Golden Filly Collection One

by Lauraine Snelling

  Marge chuckled. “Hope the hot water lasts that long.” They headed for home. “But remember, the doctor said to take it easy at first. I think that means no riding for a couple of days at least.”

  Trish refused to comment. Her mother’s worrying would not take the spangle off this day.

  The shower was everything she’d dreamed it would be. She stood with her back to the spray, enjoying the feel of hot water pounding on her neck and shoulders. She felt really clean for the first time in two months. When the water cooled, she turned off the tap and wrapped a towel around her head, drying off with another.

  She could hardly find the mirror in the steamy bathroom, but she saw enough to compare her right arm to her left. It was definitely thinner. And all that dry, flaky skin? Yuck! She slathered on hand lotion, then studied the scar.

  “Well, at least it’ll shrink with time. And a suntan.” She nodded at the grinning face in the mirror. “And you are going to California in five weeks—to get that suntan.”

  Back in her room she found she needed her left hand to snap the closure on her jeans. But now she had two hands that worked together to button her shirt and tie her shoes. She felt like cheering at the thought of being back in real clothes.

  She squeezed on the red ball while she waited for Rhonda to answer the phone.

  “Hello?”

  Trish deepened her voice. “Rhonda Seabolt, you’re talking to a free woman. This prisoner has dropped her chains.”

  “All right!”

  When they hung up half an hour later, Marge extended a hand to pull Trish up from her place on the floor, propped against the cabinets. “Well, free woman, how about setting the table? Your dad and David are on their way up.”

  “What smells so good?” Trish lifted the lid on a steaming kettle. “You made spaghetti! Yum-mm.” She stretched both arms above her head. “And this time I won’t make such a mess eating it.”

  The next afternoon Trish headed for the barn as soon as she’d changed clothes. She dug carrots out of her pocket and fed each horse down the line, only spending a minute or two with each, until she reached Spitfire’s stall, where he was cross-tied and already saddled.

  “Hello, fella, looks like you’re ready to go.” She smoothed his forelock and scratched his cheek.

  “Dan’l and I already galloped him a couple of rounds to take the edge off him. He’s gotten real used to being led around the track.” David joined her in the stall. “Are you sure you should be doing this?”

  Trish just shook her head. Another worrier.

  After the first lap at a walk, she loosed the reins enough to let Spitfire jog the next round. Two new unpainted boards in the fence replaced those she’d broken in her accident, making it easy to tell where she’d gone airborne.

  “What a bummer,” she said as she stroked Spitfire’s neck. “If I never do something like that again, it’ll be too soon.” Spitfire’s ears flicked back and forth, listening to her voice and checking out everything around them. “I don’t know which is better, the shower yesterday or riding today.”

  Spitfire snorted.

  “Yeah, you’re right. This is better.”

  “No, it’s too soon!” Marge slammed her hand down on the kitchen counter a week later. “Your arm isn’t strong enough for you to race yet. Trish, this time I won’t back down.”

  “But, Mom!”

  “No. I don’t care what you say. The answer is no!”

  “Dad?”

  Hal shook his head. “I’m afraid your mother’s right.”

  “But other jockeys get back up with casts and braces and all kinds of things.”

  “It’s different if you have to earn your living riding. You take more chances that way.” Hal shrugged.

  “But that’s not the case here.” Marge crossed her arms. “Give it at least another week.”

  “That’s the day I ride for Bob Diego, on the mare he’s taking to Santa Anita. I have to do that!”

  “Okay.”

  Hal stroked his chin. “Think I’ll put Gatesby in the third race that day. That’ll give you two mounts and that’s plenty for your first day back. Working everybody here will give you enough exercise in the meantime.”

  Gatesby was up to his usual tricks when they loaded him in the trailer on Friday night. He flipped David’s baseball cap off his head and snorted with the first thud of his hooves on the ramp.

  “Life is never dull with you around, is it?” Trish kept one hand on the horse’s halter as David tied the knot and tugged it tight.

  “Get over, horse.” David slapped the bay’s shoulder. Gatesby had swung his weight so David was pinned against the side of the trailer. He pushed and thumped him again before Gatesby moved over. The horse turned, looked over his shoulder, and nickered at Trish and David as they left the trailer.

  “Same to you, you stubborn, ornery hunk of…”

  “Now, David.” Trish swallowed her giggle. “Remember what Dad says. Patience is a virtue.”

  “Yeah, patience.”

  Trish slid the bolt home after they raised the tailgate. She’d had a few names for Gatesby herself when her arm was casted.

  Real, honest-to-goodness sun brightened the windy March day as Trish bagged her silks and packed her sports bag. Yellow daffodils lined the walk, nodding and bowing her out to the car. Caesar yipped and frisked around her, acting like a puppy on the loose.

  “You have everything?” Marge asked as she slid into the passenger’s side.

  Hal grinned over his shoulder at Trish. “Of course she does. Portland Meadows, here we come. Tricia Evanston is back!”

  And being back felt like a huge hunk of heaven. Trish couldn’t stop grinning. She laughed when Gatesby tried to nip David in the saddling paddock and beamed at Brad when he took the lead rope. Flags snapped in the breeze and Mount Hood speared the eastern sky. Gatesby pranced for the surging crowd. He arched his neck, ears pricked forward. He was ready to run.

  “You’ll do great!” Brad gave Trish the thumbs-up sign when he passed the lead over to the handler at the gate.

  The field of eight entered the starting gate easily. Trish gathered her reins. A few butterflies flipped around in her midsection, reminding her that they were still resident.

  The gates swung open and Gatesby hesitated enough to put them a half a length behind the others. Trish kept him on the outside, giving him time to hit his stride.

  “Okay, fella.” She loosened the reins and leaned forward. “Let’s make up for lost time.” Gatesby stretched out. One by one he passed the field now strung out going into the turn. He pulled even with the third-place runner, then the second as they came down the home stretch.

  The jockey on the gray in front went to the whip as they thundered down the last furlongs.

  Gatesby pulled even with the horse’s shoulder, then they were neck and neck.

  “Go, Gatesby!” Trish shouted.

  One more giant thrust and Gatesby pushed ahead to win by a nose.

  “I think you just know how to stick your nose out straighter,” Trish said as she let him slow for the turn back to the winner’s circle. “You almost blew that one, you know.”

  Gatesby tossed his head and jigged sideways.

  “Good job, Trish.” John Anderson shook her hand and patted her shoulder. “I didn’t think you were going to pull it off that time.”

  “I had my doubts too.” Trish kept an eye on Gatesby’s nose as they posed for the picture. “Watch it, Dad!”

  Hal flinched away just in time. “You…”

  “There aren’t enough names to call him,” David muttered as he clamped his hand on the reins. “Come on, horse.”

  Trish felt wonderful to be back in the locker room changing her silks. The familiar steamy liniment smell, someone singing in the shower, friendly greetings and “welcome backs,” all combined to make her good mood even better.

  She stroked the mare’s neck after Bob Diego gave her a leg up in the saddling paddock.

&nbs
p; “You know how Marybegood runs,” Bob said. “She’s really ready and this is a good field for her. I think you should win it.”

  “We’ll do our best.” Trish patted the mare’s bright sorrel neck again. “Won’t we, girl?”

  Trish let Marybegood run easily in third place after a clean break from the gates. With a half a mile to go, she moved up into second and encouraged the mare to stretch out after they rounded the turn. Within two lengths they caught and passed the leader.

  Suddenly Marybegood stumbled.

  Trish caught herself, one foot out of the stirrup and her left arm clamped around the mare’s neck.

  At the same time, she tried to keep the mare’s head up so they wouldn’t go down and be trampled by the hind runners.

  Marybegood refused to put any weight on her right hind leg. As soon as the last horse passed them, Trish vaulted to the ground.

  “Easy, girl, help’ll be here soon.” She ran her hand down the leg where swelling had already started.

  The horse ambulance pulled up beside them.

  “I think it’s broken,” she told them, hardly able to keep the tears from her voice.

  Chapter

  13

  I’m so sorry, Bob,” Trish said for the third time.

  “Trish, look at me.” Bob Diego grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “This break is not your fault. There was nothing you could do; these things just happen.”

  “Maybe if I’d…”

  “No.” Hal placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “You couldn’t have done anything differently. You stayed aboard and kept her from going down.”

  “Will you have to put her down?” Trish bit her lip.

  “I think not. The vet can pin it, and while she won’t race again, she’ll be an excellent brood mare.”

  Trish breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. I’ll see you after I change, Dad.” She turned back. “Where’s Mom?”

  “In the car.” Hal raised his eyebrows.

  And not very happy, I’ll bet, the thought flitted through her mind.

  Hal waited for Trish outside the dressing room. “Bob offered us his horse van for the trip to Santa Anita,” he said as soon as Trish met him. “But we’ll have a lot of talking to do to make this work.”

  Trish nodded. “I know.”

  Conversation never had a chance at life when they got to the car. It didn’t take a genius to tell a storm was coming.

  Marge whirled on them as soon as they entered the house. “How many times have I said that racing is just plain dangerous? Today it was the horse that got hurt, but you could have been injured again. Hasn’t all you’ve been through taught you anything?” She paced back and forth, her arm slicing the air as she spoke.

  Trish glanced at her father and understood his signal. She kept her mouth closed. If only she could have shut down her brain too. Her thoughts whirled like leaves caught in a feisty fall wind.

  You’re not being fair. I wasn’t hurt this time. You can’t keep me safe by preventing me from racing. Mom, quit worrying!

  Hal stepped in front of Marge to stop her pacing. He put his arm around her and Marge dropped her head on his shoulder.

  Trish huddled in the corner of the sofa.

  “It’s okay.” Hal rubbed Marge’s back and brushed the hair back from her face. “That was scary for all of us, but Trish did a good job out there. She’s an excellent rider, you know that.”

  Trish went over to the recliner for the box of tissue and handed it to her mother. “Come on, Mom. Maybe it was all those guardian angels that kept me from falling.”

  “Somebody sure did.” Hal led Marge to the sofa and sat her down, then sat beside her.

  “I don’t want you to go to California,” Marge stated flatly after blowing her nose.

  “I know.” Hal nodded. “But let’s talk about that later.”

  Much later, Trish finished the thought. And I don’t even want to be around for it.

  On the Thursday program, Trish had only one other mount besides Firefly. This would be the filly’s last race before Santa Anita. A drizzle blew in veils across the track as the filly danced her way to the starting gate. She broke clean and ran easily, holding the lead until about three quarters of the way around the track.

  Trish felt Firefly falter.

  Another horse caught them, driving hard on the outside. Firefly strained forward, throwing herself across the finish line.

  “And that’s a photo finish, ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer’s voice boomed over the PA system.

  Firefly seemed to be walking gingerly. Trish cut short any extra circling and stripped off her saddle outside the winner’s circle.

  “Something’s wrong.” She stooped to run her hands down the filly’s front legs. They were already hot.

  “All I can say, girl, is you got heart,” Trish murmured to Firefly as they posed for the picture.

  “I think she won that by a whisker,” Hal said. “I’ll meet you down at the barn, David.”

  Trish took a show with her next mount. As soon as she could get away, she trotted across the infield to the back lot.

  “It’s shins again,” Hal answered her question as they met in the filly’s stall. “I’m afraid that does it for her this season.”

  Another Santa Anita scratch, Trish thought. Are we caught in a string of bad luck, or what?

  She dreaded the Sunday night family meeting that week. And it wasn’t because of her grades. The big discussion would be Santa Anita.

  In church that morning her prayer was simple. Make my mom let us go. Help her to stop worrying so much. Please, please, please!

  Trish spent most of the afternoon on her homework so the evening would be free. She set the table without being asked and volunteered to make the salad.

  Marge gave her a one-raised-eyebrow look and shook her head.

  Trish caught the edge of a smile as her mother turned to stir the gravy. She tried to think of something to say while they worked together in the kitchen, but everything seemed forced or fake. Like, You know, Mom, how would you like to go to Santa Anita with us? Or, How do you feel about your sick husband and young daughter driving that huge van all the way down I-5 to Southern California? But Trish already knew the answers.

  Dinner was quiet. Trish finally pushed her half-eaten roast beef and mashed potatoes to the side.

  “You feel okay?” Marge glanced from Trish’s face to her plate and back.

  “I’m fine.”

  Sure you are, her nagger chuckled in her ear. Your stomach is doing flip-flops and your hands are shaking. But you’re just fine!

  “Why don’t we have dessert later?” Hal shoved his plate toward the center of the table so he could prop his elbows in front of him. “No, leave the plates.” He laid a restraining hand on Marge’s arm as she started to rise.

  He cleared his throat. “Okay, let’s begin the discussion. David, I’d like to hear from you first.”

  “I think we should go for it. Brad and I can handle things here while you and Trish are gone. We don’t have any of our horses racing that week so it should be easy.” He smiled an apology at his mother.

  “Trish?”

  “I won’t miss much school ’cause that’s spring-break week. If we don’t go, we don’t have much of a chance for the Kentucky Derby, and who knows when we’ll have a three-year-old as good as Spitfire again? I think he—we deserve the chance.”

  “Marge?”

  Marge took a deep breath. “I know all your arguments. I know this race is important to Runnin’ On Farm as a business. I know how strong you are and how quickly you can get sick.” She grasped Hal’s hand. “Mostly I know how terrified I am that something terrible will happen. Every scene imaginable has played itself over and over in my head.”

  Hal covered her hands with his.

  She continued. “And I know that the only thing holding you back is your concern for my feelings.” She looked around the table, holding the gaze of each for a few intense
seconds. “So I say, when do you leave?”

  Trish leaped from her chair, slamming it back to the floor in her exuberance. She threw her arms around her mother. “All right, Mom! You won’t be sorry, I just know you won’t.”

  Marge hugged her daughter back. “I’m probably already sorry, but let’s get on with the planning.”

  Trish picked her chair up and sank onto it. We’re going! Please, God, with no more hold-ups. We’re going to Santa Anita!

  “Thank you, dear. And I had all my arguments so carefully planned out.” Hal smiled at her.

  “Way to go, Mom.” David patted her arm. “You and I can hold down the fort just fine.”

  “The way I see it,” Hal continued after taking a deep breath and letting it all out, “is that we’ll leave early Saturday morning and stop in Yreka that night. We’ll drive to Adam Finley’s farm at Harrisburg on Sunday and stay over there to give Spitfire a rest. Tuesday we’ll drive on down to Arcadia. That way we can walk him Wednesday to get him and Trish used to the track, breeze him Thursday, and jog Friday. Then Saturday’s the race. We’ll start home Sunday morning, be back here by Monday night. What do you think?”

  “All right!” Trish bounced on her chair.

  “Well, I think we better get some motel reservations made and make sure you have all you need.” Marge counted the days on her fingers. “We only have five days to get ready. Trish, how many mounts do you have this week?”

  “Two Thursday and one Friday. Looks like I’ll cancel the one for Saturday.”

  “Good enough. Anything else?” Hal looked at each one of them. “Then what’s for dessert?”

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” was all Trish could say that night in her prayers.

  The week took wings and flew off before anyone could catch it. On Wednesday Hal brought the horse van home and took Trish out for a driving lesson. He taught her about the extra gears with a floor shift and double-clutching to make down-shifting smoother. They drove high in the hills above Hockinson where Hal had her stop and start again in the middle of a steep grade.

  “I’ve always said you were a natural driver.” Hal patted Trish’s knee as her shifting became smoother and her ear tuned to the sounds of the engine. “I think we better find you a good pillow though so you can relax. Even with the seat all the way forward, you’re straining a bit.”