night.”
“Use it any time you want. I’m glad to have you home.” Jake patted him on the shoulders. They entered the kitchen through the back, and the screen door slammed behind them.
Mildred turned from the stove, her hands on her hips. “I wondered where you were. I made your bed up last night. Noticed you didn’t sleep in it.”
“He dozed in the truck,” Jake intercepted, “but I reckon he’s paying the price for it now.” The old cowhand sat at a wooden table and picked up his silverware.
Mildred set a plate of steaming biscuits beside a bowl of creamy white gravy that smelled like heaven. Gil said a quick prayer, then reached for one of the tender, golden tops.
“It’s good to see you pray before a meal.” Mildred handed him a dish of fried sausage links. “Your mama always said grace, but that seems a long time ago.”
Gil studied the blue patterned bowl and recognized the piece from his mother’s collection. She always insisted using the china dishes she’d called Blue Willow, even though they might get chipped or broken with daily use. Odd how certain things stood out in his memory.
“It’s been a while since I served you breakfast.” Mildred grabbed a jar of jelly from the refrigerator and joined them at the table.
“Too long.” Gil looked toward the hallway and wondered when his father would appear. “Shouldn’t Dad be up by now? I never knew him to lie in bed past sunup.”
“Things are different since his attack.”
That was an understatement. Gil had never known his father to take an afternoon nap, nor could he imagine him relying on a cane to walk. A moment of sadness swept over him at the toll the years had taken on his father and how much Gil had missed. He set his jaw and forced himself not to dwell on events he couldn’t change. “How’s the ranch, Jake? If you don’t mind my saying, things look a bit rough around here.”
Jake sliced into a biscuit, and Gil watched the steam rise above the knife. “The place is a little worn down, but not so much that it can’t be repaired.”
“Who’s going to do the work? Dad’s not up to it, and you’re too old to manage by yourself.”
The grizzled cowboy shook his head. “Your dad’s seen harder times than this. He’ll have things in order soon enough. Nobody wants that more than him.” Jake took a bite that left a smudge of gravy at the side of his mouth. “What about you? If you have a mind to stay awhile, maybe you could help get the ranch on its feet?”
Gil ducked his head, plagued by all the reasons to stay, yet spurred by his inner desire to flee. “I need to head back to the city later this week to take care of some business.”
“Business, huh?” Jake’s disappointment was evident. “Well, until then, it’s gonna be nice having you around. Ain’t it, Mildred?” He went back to his breakfast, smiling like a little kid. “Whoo-wee, just like old times.”
“What’s all the commotion about?” John McCray lumbered into the room with his cane, his eyes fastened on Gil. “I figured you’d be gone by now.”
“I’ll be out of your hair in a few days.” Gil noticed the deepening crease in his father’s brow and wondered how he would manage his dad’s company for that amount of time.
“I’m surprised you’re staying so long — surprised those football folks of yours ain’t called you back already.”
Gil tried not to let the spiteful words anger him, and he tried not to think about football. How would he handle retirement? No morning meetings with the guys, no afternoon practice, no game plans to study. From now on, everything would be different.
He smeared cherry jam on one of the biscuits and smiled at Mildred’s cooking, sure it could take his mind off his problems. She was the one woman who might come close to his mama in the kitchen. “Did you make this jam yourself, Mildred?” He bit into the warm bread and savored the tart flavor.
“That’s some of the preserves Mattie gave us this fall. She’s a good cook, that girl.”
Gil’s brow puckered as he took another bite from the biscuit. He thought of the red-haired doctor and then of his horse. Baffled by how good the jam tasted, he shoved the last morsel into his mouth. “I planned to drop in and see how Dusty’s doing this morning. Mind if I take Dr. Evans a few of your tasty biscuits?”
Mildred smiled at the compliment and nodded. “She probably didn’t bother to eat before work this morning. All skin-and-bones, she is.”
From what Gil had seen of the Diamond Fall’s veterinarian, he was inclined to agree. He wrapped two biscuits in a paper napkin, then rubbed the stubble on his chin. Maybe he should freshen up a bit first.
“I don’t know what to think about your busy schedule,” his father said. “Never any time to sit and talk.”
“We’ll have plenty of time for that later.” Gil hoped he and his dad could be civil long enough to have that visit, but not now. “Jake, can I borrow your truck again?”
The old cowboy got up from the table and placed his hat on his head. “I’ve got heifers to check, so I won’t need it.”
“I appreciate the favor.”
“You could borrow my truck,” his dad said. “Or your mama’s car is parked in the garage.”
“My luck, I’d put a dent in one of them, and you’d cuss me up one side and down the other.” Gil chuckled, only half-teasing. “Jake doesn’t have to worry, ’cause he’d never know a new dent from an old one.”
Jake grinned broadly. “Whoo-wee, I do believe our boy’s home.”
NINE
MATTIE STEPPED OUT INTO THE MORNING SUNSHINE AND HER COFFEE steamed in the cool air. In another month, it would be calving and foaling season. Business was bound to pick up. When she entered the barn, she found the chestnut gelding sitting up. A good sign. Nearly forty-eight hours had passed since Dusty’s surgery, and his body was responding well to treatment. She knelt beside him and slid her palm against his neck.
“Hey, Dusty. How are you doing this morning?” She eased her hand down his chest and right leg, pleased the swelling had lessened. “Let’s see if you’re ready to stand.” With a slight tap to his backside, she gave him a gentle push, urging him to his feet. The horse didn’t budge.
“Haven’t I seen this before?”
Mattie recognized the man’s voice instantly and rose from her knees. “Are you going to stand there and gawk or are you going to help?” she asked, unable to keep the smile from her face.
“I’m here to serve.” Gil laid a sack beside her coffee on the wooden bench, then stood beside Dusty and nudged the horse’s side as he’d done the night before. “I don’t know what you’re going to do when I’m not here, Doc.”
“I can always steal one of the posters they display of you in town. That ought to do the trick.” She wanted to cheer when the horse wobbled up on all fours.
Gil chuckled. “What do you have against football players, anyway?”
“I don’t have anything against big, bulky men who strut around in skintight pants.” She grinned teasingly. “Rodeo’s a whole lot easier to understand.”
“Did you rodeo?”
“Barrels and poles. Tied some goats,” Mattie said. “I understand you had a future in rodeo. Why�
��d you quit?”
Gil looked away. “Football offered me a better deal.”
“Do you miss it?”
“I’ve participated in a few charity ropings. It’s a good way to raise money for kids who need it.”
Mattie knelt to examine Dusty’s front hooves, surprised Gil would be involved in charity work. “What else do you do when you’re not playing football? Television commercials? Let’s see, maybe prance around in men’s underwear or sell deodorant?” She glanced up to see if this embarrassed him.
“I never prance. I own investments and sponsor a foundation.” He slid his hands into his jean pockets, then smiled. “I once did a milk commercial, but I take it you’ve never seen it?”
Feeling the warmth of her own embarrassment, she turned her attention to the horse. “I don’t watch much television.”
“And when you do, Sunday Night Football isn’t on your list of priorities, right?”
“Smart guy.” She rose and went to the other side of the horse to distance herself from this imposing man who made her feel like a Shetland pony next to a Percheron stallion. “What brings you here this morning, anyway?”
“I brought you some of Mildred’s biscuits. I figured after the cold hamburger last night, you might enjoy a warm snack.”
Mattie smiled at the gesture. “All I’ve had is strong coffee.” She put a rope around Dusty’s neck, and the thought of the freshly baked biscuits made her stomach growl.
“If you want, I’ll heat them in your microwave.”
“That won’t be necessary.” She’d eat the food cold before she’d allow this man to see the dirty dishes on her kitchen counter and clothes lying in a heap on the floor. “Dusty’s swelling has gone down some. The more he moves, the less stiffness he’ll have.”
“Should I try to walk him while you eat?”
“Some sunshine on his back would be good.”
While Gil managed to lead Dusty out of the barn, Mattie washed up, then settled on a bench to watch. She took her first bite, savoring the buttery flavor as well as the morning sunshine.
“Tell me, Doc. What makes a young woman like you want to stay in a rinky-dink place like this? You’d have more business if you lived in a city.”
Her eyes trailed Gil and his horse. He sounded like her parents. They were always notifying her about vet positions in Kansas City. Thought she’d make more friends and marry if she lived in the city. “I’ve never had any desire to leave these hills.”
“You don’t crave big malls or supermarkets? Theatres or nice restaurants? Don’t you get lonely for people your own age?” Gil stopped to rest Dusty, who nosed a clump of fescue but didn’t eat.
“I have lots of friends. And if I want to shop, all I have to do is hop in my truck and drive forty miles to Emporia.”
“I grew up here, remember . . . I know the population per square mile, and most of the people are over fifty.”
Mattie stopped chewing. “By people, I assume you mean single men. What makes you think I wouldn’t be interested in someone older? Like your father, for example.” Her eyebrows rose as she waited for his response.
The register of shock made her want to laugh. “Did you think your dad and I were an item?” His sheepish expression told her the answer before he opened his mouth.
“I had my suspicions.”
“I thought so.” Mattie lowered her head, and a wispy curl fell in her face. She couldn’t deny that she longed for romance. But pursue a man more than twice her age? She didn’t think so. John McCray was like a father to her, not a beau.
Although he did own a respectable portion of the Flint Hills . . .
She bit into the flaky biscuit as though biting into a dream. The McCray property was a worthy investment. Established acreage with a house and outbuildings. Though the thought had its advantages, marrying a gentleman for his land was out of the question. “If God wants me to remain single, that’s what I’ll do.”
Gil squatted and pulled a few slivers of grass from the ground. He placed them against Dusty’s muzzle. “You’d be content with that?”
Mattie tore at the biscuit. “I have my work. Freedom to come and go as I please.” And my honor.
Gil looked at Dusty, and the horse nickered, his ears twitching back and forth. “You make a good point. Who needs relationships when you have all this?” He extended his arms to the open prairie at the edge of town.
Mattie agreed. She might not own a ranch, but she had one of the better views of the Flint Hills right here from her clinic property. “What about you? Have you ever married?”
The man sobered. “I never let a woman interfere with the game. I didn’t care to have the distraction.”
“Even off-season? I find it hard to believe a man like you wouldn’t want someone to come home to, little feet to pad the halls of your three-story mansion.” Mattie looked away, hating her jealous heart. She thought of her sisters with their suburban homes. Even her best friend, Clara, still had her children to hug at night, despite a painful divorce.
This is the life you’ve given me, Lord. Help me be content.
Gil stood and tossed the grass to the ground. “I live in a two-bedroom townhouse near the Bay, but I’ve considered buying a ranch in Sonoma County to raise horses on — not children.” His mouth curved into a twisted grin. “California isn’t so bad once you get out of the city.”
“Why not move back here and take over your dad’s ranch?”
“I don’t think so.”
Her stomach tightened. How could Gil not take advantage of the opportunity? She’d have done somersaults to go into ranching with her dad — if she’d had the chance. Only a fool would give that up without a fight.
“Like I said before, you don’t know how it is between me and the old man.” He led Dusty to a bucket of water and waited. The horse sniffed at the plastic container.
You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink. She figured it must be the same with men. But for the life of her, she couldn’t understand it.
TEN
GIL WRESTLED WITH UNEASE AS HE EXITED THE BARN THIRTY MINUTES later. The doc said there was no cause for alarm over the fact that Dusty wasn’t eating, but he noted her concern. She’d inserted another IV to treat the gelding with electrolytes. He wondered if colic might be an issue.
Dusty looked thin, but he’d been in a near-fatal accident and had undergone five hours of surgery. The horse would eat when he got hungry, right? Gil shook his head. Did he trust the doc or not?
In football, nearly everything hinged on numbers and odds. He considered Dusty’s odds of getting better.
Sixty percent?
Better than half, but not good, given those were the same chances San Francisco had of beating Green Bay in the play-offs. Gil figured blind trust would have to prevail over common sense this time.
Driving to Emporia, Gil went over possible scenarios of what he might say when he met the hospitalized boy and his parents. He knew little about Dillon Marshall’s injuries but heard the boy was in intensive care. Upon his arrival, he went straight to the receptionist and asked for directions.
When Gil saw the boy through the window, he shrank back, his heart in his throat. He would never understand the senselessness of drunk driving. The boy lay immobile in the hospital bed, his head bandaged. A man in a rumpled shirt came to the door where Gil stood and reached out his hand.
“I’m Dillon’s father.” His fatigue lifted slightly into a forced grin. “Nice to meet you, Mr. McCray. I heard you were home, though I never expected you to visit.”
Gil tucked the gift he’d brought under his arm and gripped the man’s hand in a firm shake, hoping to convey his earnest regret. “I’m sorry about your boy.”
“We’re sorry about your horse. I understand he’s still alive.”
Gil nodded. “He’s a fighter. Apparently, your son is too.”
The father’s bloodshot eyes glistened, and Gil looked away.
“Dillon suffer
ed from cerebral bleeding that resulted in a stroke,” the man said. “His speech is impaired, and he’s paralyzed from the waist down. We figure when your horse hit the car windshield, Dillon lost control and smashed into a rock culvert.”
A woman came to the man’s side and placed her hand on his arm. “The doctors say our son may never walk again.” She wiped her tears with a tissue, then blew her nose.
Gil stared through the window at the boy. “Does he know about his friend?”
The father nodded. “The funeral’s tomorrow. He wants to go, but there’s no way . . .”
“May I see him?” At his question, the man opened the door for Gil.
The room smelled like disinfectant, a stench he’d grown to despise. He’d been in enough hospitals to last a lifetime, both to visit those who were ill and for his own football injuries. This time was no different. The medicinal odor and confined space made him claustrophobic, made him wish for fresh air.
White bandages hid Dillon’s face.
“Hi, there.” Gil offered the signed football he’d brought and laid it on the covers. “I understand you’re the one who ran into my horse the other night.”
The boy’s lashes blinked and his head moved ever so slightly.
“I’m Gil McCray, quarterback for the 49ers. I’ve been banged up pretty bad from my time on the field, but I think you’ve beaten me, hands down. Are you in much pain?”
Again, the head nodded.
An IV and various clear tubes trickled medicine into the teen. “They probably have you doped up pretty well, and that’s a good thing, believe me.” Gil smiled, growing uncomfortable despite the many times he’d visited kids in hospitals. Even his work with the foundation, which sponsored anti-drinking-and-driving campaigns in schools throughout the nation couldn’t prepare him for the one-on-one talks with kids. Never easy, but especially difficult this time.
He sat in the chair next to the bed and grabbed the football, wanting a familiar object to give him courage to say what needed to be said.
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