Snow Melts in Spring by Deborah Vogts Page B

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 suffered from cerebral bleeding that resulted in a stroke,” the