Free Snow Melts in Spring by Deborah Vogts Page B

the metal bars, while her pet parrot nuzzled a piece of cuttlebone. Mattie filled their water trays and saw the retriever yawn. Once the dog revived, she grabbed her coat and went to the barn to settle Dusty in for the night.
    “How are you doing, boy?” She spoke in a soft voice and patted him on his rump, the cold night air causing her teeth to chatter. He wobbled to his feet, and Mattie walked him a few steps. She removed his bandages and applied ointment to his wounds. Though the electrolytes and fluids were keeping the horse from dehydration, they did nothing for his weight loss, which seemed more noticeable today.
    “Come on, Dusty. Doesn’t this look good?” She held a clump of alfalfa under his nose to tempt him and watched the gelding nip at it. He took a little, then turned away. She patted him for his efforts and led the horse to his pen, noting the overall gaunt look and the more pronounced ribcage.
    Dusty stood a good sixteen hands tall and even in his suffering, Mattie could tell he’d been a great athlete. She imagined him in his prime — chasing a steer at breakneck speed, then sliding to a halt with his rump nearly touching the ground. She envisioned Gil on Dusty’s back, leaving his saddle in one fluid motion with his hand on the jerk line as he ran down the rope to flank the calf. Her heartbeat quickened as she pictured the two as a team.
    Then reality surfaced.
    Her pleasure turned to sorrow as the injured animal hung his head in pain and his knees collapsed to the soft, straw bedding.
    Before leaving, she gave him an injection of antibiotics and drew some more blood. “Help Dusty heal, Lord.” She knelt to kiss the horse, knowing she’d already lost her heart to him.
    Minutes later, Mattie climbed the steps to her apartment and flipped on the kitchen light. Silence greeted her, except for the clock ticking on the wall and the whistle of the north wind as it whipped against the side of the house. She grabbed a dinner from the freezer and stuck it in her microwave. Thankful for a chance to relax, Mattie rested her head on the overstuffed arm of the couch and punched the television remote to hear the news. Instead, she caught the end of a reality program filmed in the jungle.
    Didn’t these people have lives?
    She changed the channel and a familiar face filled the screen, his upper lip rimmed by a milk moustache.
    “Got milk?” the advertisement prompted, and the football player smiled straight at her. Even thousands of miles away, the man managed to infiltrate her life.
    The commercial segued into a news clip of Gil’s retirement.
    “Gil, you had a great season of 14 – 2, with a tough ending in the playoffs,” the journalist said. “Let’s take a moment to highlight your career. You began as a pro-quarterback fifteen years ago with the Denver Broncos and have played with the 49ers the last ten. In that time, you passed for over 39,000 yards, made 4200 pass completions, and threw 310 touchdown passes. How do you feel about ending your career with one MVP on your record, and what are your plans for the future?”
    Mattie punched the remote and stared at the blank screen. Gil McCray might be a sports celebrity, but he’d shown her what kind of man he was when he criticized her veterinary skills — and he called himself a Christian. Ha! To her, he was nothing more than a spoiled, selfish man, no matter how great a quarterback or cowboy he used to be. Let him have his ranch in California. Charris County would be better off without him.
    She got up to check the food in the microwave and as she set it to cook for a few more minutes, a multitude of sparks emitted from the oven, followed by a deafening bang and a burnt electrical smell. So much for a warm supper. She pulled the half-baked dish out of the microwave and ate the lukewarm meal in silence.
    Three hours later, Mattie awoke to the incessant beep of her alarm clock. She reached out from under her warm blankets to turn on the lamp, and