Golden Filly Collection One

by Lauraine Snelling

  “Don’t know why not. I’ll ask and call you tonight.”

  “Maybe we could rent a movie.”

  “What about me?” Brad thumped his hand on his chest. “All I do is work all the time. I never get invited to the parties.”

  Trish and Rhonda rolled their eyes at each other. “You can bring the soft drinks.”

  The horses loaded without a hitch. After David and Brad rolled out of the driveway, Trish and Rhonda galloped the two at home, fed all the stock, and still had time to play with Miss Tee.

  Only twinges of I-wish-I-were-at-the-track nipped at Trish’s mind. If she were forced to admit it, the break felt good.

  And the party felt better. For a party it was, as Hal teased Rhonda about her latest boyfriend, and everyone hassled Trish about the Doug Ramstead. Marge served hamburgers and French fries, with ice cream sundaes for dessert. By the time they brought in the popcorn, Trish felt as if she might pop.

  Halfway through the movie, Rhonda had an attack of the giggles. Her face turned red and tears streamed down her face.

  “It must be a v-v-virus,” Trish tried to talk around her own laughter.

  “Knock it off, you two.” David threw a pillow at Rhonda.

  “We can’t hear the movie!” Brad raised his hands in protest.

  Trish was rolling on the floor. Rhonda thumped her feet. Neither of them could breathe.

  “Don’t look at me!” Trish plumped the pillow on Rhonda’s head. “Or I’ll never stop.” Their laughter erupted again.

  Trish took a deep breath. When she looked up at her dad, he winked at her. She lay on her back, staring up at the pine-board ceiling. Her stomach hurt from all the laughter. What a good feeling!

  Later in her bedroom, Trish leaned over the side of her bed. Rhonda lay snug in a sleeping bag spread on foam cushions, her head propped on her hand. “We haven’t gone crazy like that in a long time.”

  Trish shook her head. “Too long.”

  They talked for a while longer, until Rhonda didn’t answer. Trish was too sleepy to prod her.

  The next afternoon, Trish rode two races before Gatesby—winning one and placing fourth in the other. Just the thought of having her dad in the stands sent an extra thrill down her spine as she and Gatesby paraded to the post. The rain had stopped, but the track was still wet. A brisk wind bit through her silks and snapped the infield flags.

  Gatesby wanted to run. He’d already worked up a lather before Brad turned them loose at the gates. Trish laughed at the bay’s antics as the gate squeaked shut behind them. Gatesby spooked at the sound, then settled for the break. In a split second Trish noted who rode on either side of her. Genie grinned back on the left.

  Gatesby pulled ahead by the quarter pole and stayed there. After the finish line Trish had to fight him back to a trot. He shook his head at her command and sent gobs of lather to decorate her silks. She scraped a glob off her cheek as she slid to the ground in the winner’s circle and wiped her hand on the colt’s nose. “Looks better on you,” she said, and held his bridle tightly under his chin. John Anderson gripped the other side the same way. Neither of them wanted a new bruise.

  When the announcer called Firefly’s race, Trish gladly slipped into her crimson and gold. She didn’t get to wear their own silks half as much as she’d like. She smoothed the sleeve and snapped the colors on her helmet. Another win would sure feel great. She raised her shoulders up to her ears and relaxed them to get the kinks out.

  By the time they paraded to the post, the drizzle had returned. Trish hunched her shoulders again, this time against the dampness. When they entered the starting gate, the drizzle deepened to a downpour. Firefly shook her head and laid back her ears.

  “I don’t like it any more than you do.” Trish rubbed the filly’s neck. “So let’s just get this over with.” Firefly paused an instant after the gates clanged open, then leaped forward. Within six strides they were boxed in. Just the spot Trish hated and feared. A horse behind them kept her from pulling back.

  She could hear her father’s advice in her ears. Just ride it out and watch for a hole. Firefly skidded a bit in the turn. The harsh thwap of the whip and the squeal of pain sounded at the same instant.

  Firefly leaped ahead, thudded into the horse on their right and clipped the hind feet of the mount in front of them. Trish fought to keep the filly’s head up as horses grunted and stumbled around them. Jockeys swore, horses squealed. Seeing daylight in front, Trish drove for the opening and by sheer willpower kept her mount moving and upright.

  Feeling Firefly loosen up and lengthen her stride, Trish checked the track ahead. One horse rounded the far turn. “Let’s go for it, girl,” she shouted. She ached to look back and see if anyone was injured. That had been too close. Who had struck Firefly? And why?

  They pounded into the stretch, gaining on the leader. Rain drove in Trish’s face. The horse ahead appeared and disappeared in the sheets of silvery, icy rain. Suddenly the first-place runner stumbled, almost went down, then limped along the rail in obvious pain.

  Trish pulled Firefly up on the far side of the wire. They’d won—but at what cost to the other entries?

  Hal wrapped a jacket around his daughter as she slid off her horse. The pictures were taken with an umbrella over the owners and cameraman.

  “What happened?” her father asked as she stepped off the scale. David led Firefly away to the testing barn.

  “Someone hit us! Dad, what’s going on? What about the rest of the pack? And what happened to the lead horse?”

  “I haven’t heard. All I could think about was you.”

  “I’m okay. But someone caused all that. It was no accident.”

  Wouldn’t you know, Mother would be here to see this one, Trish thought as she stepped into the hot shower back in the dressing room. She wasn’t sure if the shakes were caused by the cold or left over from the race. Anger, fierce and unrelenting, burned her from the inside as the water pounded her skin. Someone had whipped her horse, and maybe caused the injuries of other horses and riders. What sort of person would do such a thing? Poor Firefly. She’d never been struck with a whip in her entire life—until today. Trish ground her teeth. The filly’s squeal of pain echoed in her ears.

  Trish and her father filed their complaint before they left the track. Trish was still so angry, she could hardly give the correct information.

  “They acted like it was my fault!” Trish railed on her father as they left the office.

  “Easy, Trish. They’ll look in to it. The rain made it difficult for anyone from the stands to see what was happening. At least no one was hurt. Let’s be thankful for that.”

  “Except that horse broke a leg.”

  “Yes, but that had nothing to do with your situation. Sometimes bones just crack. It’s one of the hazards of racing Thoroughbreds.” Hal snapped open the umbrella as they reached the exit. “Let’s get back and check on Firefly.”

  The filly nickered at the sight of Trish. “I’m going to find out who did this,” Trish muttered as she rubbed down the horse’s neck and behind her ears. “I promise.”

  Chapter

  13

  A complaint against me? Again?”

  “I know. But your horse bumped the others. No one saw anyone strike Firefly. The rain made everyone extra cautious and visibility was nil.”

  “But, Dad, that’s not fair!” Trish could feel herself losing control. She wanted to scream and pound someone—the someone who caused this. Twice now. Someone had struck her horses twice. “What are they saying?”

  “That you’re young and inexperienced.” He dropped his voice. “And you’ll do anything to win.”

  Trish stepped back as if struck. “But…but that’s not true!”

  “I know. I think someone is starting rumors too. Those who know us won’t believe it, but others? Well, you know how it goes.”

  Trish stared at her father, her eyes wide with shock. She licked her dry lips and tightened her jaw. “What are they goi
ng to do about it?”

  “Continue investigating.”

  Trish replayed the race in her mind—moment by moment. Nothing. All she could remember was disgust at being boxed in, and trying to keep Firefly on her feet. The reel played as she worked the horses around the home track; when she took a shower; and in a nightmare that left her shaking.

  On Tuesday morning Trish found a new card. “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me” (Philippians 4:13). I suppose that means not wanting to beat up whoever is doing this.

  Her nagger seemed to congratulate her, You’re right!

  And I can study in spite of everything? she asked.

  Right on.

  Even chemistry?

  You got it.

  Trish smoothed the covers on her bed and read the card again. She pinned it above the others. There was quite a list of promises. Now, to hang on to all of them.

  A trailer truck drove out of the yard when Brad dropped her off after school Wednesday afternoon.

  “Who was that?” she asked.

  Hal studied his hands. “He bought Samba and the gray filly.”

  “You mean they’re gone? Already?”

  Hal nodded. “He met my price, Tee. Those two yearlings just bought us some breathing room.”

  Tears prickled at the back of Trish’s eyes. She swallowed. “But I didn’t even get to say good-bye.”

  “I know.” Hal put his arm around her shoulders. “I know.”

  That evening Trish had to turn down another mount when a trainer called her. His “Thanks anyway,” when she told him she’d be glad to ride for him on the weekend didn’t help.

  And now I’m supposed to study chemistry. Trish slammed the book shut. Standing up suddenly sent her chair crashing to the floor. She stomped to the window and jammed her hands in her back pockets.

  Fog drifted past the mercury yard light, creating a shimmering, circular glow. Rocks glistened in the driveway. Moisture beads on the car roof sparkled in the soft light. Trish sighed and returned to her desk. Where are my eagle’s wings tonight?

  The new card caught her eye. She gritted her teeth and opened the book again. “Please, God. It says all things.

  ”

  The next afternoon Trish got a B on the chemistry quiz. Well, that means a D average for this quarter. She felt like putting her head down and bawling. When will I ever get to race again?

  Trish met her parents by the trophy case near the main doors. “Mrs. Olson asked me to take you to the conference room. She said the others would be there in a few minutes.”

  Trish pulled out a chair by her father. “I don’t know what good this is gonna do,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Trust us.” Her father patted her knee.

  Trish nodded and smiled as all her teachers, the principal, and Mrs. Olson, her counselor, took their places. After general greetings and exchanges, a hush fell on the room. Trish squirmed in her seat. I’d rather be home working the horses. At least that might do someone some good.

  Her father cleared his throat. “I think you all are somewhat aware of our situation. I have cancer, and…”

  Trish forced herself to straighten up in her chair. The expression she wore masked the thoughts that whizzed through her brain. Why does he have to tell everybody what’s happening in our family? This is our business.

  But maybe they can help, her nagger offered.

  Sure. She pulled herself back to the meeting.

  “And so, I’m hoping you may have some suggestions of ways we can make life—and school—easier for our daughter.”

  The group nodded and spoke among themselves.

  “Let me offer some ideas.” Mrs. Olson smiled at Trish and her parents. She outlined several things they could do, including tutoring, summer school, and planning ahead for the times when Trish would be absent because of family matters.

  “What do you suggest?” Marge asked the counselor.

  “I suggest we take Trish out of chemistry,” Mrs. Olson continued. “She can drop up to four credits without damaging her GPA. She’s a good student.” The other teachers nodded. “And I think we should do all we can to help her succeed. None of you”—she smiled at Marge and Hal—“need any extra pressure right now. Trish can make up chemistry this summer at Clark College or choose to take another science. This will give her another study hall until next semester. That should cut her homework even more.”

  Trish couldn’t believe her ears. Drop chemistry! Wow! She looked at each person around the table. They were all nodding and smiling. Trish peeked at her parents. Her mother wasn’t smiling but looked relieved.

  Relief didn’t begin to describe Trish’s feelings. She felt like a helium balloon, let go. Yes, bumping on the ceiling might be a close description. This was almost as good as the winner’s circle.

  That evening Trish took time to play with Miss Tee when she brought the mare and foal back into the barn. They spent their days out in the paddock now.

  “I don’t have to do chemistry tonight,” she sang to the filly while brushing the mare. “All my homework is done.” She hugged the inquisitive filly and kissed Miss Tee’s soft nose. Trish got a lick on the cheek in return. Soft, tiny lips nibbled her hair. She cupped both hands on the filly’s cheeks and rubbed noses. “Oh, you sweetie. I love you so much.”

  “It’s good to see you so happy.” Trish looked up, surprised to see her mother. Miss Tee retreated behind the mare’s haunches. Then braver, she inched her way over to Trish and peeked around her mistress.

  “Isn’t she beautiful?” Trish laid her arm around the foal’s neck.

  “Yes, she is. Dinner’s ready.”

  “Okay.” Trish rubbed her baby’s ears one more time and slipped out of the stall. When she leaned back across the half door, the filly nickered, a soft little sound that barely moved her nostrils. “Keep that up and I’ll never leave.” Trish stroked her one more time. “Remember, you’re a winner.” She turned off the lights, and together she and her mother left the barn.

  “I’m really proud of you, you know,” Marge said.

  “Why, Mom?”

  “Oh, lots of things. Your efforts in chemistry, all the hard work you do with the horses…keeping your room so neat and clean now.”

  “Thanks. I like my room better now too. I’ve been praying to be better organized. Mom, I feel free tonight. Like a two-ton weight has been lifted off me. No more chemistry!”

  “It was that bad, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  Matching strides, an arm around each other, they topped the rise to the warmly lit house.

  “Tonight, when Spitfire breezed that half mile, he didn’t even look winded at the end.” Hal leaned against the counter as Trish loaded the dishwasher.

  “He wasn’t. He’s ready for the mile and a sixteenth, easily. Probably could do the mile and a quarter.” Trish placed the last dish in the rack and shut the door.

  “Well, Saturday will tell. How many mounts do you have this weekend?”

  “Only four, so far. And Spitfire.” Trish wiped off the counter. “Have you heard any more about the race last Sunday?”

  “No, thought I’d check into it tomorrow.” The two of them walked into the living room. “You worried?”

  “A little.” Trish crossed her legs and sank to the floor beside the recliner. “Aren’t you?”

  “Well if you’re not worried, you should be,” Marge joined the conversation. “Otherwise, I’ve got it covered.”

  Trish smiled. It was good to hear her mother joke about being worried. There hadn’t been much joking in the family lately—not for the last few months.

  “Just think—the Futurity’s only a week and two days away. When he wins that one…” First Saturday in May. Clear across the country to the Kentucky Derby!

  “Take one race at a time, Tee.” Her father stroked her hair. “One day at a time.”

  Just before she fell asleep that night, Trish heard her father’s voice, “One race at a t
ime.” Did that mean he wasn’t planning on the Derby anymore?

  She’d already said her prayers, but she quickly added another. Please, God, the Derby.

  Even though it rained all day Friday, Trish still felt like the helium balloon. Lighter than air, she drifted through her classes—especially the extra study hall. She used it to begin research for her history term paper.

  Even though Gatesby did his best to spoil her good mood, Trish laughed at his bad humor…and stayed away from his teeth. A good hard workout took the starch out of him and made Trish feel even better.

  Only when she galloped Firefly did the nagging worry creep back in. What if Spitfire was slashed tomorrow? So far, neither she nor her horse had been hurt, but what if their luck was running out?

  She remembered what her father had said so many times. For us, luck doesn’t count. Only God counts. And His care. “Well, I sure hope He’s got lots of guardian angels around us tomorrow. If I could just get my hands on whoever…”

  Trish awoke suddenly from another nightmare. She breathed deeply and wiggled her fingers and toes. She and Spitfire had fallen, with her catapulting over his head. She woke up just before hitting the ground. Dawn cracked the black sky in the east before she fell asleep again.

  When her alarm buzzed, Trish dragged herself out of bed. Instead of the usual butterflies, lead weights clanged together in her middle. They wouldn’t have to insert weights in her saddle pad. She already had them.

  Trish galloped the horses at the farm, but even the breeze couldn’t blow away her worry.

  “Let it go,” her father said when she came back up to the house. “You can’t let Spitfire know you’re scared. Or the other horse that you’ll ride first. No jockey in his right mind would be so foolish to attack again. Not with all the questions the racing commissioners have been asking. Just go out there and ride your best race ever.”