Snow Melts in Spring (15 page)

TWENTY-SEVEN

GIL EXCHANGED HIS FOOTBALL FOR THE TELEVISION REMOTE AND SET the leather ball beside him on the couch. “I hope you don’t mind my asking Mattie over for the game.” He flipped to the channel that hosted the pregame show and relaxed against the couch.

John McCray laid his newspaper on his lap. “Why would I mind?” he grumbled. “It’ll give me someone to talk to, now that you gave Mildred the day off.”

Gil sat up, reminded of his chili on the stove. “Mildred doesn’t need to work every day of the week, especially now that I’m here. She’s not your slave.” He shook his head and got up to check the soup simmering in the kitchen.

Clutching a wooden spoon, he stirred the thick tomato base, his very own recipe, and the peppery blend of spices drifted to his nose. It made his mouth water, and he lifted the spoon to taste the fiery concoction.

More salt.

He sprinkled the seasoning over the pot of bubbling chili and thought of his teammates who used to like when he’d cook for them.
What were the guys doing now, the rowdy bunch?

Drinking beer and eating submarine sandwiches, Gil figured, as he assembled a platter of cheese and crackers. All of them watching to see which team would win this year’s title. But it wouldn’t be them. He shook his head and tried to concentrate on something else, anything but failure . . . that it could have been his team competing for Super Bowl rings.

When he returned to the living room, déjà vu hit him square in the face as he spotted Mattie beside his dad’s recliner, her hand on his. This time Gil knew better than to challenge the doc’s compassionate nature. Instead, he grinned, thinking she was the perfect person to ease him out of this sour mood. She stood from her stooped position and returned his smile.

“John says you gave Mildred the day off. Whatever you’re cooking in the kitchen smells wonderful.”

His dad snorted. “It’ll probably give me heartburn. You know I’m not supposed to eat spicy food.”

Gil set the crackers and cheese on the coffee table. “If you can’t take the heat, I’ll fry you an omelet.”

Mattie stepped between him and his dad, thwarting the arrows. She handed him a sack of potato chips and plopped on the couch. “What teams are playing today? Green Bay Packers and Baltimore Patriots?”

Gil chuckled at her attempt to show interest in the sport, guessing his dad didn’t know the difference between teams either. “New England Patriots,” he corrected and set the chips on the table with the other snacks before taking a seat beside her. “You do understand the basic concept of the game, right? Two teams meet in the middle of the field. One side is offense, one defense, both try to gain possession of the ball?”

At her blank expression, he decided to go over a few fundamentals and ended up charting it out for her on a piece of paper.

“Why don’t you leave the girl alone?” his dad said. “I’m sure she’ll catch on once the game starts.”

Mattie opened the bag of barbecue chips and laughed. “Don’t bet on it. When it comes to football, I’ve never paid much attention, not even in high school.”

His dad lifted the newspaper on his lap. “Sounds like you had more sense than some people I know,” he grumbled from behind the front page, but Gil heard every word.

He stifled the anger that threatened to boil to the surface like his pot of chili on the stove. Why couldn’t his father try to get along? Why did he always have to stir up trouble? Tempted to lash out, Gil bit his words and concentrated on the woman beside him.

She’d changed into a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt, her hair still bound in a braid. To his relief, she no longer emitted the anxiety that surrounded her earlier, but instead, seemed her natural self again.

“Did you and Clara have a nice lunch?”

Mattie popped a chip in her mouth, and it made a loud crunch. “Short but sweet. We ate a quick meal and visited until her mother came to babysit so Clara could go to work.” She offered him the bag of chips, and he grabbed a handful.

“She seems like a nice woman. Busy, and I take it not married?”

“Divorced, with three children.”

Gil thought of the toddler Mattie held in the church, barely two years old and cute as a doll. How could a guy give up a great wife and kids? His own family had its share of problems, but at least his dad never abandoned them.

“Clara’s blessed to have her mother help with the kids.” Mattie crunched on another chip.

“Good mothers are a blessing from God — dads too, I suppose.” Gil smiled, then considered his father stretched out on his recliner. The anger that burned a short while ago dimmed. He wiped the barbecue residue from his fingers and reached into his front jean pocket for the watch his coach had given him, felt the smooth metal beneath his skin, and was reminded how precious time could be.

As the second hand ticked against his fingers, the big screen roared to life, and the commentators announced the starting lineup. The players ran onto the field, and Gil’s excitement grew.

“Do you know any of these guys?” Mattie shifted to the edge of the couch and seemed half-interested in the game.

“Yeah, the Packer’s star quarterback for one.” He named the various players he respected or in some cases, didn’t. Within minutes, Green Bay won the coin toss, and the other team started the game with the kickoff. Gil seized the football on the couch and gripped the laces, wishing he could have been the one throwing the ball.

MATTIE NEVER UNDERSTOOD THE ATTRACTION FOOTBALL HELD FOR people, but she wanted to try and appreciate the game for Gil’s sake. He clutched the ball with his thick, wide hands, and she flinched when he faked a pass, patterning his motions after the guy on the television.

“Throw the ball, your split end’s wide open!” Gil rose from the couch.

Last Mattie knew, a split end meant you needed a haircut. She regarded John, curious whether he had any interest in the game and discovered he’d fallen asleep on the recliner, the newspaper a tent over his belly.

On the big screen the crowd thundered as the broadcaster announced first down. Without the televised commentary, Mattie would be lost.

“That’s more like it.” Gil dropped to the couch, football in hand.

“Okay, tell me again what first down means.” She expected Gil to complain about having to explain things twice. Instead, his eyes crinkled in a grin, and he referred once more to the sheet of paper on the coffee table.

“The quarterback decides to run, pass, or hand the ball off to another player. No matter what he chooses, the team has four chances to go ten yards. If they fail, the other team gets the ball.” He drew a bunch of zeros on the paper and commenced to outline various playing strategies.

Mattie shook her head, trying to compare Gil’s words to what she saw on the television. The ball moved too fast on the screen for her to keep up. How Gil had memorized all these plays and employed them in the blink of an eye was beyond her. It seemed like the man had two identities — the one who rode a horse and the one who threw a football. That he could do both so well caused her estimation of him to climb a few more notches.

She noted their close proximity, how his leg rested against hers, and her attention wavered. Her thoughts drifted to the spicy scent of his cologne, to how he’d held her the night before.

Gil must have noticed her inattentiveness. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

“Show me what?” Mattie had no idea what he’d been talking about before her preoccupation. He took her hand, causing her skin to tingle.

“I’ll show you how the professionals do it.”

Again, she had no clue, but followed him through the room to an open area between the living and dining rooms. Cradled against her back, Gil demonstrated with his fingers between the laces how to hold the ball.

“When you throw, you want your index finger to steer the ball into a spiral spin.” One by one, he pressed her fingers in place, then guided her arm in a forward pass minus the release. All Mattie could think about, however, was how good it felt to have Gil’s arms encircle her — feel his breath tickle her ear. She closed her eyes, savoring the moment.

Too soon, Gil let go and positioned her in another stance. “Now, you be the quarterback, and I’ll hike the ball.” He bent over with the football between his legs and spouted off a bunch of numbers.

Before Mattie knew what happened, the brown missile shot from Gil’s hands and hit her smack in the stomach. In the millisecond it took to cycle thought with reaction, the ball bounced out of reach and crashed into a rose-patterned tea service, knocking the china pot to the floor where it splintered into a hundred shiny pieces.

Mattie gasped.

Gil straightened, his mouth gaping in a horrified expression.

“What in tarnation are you doing over there?” John McCray hollered, his afternoon nap disturbed. He got up from his chair and aided by his cane, crossed the room. When he identified the source of the commotion, his face contorted into an agonized scowl.

“You broke your mama’s tea set?” His blue eyes flickered from Gil to Mattie, then settled on his son. “Her favorite tea set?” He struggled to the wooden floor and picked up a shard of porcelain trimmed in gold. His shoulders slumped, outlined by defeat. “I gave this to your mama for her sixtieth birthday. Had tea and cookies with her every afternoon till the day she died.”

“I’m sorry, Dad.” Gil stepped closer. “We should have been more careful. I was just showing Mattie a few moves.”

John glowered at his son. Mattie sensed his rage building and bent to help gather the pieces.

“You always did care more about football than your own flesh and blood.” His words came out in ragged breaths as he brandished a portion of the teapot toward Gil. “Left your mother and me to run this ranch by ourselves and took away our hope of watching our grandkids grow up on this land. Broke your mama’s heart by denying her one last good-bye.”

Mattie glanced at Gil as the arrows shot into his heart.

“We were halfway around the world.” Gil pressed his hand to his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut. “Don’t you think I wanted to see her before she died? I loved her too. Would have given my right arm to hold her hand and tell her one last time.”

Tears stung Mattie’s eyes as the two grown men battled out their heartache, as though one’s pain was greater than the other. But what could she say? All she could do was be here for them, try to help mend their broken relationship.

No amount of glue would fix the shattered pot in her hand.

But surely Gil and John’s relationship could be restored.

Couldn’t it?

TWENTY-EIGHT

“ONE WOULD NEVER KNOW YOU CARED A WHIT ABOUT YOUR mama — never shed a tear at her grave.” Gil’s dad picked up another shard of the broken teapot.

At the hard tone, Gil froze, incapable of rebuff or movement. He checked Mattie’s stunned expression and a part of him withered in mortification. Would she think him a cold monster, incapable of feeling?

Gil forced himself to break through the icy crust to convince his father and Mattie that he wasn’t that cruel. He gripped his dad’s shoulder. “I never meant . . .”

His father shrugged his hand aside. “Go back to your football. I can clean this up myself.”

Gil stared at the high ceiling, wanting to make things better but not having the foggiest idea how to do so. He dropped his gaze to Mattie and offered a silent apology for putting her in the middle of this horrible mess. “I’m going to check on Dusty. Clear the air. Might do us all some good right now.”

Mattie rose and clutched his elbow. “Want me to go with you?” The warmth in her eyes offered the understanding he yearned for.

But Gil shook his head. “Stay here. You’ll do more for him than I can.”

He left the house and plodded across the snow-laden barnyard, his heart heavy in the crisp, cold air. When he opened the barn door, he spotted Jake on a bale of straw next to Dusty.

“Me and Dusty is having us a little chat.” Jake tapped his knee and grinned. “Us old fogies have a lot in common. His knees hurt, my knees hurt.” He spit a stream of tobacco to the dirt floor next to his father’s blue heeler.

Gil knelt beside the gelding and smoothed a hand across his neck. He could feel Jake’s eyes studying him.

“Been fussing with your dad?”

“How did you know?”

“I watched you grow up, remember? Seen you take your first ride. Not much has changed since then.” Jake scratched his whiskers. “You always wanted to tackle the world. I’m guessing you still do.”

Gil’s brow puckered as he contemplated the cowboy’s words. “I wonder if we’ll ever get along — find that place of harmony where we can both be content, or at least communicate with each other without turning it into a brawl.”

Jake rubbed his worn jeans as though massaging the tired muscles beneath. “Seems to me you always found your peace on the back of a horse. Might be snow on the ground now, but spring will come. There ain’t nothing like spring in the hills — blue skies, fresh green grass, new calves popping out left and right.” He twitched his mouth from side to side, then spit another wad of chew. “I’m thinking there’s harmony right under your nose.” The ranch hand eased from the bale and wiped the dark juice from his mouth. “It’ll come to you; jest have to give it some time — for the snow to melt, so to speak.”

Jake went off to oil saddles while Gil cleaned Dusty’s pen. What the old cowboy said about finding peace on a horse was true, and it solidified Gil’s notion of raising horses, top-quality horses like Dusty had been. The ranch he hoped to buy in California would be the perfect setup for a brood mare operation, and having already researched the horse industry, he knew where to find proven rodeo stock — right here in Kansas.

When Gil returned to the house, he found Mattie in the kitchen dipping chili into a blue bowl. “How is he?” Gil asked.

Mattie looked up and shrugged. “We swept the broken china from the floor, but he’s still upset. I finally convinced him to lie down in his bedroom. Hoped some rest might do the trick.”

“I doubt it. Where do you think I got my hard head?” Gil knew his dad would hold this grudge for a good long time. Perhaps as Jake said, the two of them just needed to let the snow melt.

MATTIE STIRRED THE POT OF CHILI UNTIL GIL STOLE THE LADLE from her hand. His clothes reeked of manure and hay . . . barnyard perfume. She didn’t mind the smell and embraced this side of Gil, hoping to see more.

“What would you think about riding out to Central Kansas with me to look at some horses this spring?”

She grabbed the spoon back. “I think you need to wash your hands before handling the food.” She smiled as he followed her command. When he finished wiping his hands on a towel, she handed him a bowl. The steam from the chili tickled her nose but smelled delicious. “What sort of horses are you looking for?”

“Brood mares, maybe even a stud. I want to hire you to do a purchase exam.”

“You’re serious about raising horses?”

“Dead serious.”

John McCray shuffled into the kitchen, one hand on his cane. “What are you dead set on now? Don’t tell me you’re going back to football?”

“Nope, my playing days are over.” Gil took his father a bowl of chili and placed it on the table. “If that’s too spicy, let me know, and I’ll make you something else.”

John scratched his bristly chin and sat down. After a respectable amount of grumbling, he blew on a spoonful and took a bite. He seemed to enjoy it, or at least he didn’t complain.

Gil hunched over the counter and attacked his meal with fervor. “I’m going to buy a ranch in California,” he said between mouthfuls. “Got it picked out and everything. Beautiful estate, giant barn with an indoor arena. It’s not as wide-open as this place, but it’s a nice spread.”

Mattie dipped a cracker into her chili and pulled it out before it turned soggy. Gil seemed so intent on California. What was he running from? She munched on the cracker and enjoyed the zesty flavor.

“How many acres?” John leaned his elbow on the table with interest.

“Two hundred. Considering the population of the area, that’s a lot of land.”

Mattie’s gaze swung from John to Gil. Populated or not, two hundred acres wasn’t enough land to spit on and certainly couldn’t compare to the Lightning M. City life had dulled Gil’s senses, made him forget the exhilaration of riding on untainted ground. A few weeks in the Flint Hills ought to renew his love for the land and convince him of his mistake. At least, she hoped it would. She ate a spoonful of chili. Within seconds, the fiery seasoning permeated her mouth and radiated from her pores.

John mopped his forehead with a red handkerchief.

“Maybe you ought to fix your dad something else,” she said. “You need an iron stomach to eat this stuff.”

Apprehension skidded across Gil’s face.

John waved off their worry and stared at his son. “Sounds like you got your life all figured out. Seeing as how you’re set on owning land in California, I don’t guess you have any need for the home place. That’s a shame — kind of hoped you’d changed your mind about living here.” He rubbed his chest and pushed the half-eaten bowl of chili away.

Mattie lost her appetite too.

“I suppose my niece in Council Grove might be interested in having it, though she’s married and has her own home.” John’s eyes settled on Mattie. “Or maybe I’ll hand the ranch over to our good veterinarian here. She’s been like a daughter to me these last few years — closer to me than my own kin.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin and rose from the table on unsteady legs.

The air in the room was so thick with tension the hair on Mattie’s neck prickled beneath her flannel collar. She wanted to diffuse the dynamite sure to explode any minute, but John’s statement held such a shock, her words jumbled inside her head.

A daughter to him? Land of her own?

“I never figured you’d give the place to me, anyway.” Gil spoke without a hint of offense.

Mattie studied him, suspecting the hurt went so deep it didn’t show. Wasn’t this exactly what Gil predicted? But John couldn’t be so cruel as to deny his only son his rightful inheritance. That would be worse than bankruptcy.

She stepped between the two men. “Now hold on a minute. You don’t want to say anything you’ll regret later.” Her lips twitched as she shot a warning glance at John. “You’re not dying, so there’s plenty of time to work out this misunderstanding. I know deep down you want Gil to have this place, so don’t try to tell me otherwise.”

Bunching her hands into fists, she shifted to Gil, prepared to tell him her mind. “And you, standing there as though you could care less. It would kill you if someone else owned this property. Even if you buy your land in California, this will always be your home, the place you grew up with Frank, where you have memories of your mom and dad. How could you let that slip from your lap without so much as a shrug . . . or a fight? Don’t you know how much this land means — to the both of you?”

Gil shook his head. “It means something to you, Mattie . . . not to me.” His voice came to her, soft and persuasive.

John let out a disgusted sigh. “I’ve heard all I care to. Don’t need to listen to anymore,” he said and ambled from the room.

When he was out of earshot, Mattie turned on Gil like a pit bull. “How can you say that?”

Gil closed the distance between them and lifted her chin, made her look into his eyes. What she saw there contradicted everything that came from his mouth — pain, regret, and a longing for peace. He’d never find that peace by running away from the source of his sorrow.

“I have good memories here, but there are also some really bad ones I’d like to forget. Dad’s going to do what he wants with this place. What good will it do to argue about who gets it? My life’s in California.”

Mattie wrenched her chin from his grasp and stared at the red tiled floor. “But you’ll stay until the ranch is repaired? You’ll do that for your dad?”

“I won’t leave until the work is complete and Dusty’s recovered. How about you? Will you help me purchase some mares?”

She stared down at her boots. “I guess I could make arrangements.”

“The other day after we caught the bull, you called me a coward. Do you still think that of me?”

Mattie considered their conversation from that day when she’d accused Gil of running away from the ranch and his responsibilities. “That depends on how you handle this mess with your father.”

In one smooth motion, Gil seized her hands. “I’m no coward, Mattie. One day you’ll see that.”