Golden Filly Collection One

by Lauraine Snelling

  “How was Spitfire?” He turned to look at Trish.

  “Rarin’ to go. You said we might gallop tonight.”

  “Um-mm. We’ll talk more after we see how that goes. Come on, Marge. Let’s drop Trish off at school on the way in to the hospital.”

  Trish’s good humor thumped back to earth. What kind of shape would her father be in when she got home? Would he be vomiting and weak again? If only he could wait for a treatment until after the Derby. Better yet, if only he never had to have another treatment. But she knew that was impossible. Since the cancer was receding, they didn’t dare play around with the schedule the doctor had set up.

  “No decision yet,” Trish answered Rhonda’s question as they stuffed books into their lockers.

  “But at least your mom is better. Man, I was beginning to worry.” Rhonda slung her purse strap over her shoulder.

  “Don’t even say that word.” Trish slammed her locker door shut. “Let’s eat before the food’s all gone.”

  Brad joined them at their table a few minutes later. “You won’t believe this.” He shook his head as he tucked his long legs under the table.

  “What’s up?” Rhonda spoke around a mouthful of tuna salad sandwich.

  “I won a scholarship. Mrs. Olson just told me about it. My dad is gonna freak out.”

  The girls threw their arms around his neck and each one kissed him on the cheek.

  “That’s fantastic.” Trish kissed him again. “You deserve every penny.”

  “For how much?” Rhonda was always practical.

  “And where to?”

  Shock stole over Brad’s face. “I don’t know. Guess I just tuned out at the word scholarship.”

  Trish turned when she felt a hand tap her shoulder.

  “Hi, Trish, my name is Lisa Jones, and I write for the sports section of the Falcon Flyer.”

  Trish nodded.

  “I’d like to interview you for next week’s paper, if that would be all right?” The thin girl tucked a strand of long, dark hair behind her ear. “Do you have time?”

  “Sure.” Trish shrugged. “When?”

  “Would right now be okay?”

  At Trish’s nod, Brad moved over one seat. “Here, we even have a spot for you.”

  Lisa smiled at him and sank down onto the seat as if afraid he might jerk it out from under her.

  Trish answered the questions easily.

  When had she started riding? How long had she been racing?

  She really got into it when she started describing the thrill of winning and what she liked best about her sport. The words flowed so fast that Lisa asked her to slow down a couple of times. It was a relief though when the bell rang—it kept Lisa from asking about the accident.

  Or at least that was what Trish was afraid the young reporter would ask. “Scared to death” wouldn’t look too good in the paper, but it would have been an honest answer.

  But she’d worked through the fear, hadn’t she? Trish sent a thank-you heavenward.

  Trish and Rhonda were still laughing and teasing Brad about his memory lapse over the scholarship when Trish got out of the car at Runnin’ On Farm.

  “Why don’t you come ride with me?” Trish stuck her head back in the open window. “I’ll be galloping Spitfire.”

  “Okay. Give me half an hour,” Rhonda replied.

  “What about me?” Brad assumed his soulful look.

  “You know David’ll find something for you to do.”

  “Great. I need the money.”

  “It’s up to you.” Trish waved as Brad pulled away. Caesar shoved his cold nose into Trish’s hand. She scratched the top of his head, then jogged up the walk to the front door. Late-blooming red tulips filled two large pots on the sides of the concrete step. She hesitated before turning the brass doorknob. Both cars were in the drive, so she knew her parents were back.

  Chicken, her nagging voice whispered. Waiting isn’t going to change anything.

  “I know.” She stooped down to give Caesar a big hug. His tongue flicked her nose before she could pull back. “Still the fastest tongue in the west, aren’t you, old boy?” To prove her point, he caught her chin the next time.

  Trish straightened up. “Just what I need, a clean face.”

  Caesar’s feathery tail thumped his answer.

  Trish opened the door and stepped into an empty living room, then the kitchen. Nope, no one in there either. She stopped at the door to her parents’ room. It stood ajar, and she peeked in. A deep breath didn’t help the fluttering in her stomach.

  Hal lay on his back in the dimness, one hand across his forehead. A large bowl sat on a chair by the bed.

  When he didn’t move, Trish turned to leave.

  His voice, raspy but stronger than usual, stopped her. “I’ll be okay by morning, Tee. Tell me how Spitfire’s gallop goes.”

  “I will. Where’s Mom?”

  Hal started to answer but instead had to roll to the side and grab the yellow bowl. The sound of his gagging and spitting followed Trish down the hall.

  Trish stopped in surprise when she entered her bedroom. Her mother lay soundly sleeping in Trish’s bed. Trish tried to set her book bag down quietly, but Marge’s eyes blinked open at the faint rustle.

  She yawned and stretched her arms above her head. “Hi. Thanks for your bed. I didn’t want to bother your dad, and the sun shining in your window was so inviting.” She yawned again.

  “You feeling okay?” Trish sank down on the edge of the bed and turned to face her mother.

  “Just needed a nap. I think all that lying around zapped my strength.” She sat up and scooted her back against the pillows. “How was school?”

  “I got interviewed for the school paper.” Trish leaned over to unlace her tennis shoes. “Oh!” She jerked upright. “Brad got a scholarship. And he forgot to ask for how much.”

  “Where to?”

  “He didn’t ask that either. Said he zoned out in shock at the word scholarship.”

  Marge laughed, then swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “Well, I’d better go bake that boy some cookies. He’s coming over?” At Trish’s nod, Marge stood and stretched again. “Chocolate chip, I suppose.”

  Trish heard her mother open the door and check on Hal, then continue into the kitchen.

  Trish had no trouble giving thanks to God as one of the cards on her wall admonished.

  Spitfire wanted to race when Trish trotted him out on the track a while later. Old Dan’l even crowhopped a couple of times to give Rhonda a bit of a thrill. Neither horse was happy with the slow jog of the first lap.

  “Knock it off,” Trish ordered when the black colt lunged forward a couple of times. “Whaddya think you are, a charger?”

  Spitfire shook his head, spraying gobs of lather from around the bit. One hit Rhonda in the face.

  “Thanks a million,” she said around her giggles. She wiped the sticky stuff onto Dan’l’s shoulder.

  “Dad says slow gallop once around and then jog again.” Trish eased up on the reins but had to pull Spitfire back down as he argued for a full-fledged race. Trish didn’t dare let her mind wander for even an instant. It would be too easy for him to strain that knee again, and then it would be all over.

  “Let’s walk a loop,” Trish said when they finished their jog. “Then we won’t have to cool ’em out.” She slid to the ground and started leading the colt around the track. Spitfire rubbed his sweaty forehead on her shoulder, nearly sending her flying. “Careful, you goof.” She held the reins more tightly under his chin. By the time they finished the circuit, Spitfire had his head over her shoulder, right in his favorite place.

  “Hard to believe he’s a Derby contender when you see him like that,” Rhonda said. “He looks more like a kid’s pony right now.”

  “Yeah, let’s just hope he gets a chance to run it.”

  After the chores were finished, the four teens took their cookies and milk out onto the deck. Marge brought a full plate to pass aro
und again and joined them. Brad became the brunt of their teasing this time.

  Trish felt as though she were standing off to the side watching what was going on. This happy scene had played out many times before in the years they’d all been growing up. You just never knew who would get teased the most and at what time. The only one missing was Trish’s father. Caesar sat at her feet, eyes pleading for another piece of cookie. She tossed a chunk in the air and the collie caught it with a snap.

  They didn’t discuss the coming race until Tuesday evening. Trish felt as if she’d been walking on pins all day. They were scheduled to ship Spitfire in only two days.

  “I’ve already given my opinion,” Marge said at their family meeting around the dining room table. “I think you should go.”

  “Are you sure?” Hal clasped her hand between both of his.

  “All that we’ve been through this past week, the talks with Pastor…”

  She paused and raised their clasped hands to her cheek. “I’ve realized I can’t go on like I have been. I know I’m a worrier by nature—my mother was too, remember?”

  Hal nodded.

  “But I’ve got to turn it over to God. He says He can handle anything, so somehow He’s going to teach me not to get myself sick worrying. He can take better care of you than I can.” Tears glimmered in her hazel eyes. “So, I say go.” Her voice dropped on the last word. She took a deep breath. “Besides that, I wrote to Mother, telling her they could meet you in Louisville to watch the race. That’s not too far from Florida, even though Daddy hasn’t been feeling well.”

  Trish felt hope leap in her chest. She stared from her father to her mother. “Do you think they’ll come?”

  “Who knows.” Marge just shook her head.

  Hal smoothed the hair back from his wife’s cheek. “Well, that certainly puts a new slant on things. What do you say, David?”

  “Mom and I’ll handle things here. You go. Who knows if we’ll ever have a Derby-quality horse again.”

  “And you, Trish? I know it’s a waste of time to ask.” His smile caused the dimple to show in his right cheek.

  “Well, I don’t want Mom to be sick again.”

  “I won’t be.”

  “And you and David’ll come for the race?”

  Marge flinched, as if she’d been struck. “I—I don’t know.” Tension weighted the silence.

  Hal cleared his throat. “That’s not a decision that has to be made right now. We’ll talk about that later.”

  Trish noticed the relief that caused her mother’s shoulders to sag. So it really wasn’t over yet. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Kentucky, look out. We’re on our way.”

  “David, I packed a lot of the tack today.” Hal picked up as if there hadn’t been a stress point in the conversation. “We’ll load the pickup tomorrow, then let Trish work some of Spitfire’s kinks out Thursday morning early. After that he should be easy to load. Our flight’s scheduled for one-thirty so we should leave here about ten.”

  Trish tried to listen to the plans, but a new song played like a brass band marching through her head. We’re going. We’re going. We’re going to Kentucky. We’re going. We’re going. The beat continued. She bounced a little bounce on her chair, then gripped the seat with both hands. Maybe she and the chair would just fly up out the roof.

  “Thanks, Mom,” she whispered as she hugged her mother goodnight.

  “You get right to sleep now. No Derby daydreaming.” Marge hugged her daughter back.

  Trish grinned at the words. “What? No homework first?”

  A tiny frown lighted between Marge’s eyebrows. “You’re not behind, are…?” Marge caught herself. She swatted Trish on the behind as Trish tried to dodge away. “Good night, Tricia Marie Evanston.”

  Trish leaned over and hugged Hal, who was seated in his recliner. “Maybe I should stay home on Thursday and help load him.”

  “No, you’re going to be missing too much school as it is. We’ll be just fine. Now get to bed.”

  Trish didn’t think she’d ever be able to fall asleep that night. She read each of her verses, then snuggled down under the covers. She never even got into the “pleases” in her prayer, there were so many “thank-yous.”

  She’d expected Wednesday to drag by, but thanks to a pop quiz in history and an in-class paper in English, the day flew by. Trish and Spitfire enjoyed a good gallop, and there was even time to work with Miss Tee for a while. The little filly still hesitated at leaving her dam, but once away she pranced along on the lead as if she’d never dug in her tiny hooves and almost landed on her rump due to a bad case of stubbornness.

  “Have you started packing, Trish?” Marge asked at the dinner table.

  “No, I don’t go till Saturday.”

  “Never hurts to start early. You’ll be racing Thursday and Friday, won’t you?”

  Trish nodded. Her mouth was too full to talk.

  “I’ve got all your things ready.” Marge smiled at Hal. “You just need to add your shaving gear in the morning.”

  “Bless you.” Hal squeezed her fingers.

  “And I put your tickets, maps, and reservations in your briefcase. The camera too.”

  “I wish you were coming with, Trish,” Hal said. “One of these days we’re going to have to take a vacation. Maybe next year we can hire someone to manage here and we can all go to Santa Anita, or wherever.”

  “Let’s think about wherever. I’d love to do something not associated with horse racing for a change.” Marge’s tone was wistful, as if she were reluctant to share her dream.

  “You’re right.” Hal nodded.

  You need to think of others’ interests once in a while, Trish’s little nagging voice punched her guilt button. Not everyone wants to talk horses all the time.

  Trish felt a sigh of resignation creep over her unbidden.

  “We’ll be there for the race,” David assured them while reaching for his mother’s hand. “Maybe we’ll have time for some sightseeing. I’d like to visit Claiborne Farms and see their veterinary setup.”

  “You giving up on dogs and cats?” Trish looked at him in surprise. David had always talked about a small animal veterinary practice after he graduated from school.

  “No, not really. Every vet has those. But maybe I should think of an equine specialty. I’ve sure gotten plenty of practice around here.”

  “And you’ve done an excellent job,” Hal said. “You seem to have a sixth sense for what’s ailing a horse like Trish does for riding. Maybe you should think about Tucson. Their equine research program is outstanding.”

  Besides the guilt that continued to nag her, Trish had two more things to think about when she went to bed. At least when David had been at Washington State University, they’d been able to go visit him. Arizona was a long way away.

  Her thought switched to the scene at the table. Her grandparents had been invited to see her race. When they’d visited last summer, her grandmother hadn’t been excited about Trish riding the Thoroughbreds. In fact, she worried more than her daughter. Was worrying an inherited disease?

  And was it really fair to ask so much of her mother? It was true that racing was the main topic of conversation in their home. Why can’t she love horses as much as Dad and I do—or at least like them?

  It isn’t the horses, her inner voice reminded her, it’s your riding—in races.

  “Thanks a bunch!” Trish took a deep breath, held it to the count of ten, and let it all out. Her shoulders and rib cage seemed to melt into the mattress.

  Light from the mercury yard light showed her half-full suitcase on the chair. In the morning she’d ride Spitfire for the last time before Kentucky. Please, God, make everything go all right tomorrow was her last conscious thought.

  Spitfire was ready to play when she got down to the barn in the morning. He snatched her riding gloves out of her back pocket when she bent over to pick his front hoof, and tossed them in the corner.

  “Whaddya think you�
��re doing?” Trish scolded him.

  Spitfire rolled his eyes and gave her a nudge when she bent over to pick up her scattered gloves. She caught herself before she went sprawling in the straw.

  “Da-v-i-d.” Trish called in the reserves.

  “What’s wrong?” David leaned over the stall door.

  “Just hold on to his head, okay? He thinks he’s Gatesby today.”

  “Or a clown in the circus?”

  “Take your pick.” Trish looked down at the tool in her hand. “Better yet, here. You pick and I’ll hold.”

  They quickly had the colt cleaned and saddled. Trish waved as they trotted off to the track. Spitfire spooked at a gopher mound and shied when a bird flew up. He snorted and pranced, nostrils flaring red-pink as he tugged at the bit.

  “You might as well give up,” Trish told him. “You’re not running today, just jog and loosen up.” He danced sideways, reaching, pleading for more slack.

  Each time he tugged, Trish pulled him down to a walk again. “See, I warned you.” He shook his head. The next time she loosened the reins, he jogged peacefully all the way around the track and back to the barn. Mist had dampened both his hide and Trish’s face. She could see steam rising from her horse when she slid to the ground.

  “You better hustle or you’ll be late for school,” David greeted her.

  “I think I should stay home until we get him on the plane.”

  “Dad said school.”

  Trish groaned but gave Spitfire one last hug before she raced for the house. Caesar beat her by one leap onto the deck.

  “I’m hurrying.” Trish correctly interpreted the look Marge gave her.

  She slid into her seat at school just as the final bell rang.

  “That was close,” Rhonda whispered from across the aisle. “Thought maybe you’d decided to go along.”

  “Don’t I wish.” Trish opened her book.

  “Put your books away and take out paper.” The teacher turned to begin writing on the board. “This quiz will count for twenty-five points.”

  The class groaned, Trish adding her share.

  She’d just started the last question when an announcement came over the intercom. “Will Tricia Evanston please report to the office.”