The man's smile revealed crooked teeth. "That's the last of them, if you're sure you want to go through with this."

A moment's hesitation struck Gil before he nodded. "It's time to give someone else a shot at the game. I had my chance."

"The fans will remember you, don't worry. Your numbers are right up there with Young and Montana." The cheerfulness faded in his eyes. "I've scheduled one more news conference with reporters later this afternoon and then you're free to go."

His coach leaned over his desk and picked up a wood-framed photograph of the 49ers in their early years. "Nowadays, it's hard to find players with staying power. You're the last from the old team, who cared more about the game and the team you played for than the money you made. The boys and I are going to miss you."

"You'll probably see me in the announcer's box one of these days and then you'll sing a different tune."

The man laughed and stood from behind his desk. "With you at the microphone, I know we'll be in trouble." He squeezed Gil's shoulder with affection. "What will you do now?"

Gil stared at the oak bookcase in his coach's office, at the many pictures of his team through the years. "I'm not sure. Spend more time with the foundation - maybe buy a ranch up north."

"Why not take some time off and visit your dad? Repair the damage done after all these years."

"I just came from there. I'm not sure I want to go back so soon."

His coach reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver watch. He played with the chain between his thick fingers. "Here, I want you to have this." The gray-haired man pressed the timepiece into Gil's palm. "My first coach gave it to me when I was a boy. You've been like a son to me. I guess it's time to hand it down."

Uncomfortable with the emotional display, Gil shook his head. "I can't take your watch, Coach. You'll never arrive to practice on time if I do." He slapped his coach on the forearm in an effort to lighten the mood.

The man glared at him. Gil had witnessed that determined look often enough to know not to argue. "My dad gave it to me, now I'm turning it over to you. Don't lose it. It keeps good time . . . but remember, even the steadiest of us old-timers will stop running one day."

Coach always did have a way with words. Gil gripped the watch with his fingers and felt the smooth metal beneath his touch. "Thanks, Coach. I won't forget."

After lunch, Gil's secretary greeted him as he entered the fifth-floor office space where he ran his private foundation.

"Welcome home, Mr. McCray." The young blonde straightened in her chair, her posture perfect, and her nails a shade of dark pink that matched her lipstick.

"Is everyone here for the meeting?" he asked as he passed her desk.

She smiled and handed him a folder. "The last one slipped in about two minutes before you arrived."

"Good." Gil took the document from her. He appreciated punctuality in his board members. "Hold any calls for the next few hours and don't schedule me for anything this afternoon. Seems I have an appointment with some reporters."

He moved down the hall to the conference room. The second he opened the door, the flurry of conversation halted.

"Good afternoon, everyone. Nothing like a few traffic jams and the smell of exhaust to welcome a person back to the city." He raised his eyebrows, and they chuckled in return. Prepared to go to work, he removed his gray tweed jacket. "Show me what you've done while I've been gone."

For the next sixty minutes, Gil and his five board members discussed possible contributions, as they did every month. At the end of the session, a stack of paperwork sat in front of Gil on the table to review. His role as financier and overseer of the Gil McCray Foundation had been made possible through his football career. Thankfully, he'd built sizeable investments during that time, and he hoped to continue the foundation in the years to come.

He took the folders to his office and reviewed the possible donations - all victims of drunk drivers. About halfway through the pile, the afternoon sun beamed through the spacious windows and bounced rays of light against his desk. Distracted, his gaze settled on the football propped there, and his heart sank at the realization.

He wasn't going to play anymore.

His football career was over.

Too restless to work, Gil walked to the front desk and laid an envelope in front of the secretary.

"Here's a case I'm interested in. Have Jonathan investigate the report and see if it meets our specifications."

"And if it does?"

"You know what to do." Gil pulled his jacket on and straightened his knit collar. "What do you think? Do I look okay for my last appointment with the press?"

The young woman offered a smile and pulled a red necktie from her bottom drawer. She held it out for him, but he declined.

"You know better than that. Ties are reserved for game day."

Gil sauntered out of the office to the elevator, and only then did he allow his smile to fade. No more ties for him. No more game days. What would he do with his life now?

TWELVE.

"HEY, HE'S ON." MATTIE'S NEW ASSISTANT COVERED THE MOUTH OF her cell phone.

"Who's on what?" Mattie glanced up from her prep work, unable to hide the disapproval from her face.

"Dusty's owner, that football guy. He's on FOX-TV. Mom says they're interviewing him about his retirement."

Retirement?

Mattie waved an electric razor in the air, ready to shave a retriever's belly for surgery. She had no time for nonsense. "Katy, we have another hour before we close." Her tolerance for football celebrities had worn thin, as had her patience for the high school help she'd hired. Why would she be interested in anything to do with Gil McCray? Although it did surprise her that he hadn't mentioned his retirement.

"You're going to have to tape it for us, Mom. I've gotta go." Katy tucked her cell phone into her jeans pocket. "Sorry about that. She's a sports fanatic."

"You're excused this time, but from now on, no personal calls at work." Mattie checked the dog's heartbeat on the electrocardiogram and adjusted the level of anesthesia. She took a long swipe at the dog's stomach with the razor and peeled away a strip of reddish-brown fur.

Gil had been gone for over a week, but it seemed like he hadn't even left. Mattie thought of him every time she looked at Dusty, which was a cruel joke, considering the last time she'd seen Gil, he'd blasted her for inappropriate care of her patients. To think the man practically begged her to give his horse an extra dose of love.

Three more swipes with the razor, and she was ready. "If blood bothers you, step away. The last thing I need is for you to faint, because I won't be able to help you once I open her up."

Katy straightened. "I'll be okay."

Mattie sterilized the shaved area and checked the patient's heartbeat once more. With her scalpel, she made a quick incision in the dog's midsection. She glanced at the teenager, whose face had turned a shade of green.

"Better get some fresh air before you wind up on the floor."

Not everyone had a stomach for surgery, which appeared to be the case with her new employee. An hour later the teenager left for a high school basketball game, and Mattie locked the clinic door behind the girl. She wished she had the girl's energy, then maybe she wouldn't feel so old and unappreciated.

While waiting for her patient to come out of anesthesia, Mattie finished cleaning the surgical room and checked the animals in the back. A Siamese cat stretched his long body and brushed his soft fur against 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 it flickered on, then off.

No electricity.

Managing to dress in the dark, she fumbled along the cold floor. As she headed for the kitchen for a flashlight, she caught the distinct odor of something burning. Sniffing the air, she decided it must be lingering fumes from the microwave or maybe the wind carrying smoke from a distant brush pile. She found the flashlight, then pulled on her leather boots and grabbed her coat. Not eager to go out into the wintry night, she made her way down the squeaky stairs to the clinic, then out to the barn where the overhead lights came on.

Surprised that the power worked in the barn, Mattie checked Dusty's vitals, then got him up to clean his stall. Thirty minutes later and eager to return to her warm bed, she led him in a large circle to exercise his swollen legs. When they neared the barn entrance, Dusty's ears perked and he snorted. Mattie glanced outside and her breath caught in her chest.

Bright orange flames raged inside her apartment window above the clinic.

GIL OPENED HIS FRONT DOOR AND WAS GREETED BY A HANDFUL OF his teammates on the stoop.

"Hey buddy, you can't spend the first night of your retirement cooped up by yourself." Johnson, one of his favorite running backs, pressed in through the doorway, followed by his best friend Charlie and a few more players.

Gil glanced at his pocket watch. "It's nine o'clock. Shouldn't you guys be in bed?"

"Not tonight. We have reservations," Johnson said and a couple of the men chuckled.

This aroused Gil's suspicions. "Why don't you fellows come in, and we'll put a movie on? We could study the clips from our playoff game with Green Bay." He awaited their reaction, anticipating it to be loud.

"Our friend thinks he's a comedian." Johnson latched on to Gil's shoulders and steered him to the door. "Grab your jacket. We're taking you out for a fine culinary experience."

Again, the guys snickered. Gil had a hunch it wasn't because they were hungry.

Half an hour later, he sat at a long table crammed with twelve or more hulking football players on plush pillowed benches. Smoke hung in the dark canopied room, as four costumed musicians created intoxicating rhythms on their stringed instruments. One man passed between the tables with his violin, followed by a scantily dressed woman with a tambourine.

Gil figured the guys would take him to one of their favorite spots in the Marina District but never guessed they'd end up at a fancy Moroccan restaurant. "Which one of you dreamed up this wild idea?"

Johnson's lips formed a cocky grin. "Me and my girlfriend tried this place out a few weeks ago. I thought bringing you here would be worth a few laughs. A man only retires once."

Gil nodded, able to read between the lines. The guys intended to get him drunk and embarrass him with a belly dancer.

Not gonna happen, guys.

He laughed with them and studied the luxurious tapestries on the wall until a waiter, his outfit complete with a red felt hat and black tassels, approached their table.

"Welcome, I am your personal servant, Niko. I understand you're here for a kutlama kutlama - a celebracion." His thick accent flowed from his mouth like honey. "For your dining pleasure, we are preparing for you, - a celebracion." His thick accent flowed from his mouth like honey. "For your dining pleasure, we are preparing for you, Kuzu Tandir Kuzu Tandir, a succulent roast lamb on a spit, served with grilled vegetables and an onion salad, sprinkled with only the finest herbs." The satin-dressed attendant clapped his hands and a veiled woman in a harem outfit brought an ornamented jug of wine to their table. She poured the dark liquid into everyone's glasses, then proceeded to sway her arms and hips to the sultry music of the harpsichord and mandolin.

Uncomfortable with the dancer's undulations, so close he could smell her musky perfume, Gil steered his eyes away from the curvaceous legs and bosom and trained his vision instead on the exotic features of her face, her eyes, the flashing jewels on her ears entangled in long spirals of thick, black hair.

Though half a continent apart, he couldn't help but compare the dancer to Dr. Evans. Mattie was spirited but nothing like the woman before him. The doc's innocence shown in her bright eyes and sweet smile, and he much preferred her soft red curls and petite frame to the lush figure that circled their table. Could he have been wrong about Mattie's relationship with his father?

Nearing his chair once again, the dancer tapped her fingers and a tinny succession of jingles echoed in his ears. The guys beside him whooped and whistled, and Gil became exceedingly uneasy from her attention. In an effort to ignore her and get away from the noise, he withdrew to the men's bathroom. When he returned, their red-capped waiter met him at the table with a tray of appetizers.

"And now for your Saganaki, a mild Kasseri cheese soaked with cognac." He took out his lighter and dipped it above the amber liquid, igniting a slow blaze, which eventually engulfed the entire creation.

"Opa!" he said, and those at the table echoed his exclamation.

Gil stared at the golden-blue flames, entranced by the seductive way the fire danced and flickered over the cheese delicacy, his thoughts drifting back to Kansas.

THIRTEEN.

MATTIE STOOD TRANSFIXED BY THE BLAZING FIRE SHOOTING OUT her apartment window. Her body filled with terror. Worried about her patients in the clinic below, she dropped Dusty's lead rope and rushed the thirty yards from the barn to the house. Upon entering the clinic door, she pulled her flashlight from her coat pocket and beamed it around the front office. Smoke slithered from the crevices in the ceiling and filled the room.

She needed help. When she felt for the cell phone normally clipped to her jeans, it wasn't there. She remembered leaving it on the nightstand by her bed.

No good to her now.

The fire had not yet reached the downstairs, but Mattie could almost feel her hair crinkle from the intense heat overhead. She covered her nose and mouth and ran to the back where the animals were caged. Even before she opened the door, she heard the insistent yelps of a puppy, her parrot's squall, the spine-tingling yowls of two frantic cats.

With trembling fingers, Mattie unlatched the first gate she came to of a mother cat and her kittens.

"Scoot, kitties. Out with you." She captured the fluffy fur balls one by one, and they brushed past her legs to follow their mama. Next, she aimed the flashlight on the golden retriever she'd operated on earlier. The dog opened its bleary eyes. Still groggy, the patient couldn't walk on its own.

Mattie flung the cage open and struggled to lift the dog. With shaky legs, she carried the retriever out the rear door to a place of safety under a big cottonwood tree. Doubling over to catch her breath, Mattie watched as the office curtains burst into flames. Then came the chinking pop pop of breaking glass. of breaking glass.