Golden Filly Collection One

by Lauraine Snelling

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know? Aren’t you mad? Don’t you want to live?”

  “Of course. And yes, I have been angry. Angry that this could happen to me. Furious that I kept on smoking even when I knew it was wrong and bad for my health.” His sigh came from the pain deep within. “I blamed myself, blamed God, blamed the doctors for not making me well right away.”

  “But you’ve always said God can do anything.”

  “He can.”

  “And that He loves us.”

  “He does.”

  “But what if you die?” Trish gripped the steering wheel like she’d tear it off the column. “How does that show God’s love?”

  Her father rubbed her shoulder with the hand he’d draped over the back of the seat. “There are no easy answers, Tee. If I die, I get to go home to heaven. I’m with Him then. If I live, I get to stay home with you. Then He’s with me. Either way, I’m—we’re in His care.”

  “But I need you here.” The cry tore from her heart.

  “I know.” His voice softened. “I know. And that’s my choice too.” He gathered her close.

  Trish could hear the wheezing as she leaned her head on his chest. God, she smothered the thought deep inside her. If you let my dad die, I swear I’ll hate you forever.

  “But, you see, it’s not God’s fault.” Her father had been reading her mind again.

  “Then whose fault is it?”

  “Sickness isn’t anyone’s fault. It just exists as long as we’re on this earth.”

  “But…” Trish couldn’t put her thoughts into words. “I hate cancer.”

  “So do I.”

  Trish stared at the container in her hands. “I told God that I hate Him,” she whispered.

  “I’m sure He understands. He knows our feelings better than we do.”

  “But—”

  “He forgives you, Tee. And He’ll never let you go. No matter how much hate and anger you have, He’ll take care of it—and you.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” The silence echoed in Trish’s thoughts. She looked through the windshield, her gaze focused somewhere beyond the drooping cedar trees. “You always said God answers prayer.”

  “He does.”

  “I’ve been praying for you to get better.”

  “So have I. And a lot of other people. You heard Pastor Mort in church this morning.”

  Trish didn’t answer. She’d been careful not to hear much of the service.

  “Tee, whichever way it goes, remember that I love you. You’ll never know how thankful I’ve been for the times we’ve spent together. No man could be prouder of his daughter than I am of you.”

  Trish let the tears flow. Great sobs shook her entire body as she clung to the father she adored. Tears fell from his eyes too, but he managed to keep from coughing.

  When the emotional storm passed, they dried their eyes and attempted to smile. Trish sat up straight and dropped her head on her hands against the steering wheel.

  “I still have a hard time seeing that God loves us through all this.” Trish turned the key to start the engine.

  Her father stayed her hand. “Tee, I’ve lived my whole life knowing that I am His and He is mine. Why would that change now? I need Him more than ever.”

  “And I need you.”

  “I know.” He let her turn the key. “But remember that death isn’t the end of life.”

  Trish drove home carefully, her mind a whirlwind of her father’s comments.

  On Monday Trish got to sleep in, and woke to find another card on her desk. This one said “Do not be afraid—I am with you! I am your God—let nothing terrify you! I will make you strong and help you; I will protect you and save you” (Isaiah 41:10). She tacked it up above the other one. How, she wondered. How will He do all that?

  David spent Monday and Tuesday evenings coaching her on her chemistry, and his explanations made sense.

  “You really like this stuff, don’t you?” Trish stared at David as if he were some strange creature from outer space.

  “Sure.” David scrunched the pillows up behind him against the headboard. “Math and chemistry are orderly—the equations remain the same, if you do them right.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “And yet there are all kinds of realms to explore, like medicine, for instance.”

  “Well, since I have no desire to work in medicine or math…”

  “Besides that, it’s good discipline for your mind. You work out to develop your muscles, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, consider this information as a workout for your mind.”

  “Whether I like it or not, right?” Trish flipped the pages of her chemistry book back and forth. “Do you think Dad’s getting weaker?”

  David didn’t answer her.

  Trish raised her head in time to see and hear her brother draw a ragged breath that seemed to catch on something in his throat.

  “Well?” Trish hated the silence filling the room. She knew if David disagreed, he’d have said so immediately.

  “Tee.” David swung his feet to the floor, but slumped rather than standing up. “That’s part of the disease. Dad said the treatments were about as bad as the cancer. They both make him weak.”

  “I feel like crying all the time. I hate it.” Trish slammed her book shut. “I just hate it!”

  “I know.”

  “You too?”

  David nodded.

  “But you don’t…I mean, well…” Trish met her brother’s gaze. The pain she saw mirrored her own. But being of a different nature, he suffered in silence.

  On Wednesday, Trish earned a B on the quiz. Things were indeed looking up—in that department of her life, at least.

  Snatches of the conversation with her father intruded on her thoughts at odd moments. Like when she was in the shower, or working Spitfire. Or now, when she was supposed to be studying in study hall. God, he has such faith in you. And he’s so sick.

  Last night her father had slept through the workout he’d planned to clock, and right on through the evening. Today he’d gone for a transfusion. And they were supposed to transport Spitfire and Firefly to the track when Trish got home.

  “It’s amazing what new blood and extra rest can do.” Her father closed his Bible and brought his recliner upright as Trish came through the door.

  “You look lots better.”

  “Feel lots better.” He dug in his pocket for one of the perpetual throat lozenges. He didn’t wait anymore for the cough to come, but sucked on hard candy or cough drops almost continuously.

  “I’ll hurry and change.”

  “Good. David’s waiting for us to help load.”

  Spitfire had to show off a bit as Trish and David led him toward the trailer. He tossed his head and reared with both front feet only inches from the ground.

  Trish jerked his lead rope. “Get down here, silly.” She gripped the shank right under his halter. “Who’re you trying to impress?”

  The colt shook his head, his mane flying in every direction. He laid his ears back at the drumming of his hooves on the gate but walked in like an old hand.

  Firefly didn’t like the idea a bit. As soon as her front feet thudded on the ramp, she backed off with a whinny of protest. Trish led her up to the ramp again and waited for the filly to sniff the ramp. David shook a pan of grain right in front of her nose.

  Acting as if she’d never hesitated, Firefly thumped her way into the trailer. Trish breathed a sigh of relief.

  “You sure never know what to expect, do you?” Hal shook his head. “You two did a good job with her, with both of them.”

  “We had a good trainer.” Trish shot home the bolt on the tailgate.

  After they unloaded the two horses at The Meadows, Trish saddled Spitfire and took him out on the empty track. The colt paid attention to her voice and hands, but his twitching ears recorded all the new sights and sounds. He shied at a blowing program and
snorted at the snapping flags on the infield. Trish kept him at a slow jog.

  “This way there’ll be no surprises for you, old buddy.” She stroked his neck with one gloved hand. “You just check it all out now, ’cause Saturday we’re going to be going so fast you won’t have time to look.”

  That night Trish woke to the sound of her father’s coughing. She got up and tiptoed down the hall. Her parents were both dressed.

  “I’m taking your dad in to Emergency. We can’t get the coughing to stop,” her mother said as she helped her dad into his jacket. “I’ll call you as soon as we know anything.”

  “You want me to drive?” David stumbled from his room.

  “No. You stay with Trish.” Marge tucked her purse under her arm.

  “Don’t worry, you two,” Hal rasped between breaths. “I’ll be at the track even if it’s in a wheelchair.”

  Trish had a hard time going back to sleep. God, he looks so awful. Please don’t let him die now. Please. Please.

  When her alarm went off, she could smell bacon frying. Trish peeked into her parents’ room on her way to the kitchen. Her father was asleep in the bed, a portable metal tank on the chair beside him, and a tube with prongs to his nose.

  “What happened?” Trish asked when she entered the kitchen.

  “They gave him some medication and oxygen, and tried to keep him there. But, as you see, your father is pretty stubborn.” Her mother slipped the platter of bacon into the oven to keep it warm. “So hurry up now. I’ve made a good breakfast this morning.”

  Trish felt like the four musketeers were together again as she and Rhonda prepped Spitfire, and David and Brad worked on Firefly for the afternoon workout. They saddled Spitfire first.

  “Loosen him up with a couple jogs around, slow gallop twice, and let him out for four.” Hal gave Trish specific instructions. “We’ll clock him.”

  “Forty flat,” her father said before Trish could ask. “Do you think he was all out?”

  “No.” Trish smoothed her mount’s sweaty mane. “He does better on the longer distances and with someone else pushing him.”

  Genie Stokes had joined the group at the rail. “He sure looks good, Trish. Did you know I’ll be riding against you Saturday? That’ll be a great race.”

  Trish could feel her insides tighten up. Any mention of Saturday brought the same reaction.

  “Hey, don’t worry.” Genie patted Trish’s knee as she guided Spitfire back to the stalls. “You’ll do just fine.”

  “Thanks.” Trish dropped to the ground and let David take the colt to his stall and begin cooling him down. “How’s Gatesby doing?”

  Genie rubbed her shoulder. “You sure you want to know?”

  “Up to his old tricks?” Trish laughed. “You gotta watch that Gatesby.”

  “Can you two come for dinner?” Hal nodded at Brad and Rhonda when they were all ready to leave. “We’ll get some take-out pizza.”

  Trish and Rhonda grinned at each other. Brad nodded.

  “Good. Stop and get whatever you want.” Her father stuffed some bills in Trish’s hand. “Get some soft drinks too.”

  Feels like old times, Trish thought, after most of the three giant pizzas had disappeared. A fire snapped and crackled in the fireplace. Her father rested in his recliner, her mother’s rocker creaked familiarly. All four young people lounged against floor pillows, and David fed the empty paper plates and pizza boxes into the fire. It felt so good, Trish was able to ignore the gray lines on her father’s face.

  “I want to thank all of you for all the extra work you’ve done around here,” Hal said. “We couldn’t have made it without you. Brad, Rhonda, you’ve been like my own kids ever since you were young.”

  “Yes, I had four chicks to worry about, not just two.” Marge joined the laughter. “You’ve been busy kids.”

  “Still are,” Hal added. “I’m really proud of all of you. And now, I’m going to call it a night.” He brought his recliner upright. “See you at the track tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for the pizza,” Rhonda said, finishing her drink. “Come on, Brad. Trish needs her sleep.”

  “Yeah, so she’ll look beautiful in the winner’s circle tomorrow.” Brad tossed his paper cup in a wastebasket.

  Trish hugged the warm glow of the evening around her as she snuggled under her bed covers. Just like old times. Thank you, heavenly Father. Thank you. Repeating the words lulled her to sleep. She felt like she’d just dozed off when she felt someone shaking her.

  “Trish. Wake up.” David shook her again.

  “What?” She sat up, blinking at the light from the hallway.

  “Dad’s bad again. He and Mom are about to head back to the hospital.”

  Trish leaped from her bed and padded down the hall. She could hear her father fighting to breathe as she reached their room. He sat hunched over on the edge of the bed, the oxygen in place. Trish noticed a blue tinge to his lips. She took his hand, wrapping it in both of hers to warm it.

  “I’ll—see—you—in—the—morning.” He panted between gulps of air. “Or—at—the—track.” He draped his arm across her shoulders as David helped him to his feet. Between the two of them, they helped him to the car and swung his legs in. Trish dashed back into the house for a quilt.

  “Here,” she said, wrapping the blanket around him and hugging him once more.

  David draped his arm around her as they waved at the receding taillights. “Pray for all you’re worth,” he said.

  Chapter

  16

  Her parents’ bedroom was empty when Trish checked in the morning.

  She’d fallen asleep just as dawn pierced the darkness of night. Now everything looked gray, overcast, fog hugging the hollows. Trish felt gray inside, even though her resident butterflies were already up and about.

  “Has Mom called?” she asked as she joined David in the kitchen.

  “No.” He checked his watch. “Can you be ready in half an hour?”

  Trish mixed a glass of instant breakfast and forced it down. The thought of chewing even a piece of toast made her gag. After her shower, she packed her silks—the crimson and gold high-necked shirt, the white stretch pants. She snapped the silky cover in place on her helmet and tucked it in. She’d carry her boots and whip.

  By the time they arrived at the back gate she’d chewed two fingernails down to the quick. The guard waved them through.

  Trish could see that Brad had been hard at work when they opened the door to their tack room. All the stalls had been mucked out, and all four of the animals were out on the hot walker.

  “Thanks.” Trish patted her friend on the back as he forked the last of the clean straw back into one of the stalls. “How’d you get done so fast?”

  “Slave labor.” Rhonda squeezed past the wheelbarrow and stuck her pitchfork in the heap of straw and manure. “How’re you doing, Trish?”

  “I don’t know.” Trish shook her head. “One minute I think I’m going to throw up and the next that I’ll faint. I’ve never had the shakes so bad.”

  “Better get ’em over with now.” Brad leaned on the handle of the pitchfork. “Once you start working with the man,” he nodded at the black colt playing with the ring on the walker, “you’ll be fine. He’s in great form today.”

  “I keep telling myself this is our day for winning. Dad and I…” her voice choked.

  “He’ll be here, Trish,” Brad promised. “He said he would, and you know what an iron will he has.”

  “Something like yours,” Rhonda finished as she gave Trish a hug.

  Brad wrapped his arms around both girls. “You and your dad, you’re two of a kind, Trish.”

  Trish leaned into the comfort and warmth of her friends’ embrace. As she breathed deeply, she inhaled all the aromas of the track, and Brad’s woodsy aftershave. She made herself take even breaths, and with each exhalation, the tension drained away, bit by bit.

  “Thanks again.” She hugged first Brad, then Rhonda, and drew
herself up to her full height. “Well, Spitfire, let’s get at it.”

  When they’d finished grooming Spitfire, the rising sun sparked blue highlights in his black coat. He tossed his head and nickered at the horses passing back and forth in the aisle. When David picked up Spitfire’s front hoof to clean it, the colt gave him a nudge that sent him to his knees.

  “He’s just having fun.” Trish giggled at the look of disgust on her brother’s face. “He thinks it’s time to play.”

  “Well, you can do your playing out there on the track.” David planted his feet more firmly as he raised the next hoof. “Trish, hang on to him.”

  When they were finished, they draped the sheet over the perfectly groomed horse and cross-tied him in his stall.

  “You want to get some lunch?” David asked.

  Trish stared at him as if he’d lost his marbles.

  “Just thought I’d ask.” He sat down in one of the chairs in the tack room. “Brad, you want to saddle Dan’l for the post ride?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “And lead them in the parade to the post.” David glanced at Trish. “That okay with you?”

  “Fine.” Trish swallowed. The butterflies were back.

  “Here.” Rhonda handed Trish a neon-pink plastic water bottle. “It’s lemonade. I’m always thirsty just before an event and cola makes me more hyper.”

  “Thanks,” Trish said before taking a deep swallow through the attached straw. “You’re right. This was just what I needed.”

  “How are the butterflies?” Rhonda rolled her eyes to make Trish laugh.

  “Fluttering.”

  “Noon,” David announced after glancing at his watch. “You better get over to the dressing room. “I’ll call the hospital before I bring Spitfire over to the saddling paddock. We’ll see you there.”

  “Okay.” Trish gathered up her carryall, whip, and boots. “You’ll bring the saddle and pad?”

  “And your number. Three was a good draw.”

  “Dad’s favorite number.” Trish chewed her lip. The walk across the infield to the stands and the dressing rooms seemed like a mile. Or more.