Golden Filly Collection One

by Lauraine Snelling

  “And this colt brought you into the big time.” Fred leaned back against the door. “Y’all must be maaghty proud.”

  “You been hauling horses long?”

  “Seems like all my life. This way ah get to be part of the business.”

  “Tell me about some of the horses you’ve seen.”

  “Why, I hauled Secretariat himself. Now that horse, he knew he was king.” Fred chuckled. “Course ah was a bit younger then. Summer Squall, now he looked ma-aghty good too. You seen Seattle Slew, haven’t you?”

  “No, but he’s Spitfire’s sire.”

  Fred waved back when Hal walked from the car rental building to the burgundy four-door car. Fred turned the key and the engine surged to life. He hummed a little under his breath as he pulled out onto the road. “Now, ah remember when…” His stories kept Trish enthralled all the way to the freeway and over the surface streets following the signs to Churchill Downs. Huge trees shaded the houses along Central Avenue. Traffic increased as they neared the track.

  “Last race about done,” Fred commented. “You watch ahead, we’re almost there.”

  Trish checked her side mirror to make sure her father was still behind them. Horse trucks and trailers filled a lot on their right and concrete-block stables lined the chain-link fence on their left.

  Fred shifted down and signaled his turn. They had arrived. The guard at the gate waved them through. Fred eased the truck down the main road running between stables.

  Trish could see the track off to her right, the triple cupolas that marked the famed racetrack visible on the roof of the grandstand.

  It seemed like they drove forever. Trish tried to see everything at once as Fred pointed out the steward’s office, the media building, the first-aid station, and finally barn 41. This barn at the back of the backside housed all the Derby contenders. With a green roof, white trim, and concrete block walls, the stable seemed to stretch out a mile. Everything looked freshly painted, even to the green and white sawhorses that marked parking restrictions.

  Fred laughed softly. His contagious chuckle brought a grin to Trish’s face too.

  “Well—” Trish took a deep breath and let it out. “Thanks for such a great ride.” She unbuckled her seat belt. The truck shifted as Spitfire moved around. He nickered.

  “Y’all take care now, you hear?” Fred opened his door. “And I’ll be a-watchin’ you, ’specially in that winner’s circle.”

  “Thanks.” Trish stepped down and went around the truck to unload. Two men already had their microphones in front of her father’s face, asking him questions. Trish helped Fred let down the ramp.

  Spitfire whinnied, a shrill announcement that he had arrived. Horses down the lines answered.

  “He’s tellin’ ’em, ‘Look out. Ah’m here.’” Fred chuckled again and shook his head. “That boy not gonna take nothin’ from nobody.”

  “Back up,” Trish ordered when she opened the door. Spitfire nuzzled her shoulder and did as he was told. His flaring nostrils showed that he knew this was a strange place and he was ready to check it out. “Just take it easy now,” she talked as she snapped the two shanks on his halter, slipping one chain section over his nose in case he got rowdy.

  Spitfire posed in the doorway. Head high, ears pricked forward, he surveyed his kingdom. He answered another whinny from a stabled horse, then blew in Trish’s face and followed her down the ramp.

  “Are you Tricia Evanston?” a voice called.

  Chapter

  09

  Spitfire danced in a circle around Trish, effectively scattering the three people who waited. “Behave yourself now,” she ordered sternly. “Sorry, but he’s had a long day.”

  “We’re in stall five, halfway down.” Hal checked the paper in his hand. “Let’s get the sheet off him, then you can walk him and get the kinks out while I get us settled.”

  “If you’ve got as many kinks as I do, we’re in deep trouble,” Trish said as she led Spitfire after her father. The horse rubbed his forehead on her shoulder. He seemed to be walking on tiptoe as he paraded after her, eyes and ears checking out everything around him.

  The colt shook all over like a wet dog when Hal pulled off the crimson and gold sheet and folded it to air over the open half wall that fronted the stalls. Hard-packed dirt aisles and shade from the overhanging roof kept the interior cooler than outside.

  “Come on, fella.” Trish didn’t need to tug on his lead rope. As they left the building Spitfire raised his head and whinnied again. “Knock it off. You want to break my eardrums?” Trish watched him for any nervousness but Spitfire seemed calm. He was just letting everyone know he was there. They strolled up and down the wide areas between barns. Some were gravel, some deep sand. Some stables were decorated with hanging flower baskets, others displayed signs. Bandages, blankets, sheets, all the gear of any track hung drying on the lines strung between the posts on the half walls.

  The sun was setting behind the barns when Trish and Spitfire found their way back. Hal had set up their room at the end of the barn; deep straw filled the stall, with a hay net hanging in a corner. Spitfire walked to the bucket and took a deep drink. While he buried his nose in the grain pan, Hal stroked down the colt’s legs, checking for any heat or swelling.

  “We’ll leave the wraps on tonight in case he gets restless, but I think he’s ready for a good night’s sleep.” He patted the horse’s shoulder. “I know I am.”

  “You know how to get where we’re going?” Trish asked as she hooked the web gate over the stall entrance.

  “Sure.” Hal grinned at her questioning look. He patted his pocket. “I have a map.”

  “Can we eat soon? I’m starved.” Trish looked around their office for her suitcases. “Where’s my stuff?”

  “In the car. Fred helped me get everything moved around.”

  “I didn’t get to tell him good-bye. He was such a neat man.”

  “He said he’d see us again before the race. He thought you were all right too.” Hal put an arm around her shoulder. “Let’s hit the road.”

  Birds twittered their night songs in the stately oak trees that shaded the backside track entrance. A horse whinnied off to their left and another answered. Somebody picked a guitar, the simple tune floating on the gentle breeze. It was a track settling down for the night. It could be any track, but it wasn’t. They were at Churchill Downs. Trish gave a little skip as she rounded their car.

  Hal handed her the map when they were inside. “Here, you navigate.” He pointed to the circular mark indicating the racetrack, and then pointed out the streets that led to the hotel. “It’s right off the freeway, back the way we came in, so we shouldn’t have any trouble.”

  Trish glanced through the brochure. “Jacuzzis in each suite? All right!”

  “Just pay attention to where we’re going,” Hal teased her. “We’ll think about hot tubs later.” He waved at the guard at the gate and turned right. “You want to eat before we check in, or wait and have dinner at the hotel?”

  “Let’s eat now.”

  Trish sighed as she climbed back into the car after dinner. “Funny, I knew about southern accents, but I feel like an idiot saying ‘Huh?’ or ‘Excuse me?’ all the time. I gotta listen up.”

  “It never seems like we have an accent, but we must,” Hal said. “That waitress asked us right away where we were from.”

  “I never think of saying Washington State. Kinda forget there’s another Washington.” Trish glanced from her map to see where her father was turning. “Should be one more exit, and then ours.”

  Hal parked under the portico of the New Orleans–style building with wrought-iron trim.

  “I think I’m gonna like it here.” She gave her father the thumbs-up sign.

  “I know I’m gonna like it here,” she repeated as she stared at the huge oval, rose-colored Jacuzzi tub in their bathroom. She almost needed a step stool to get into it.

  “Think it’ll be okay?” Hal asked after tipping the
bellboy. “Good grief, that thing is almost as big as a swimming pool.”

  “And I’m getting in right away.” Trish read the instructions on the wall. She picked up the little bottles nesting in a basket of tri-folded pink washcloths. “There’s even bubble bath.” She turned on the taps and adjusted the temperature. The bottle of blue gel she dumped in began to foam immediately. “Now I’ll hang up my stuff. That thing’ll take forever to fill.”

  A sitting room with a sofa hide-a-bed separated the two bedrooms of their suite. Horse pictures, both racing and fox hunting, decorated the walls. French doors opened onto a grilled balcony overlooking the central courtyard where glass-topped wrought-iron tables awaited the breakfast buffet crowd.

  Trish flopped on her back across the queen-size bed in her room. Even with her arms spread-eagle she didn’t touch the sides. She raised on her elbows and looked at herself in the mirror above a chest of drawers. She stuck out her tongue at the grinning face in the mirror, and got up to empty her suitcases into the drawers and closet. Her tub was not even half full yet.

  “Tell Mom hi for me,” she said as she closed the bathroom door. “And tell her I’m soaking in this monstrous tub. Maybe that’ll convince her to come.”

  Trish pinned her hair up on top of her head. The waterline was finally above the jets. The water churned to life with a turn of the dial on the wall. When she was ready to climb in, she rolled one towel to put behind her head, and sank into the hot, bubbling water up to her neck. Her toes just touched the opposite end. She flexed one foot over a jet and played with another with her hand. This was living!

  By the time she forced herself to get out and get ready for bed, her father was already fast asleep. Trish thought about turning on the TV, but when a huge yawn stretched her entire jaw, she crawled into bed.

  She screamed and screamed again but no sound came. She couldn’t get enough air. The horse was dead. A jockey too. Ambulance sirens. More screams. Something was holding her prisoner; she couldn’t move. Why was her mother fading away?

  “Trish, Trish, it’s all right now. You’re dreaming.” Hal shook her gently. “Wake up, Tee.”

  Trish jerked upright. She sucked in a huge gulp of air. She shook her head and blinked her eyes. “Where’s Mom?”

  “At home. Trish, everything is okay. You had a bad nightmare.”

  “I sure did.” Trish slumped against the pillows. “I thought those terrible dreams were all over. Dad, I was so scared. I thought I was dying—and Mom wouldn’t talk to me—and…” She buried her face in her hands.

  “And?”

  “And I shouldn’t be so scared. My Bible verse says, ‘Fear not,’ so if He’s with me why am I so scared? And I keep thinking that if I didn’t race, Mom wouldn’t worry so much.”

  “And so you feel guilty too.” Hal smoothed her hair back from her forehead.

  Trish nodded. She sniffed and reached for a tissue on the nightstand. “Yeah, it’s like I have this little voice in my head that keeps yelling that everything’s all my fault.” She rubbed her temples with her fingers. “Sometimes I even get a headache from it all.”

  “Tee, I think you have a serious problem.”

  “I know.”

  “No, look at me.” He tipped her chin up with a loving finger. “Your problem is—you’re human, just like the rest of us.”

  “Da-a-d.”

  “No, I mean it. The fears and the guilt are all part of our humanity. And teenagers seem to attract guilt like a magnet. So do those who don’t really understand God’s grace.”

  “I know He takes care of my fears.” Trish told her father about the time at the track. “I went on and rode that day. And it’s been better ever since.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “I know. But then the nightmare makes it all worse again.”

  “So you claim your verses again, confess your fears, your guilt, and go on. That’s what it takes to build faith. Just like you stretch your muscles; they get sore but they also get stronger. Faith is really like a muscle. Use it or lose it.”

  “You make it sound so simple.” Trish twisted her fingers in her lap.

  “Remember the rest of the ‘Be not afraid’ verse?”

  Trish nodded. “For I am with you.”

  “He never gives an order without a promise.” Silence wrapped comfort around them. “Be right back.” Hal returned in a few moments with the carved eagle and set it on her nightstand. “Just a reminder. For when you need those eagle’s wings.”

  Trish threw her arms around his neck. “I love you.”

  Hal hugged her back. “And I love you. Good night, and good dreams this time.” Trish nestled back down in the bed, and Hal pulled the covers up over her shoulder. Then he switched off the lamp.

  The next thing she knew, her father was knocking at her door. “Time to get up. I’ll be waiting for you downstairs by the buffet.”

  Trish stretched both arms above her head and then all the way to her toes. The nightmare seemed dim and faraway, like most dreams do upon waking. She glanced at the eagle, spiraling where the air currents led. Her feet hit the floor running. What a great day to be alive.

  Downstairs, she grabbed an apple, toast, and a strip of bacon. “I’m ready.”

  Spitfire was ready too when they got to the track—ready to eat. Trish measured his grain and refilled the water bucket. “There you go, enjoy.” She patted his shoulder as she went by.

  Shoulder to shoulder, she and Hal leaned on the track fence and watched the morning works already in progress. I don’t know anybody here, Trish thought as she watched one rider argue with her horse. At Santa Anita we weren’t there long enough, but here…” She shrugged. Maybe she’d get some sun and studying done this way. “Did you remind David to pick up my books? And assignments?”

  “He did that yesterday afternoon. They’ll be here Monday.”

  “Good—I think.”

  Hal nodded. “You’ll have to work hard next week. Derby week’ll keep us plenty busy.”

  Trish watched another horse breeze by. “Sure hope Mom comes. Do you think she will?”

  “I keep praying. And I know she is too.” He checked his watch.

  “Spitfire oughta be done by now. Let’s get him out on the track.” Spitfire rubbed the grain stuck to his whiskers on Trish’s cheek and blew some more in her hair.

  “Thanks.” She wiped off what she could. “Do you want to pick or brush?” She offered her father the choice. It seemed so strange to be working with him instead of David. The thought made her think of home again. Here she was, already missing her brother and mother. Great!

  “I’ll pick.” Hal handed her the brush. He lifted a front hoof and bent to the task.

  Trish hummed to herself as she brushed her way around the horse. Even in the dimness of the stall, Spitfire’s coat shone with health and good care.

  Her father leaned against the wall after he’d finished his job.

  “You okay?” Trish paused in her brushing.

  “Yeah. Just not used to bending over so much. You and David have spoiled me.” Trish heard a slight wheeze when he talked.

  “Here.” She tossed him the brush. “I’ll take off the bandages while you get the saddle.”

  “No, leave ’em on.” He unhooked the web gate and left.

  “He worries me sometimes,” Trish confessed to Spitfire’s twitching ears.

  There you go again, worrying, her little nagger whispered. See how easy it is? Trish shook her head and rolled her eyes toward her eyebrows.

  Spitfire stood quietly while she adjusted the saddle. He even dipped his head down for her to slip the headstall over his ears. Trish smoothed his forelock in place and took a deep breath. “Well, let’s go, fella. Your public awaits.” She led him out the stall and turned right. The horse on the end, stall one, stuck his head over the gate and nickered. “Who’s that?” Trish asked.

  “Nancy’s Request. He’s owned by that singer down in Hollywood. Haven’t heard much ab
out him ’cause he might not run.”

  “Problems?” She waited for her father to give her a knee up.

  “Some. Keeps coming up sore behind and they’re not sure why.” He boosted Trish aboard. “Now you take him slow and easy. Walk one to let him see everything, and then jog.” He patted her knee.

  “Tell him that.” Trish stroked Spitfire’s neck. She clucked him forward and Hal walked with them up to the entrance to the track. Then he continued on to the wooden bleachers set up for trainers and media people to watch the horses.

  Trish let Spitfire stand watching the action. Other horses came and went. An exercise rider hit the dirt just past the gate and her horse galloped on around the track. She stood up and dusted herself off, disgust written all over her face. It took the red-jacketed assistants several tries to catch the runaway. The horse proved adept at dodging.

  When Trish nudged Spitfire forward, he walked flat-footed out onto the track. They kept near the outside rail so as not to get in the way of those working faster. Trish felt like both she and Spitfire had swivels in their necks as they tried to see everything at once. The stands stretched from just past the first turn to the other. A turf track lay inside the dirt oval and its grass was as green as that on the infield. All the official tote boards sported a fresh coat of dark green paint, and the two-story hexagonal building that centered the horseshoe-shaped winner’s circle glistened white. Stairs inside led to the celebrity viewing area up above. Churchill Downs, lettered in gold, graced the base of the building. A bright red horseshoe of flowers set off the green turf around it. Just beyond that, gold knobs topped the two tall round posts with “CD” and “Finish” lettered in gold.

  “Impressive, huh, old boy?” Trish turned her head to see the rest of the floral plantings in neat rows of yellow, red, and orange. “You look that horseshoe over good, ’cause we want to be standing there when this is all over.”

  A horse galloped on by them, drawing her attention to the fountain that jetted a column of water ten feet in the air. “Awesome. Totally awesome.”

  After jogging their two laps, Trish rode back to their barn. She’d expected to meet her dad at the gate, but when she didn’t see him they kept on walking. She found him leaning against the wall, struggling to breathe. The half-cleaned stall told her what he’d been doing.