Golden Filly Collection One

by Lauraine Snelling

  “How are you handling everything?”

  “Fine. Red brought me two stable hands and they cleaned out the stall while I worked Spitfire. Then I held him while they washed him down. I tried to talk some with them, but my Spanish is so slow they must think I’m an idiot.”

  Hal smiled around a bite of scrambled eggs. “I’m so proud of you, I can never begin to tell you how much. Thanks for the breakfast. Food tastes good this morning—finally.”

  Trish brought him a cup of coffee. “I’m going back to school Spitfire after the day’s program starts. Since that’s what you had on the schedule, I see no need to change it.”

  “Have you talked with your mother?”

  “Not since Monday.” Trish curled up in a chair and sipped her orange juice. “I’ll call her tonight. You sound better, so we won’t be lying.”

  “I’ll take it easy today, but tomorrow I should be able to help. Tee, I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should hire Patrick O’Hern, that ex-trainer I introduced you to the other day. That would take some of the pressure off you.”

  “Why not wait and see? My two helpers are doing fine.” Trish nibbled a piece of toast. “Not to change the subject, but Equinox is stabled right next to us. He’s kind of high-strung.”

  “If we hired Patrick, he could become a permanent employee. We’ve been understaffed too long.”

  Trish looked at her father closely. He was serious about this. “We’ve gotten along okay up to now.”

  “I know.” Hal handed her the tray. “I can’t eat any more. I’ll rest awhile, then get a shower. Can’t believe how weak I am again.”

  “You were sick, running a fever, what’d you expect?”

  “Yes, Dr. Evanston.” A smile lifted a corner of his mouth. “How’s your homework coming?”

  “That’s where I’m going now.” She took the tray and placed it outside their door. Then, with books spread around her on the sofa, she attacked the list of assignments. That way she was able to blot out the idea of someone strange joining Runnin’ On Farm.

  When the phone rang, she about leaped out of her skin. What would she say to her mother? She picked it up before it could ring again. At the sound of Red’s voice, she heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Dad’s sleeping again but feeling some better. Got him to eat a little.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Trish felt a warm glow in her heart. It was nice to know that someone cared. “No, but thanks. I’ll be back later for schooling. Good luck on your mounts today.”

  She hung up the phone and stared at the framed print of the great horse Secretariat on the wall. The horse seemed to be looking right at her. It was a friendly look.

  “You want some lunch before I go back?” she asked several hours later. Besides her homework, she’d written cards to Rhonda, Brad, her mom, and David.

  Hal had taken a shower and was almost sleeping again. “No, thanks.”

  “How about if I call room service and they bring you a tray in about an hour?”

  “Okay. But maybe you should put off the schooling.”

  “We’ll be fine. Oh, and Spitfire needs new shoes, or the ones he has reset. One’s loose.”

  “How about Friday?”

  “Sure.” Trish dialed room service and ordered soup and more juice for her father.

  Back at the track, the second race was being run. She and Spitfire just hung out for a while. She sat crosslegged in the corner of his stall, stroking his nose and scratching his ears. He nibbled on her fingers and blew in her bangs. She heard a whinny from the stalls behind them.

  “Sounds like someone else has arrived.” Spitfire raised his head and answered with a nicker of his own. “Sure, sure, tell him how good you are.” She tickled the whiskers on his upper lip.

  Schooling went as smooth as a well-rehearsed play. Spitfire followed his lines perfectly as they trailed behind the horses heading to the paddock for the fourth race. She stood him in the stall for a while, then walked around the paddock, pointing out the Chrysler Triple Crown emblem on a white wall and all the bright flowers. Spitfire seemed to understand every word.

  “Look at that black,” someone in the crowd commented.

  “Which race is he in?”

  Trish wanted to tell them but kept walking Spitfire.

  Red waved to her before the trainer boosted him into the saddle. “How’s it going?”

  “Fine. Good luck.” Spitfire played with the chain on his lead strap when the mounted horses left the paddock to meet the ponies lined up just outside the tunnel. Another parade to post had begun. The crowd flowed back to find their seats.

  “Hi, Mom.” Trish caught the phone on the first ring again that night. Hal had eaten dinner and dozed off. Trish and her mother talked about what was happening at home and the track before Trish asked Hal to pick up the extension. “See ya, Mom. Next week, right? Here’s Dad.” She hung up before she could hear her mother pause—or decline.

  “Your grandparents are coming here for the Derby,” Hal told her when she went in to kiss him good-night. “They’ll be here next Friday.”

  “Good. What about Mom?”

  Hal just shrugged his shoulders.

  A nightmare attacked Trish again that night. This time it was a replay of the family reliving the accident at Portland Meadows. In the dream her mother cried—forever. Trish licked her dry lips and forced her eyes open. Another race was coming up—a big one. Was she ready for it? How would she control the butterflies that already flitted when she thought ahead?

  She hated to close her eyes again.

  Remember the name of Jesus? Her little voice was being helpful this time. What a nice change.

  Trish closed her eyes and let the name of Jesus in big letters scroll across her mind. There He sat, smiling at all the children. She could never resist smiling back. And going right to sleep.

  She’d just walked Spitfire back from another schooling session the next afternoon when a voice yelled to her. “Hey, Trish! Ya got company!”

  Chapter

  13

  Mom, you came!” Trish flew down the aisle and threw herself into her mother’s arms. “And David.” She strangled him with a hug next. “You guys are really here!”

  “Why didn’t you tell me earlier your father was sick?” Marge whispered into her daughter’s ear as she hugged Trish again.

  “He wouldn’t let me.”

  Marge sighed. “I figured as much. How bad is he?”

  “Better.” Trish turned to her brother. “Some track, isn’t it, Davey boy. Wait’ll you see the rest. I can show you around after I feed the kid here.”

  Spitfire nickered when he saw David. “Hey, old man. You remember me, huh?” Spitfire bopped David’s Seattle Mariner’s baseball hat onto the dirt aisle. David picked it up and dusted off the brim. “Sure does. He act this way with anyone else, or does he save it all for me?”

  Trish laughed at the sneaky expression on Spitfire’s face. “He loves you, that’s all.” She showed David where they kept everything and measured out the evening feed.

  “Hi, Trish, need some help?” Red stuck his head in the door.

  “No, thanks. Hey, meet my family. They just got here. Mom, David, this is Eric Holloran, better known as Red. He’s a jockey here.”

  “Pleased to meet y’all.” Red shook hands.

  “How’d you do?” Trish asked.

  “One win, a place, and a fourth. My checkbook is singing for joy. You still need the boys in the morning?”

  “No, David here needs to work his muscles. And I’m glad you did well.”

  “Gotta run. Nice to meet y’all.” He hesitated. “Can I buy you a Coke or something?”

  “Thanks, but we’re heading for the hotel as soon as we finish chores. Dad doesn’t know they’re here yet.”

  “Okay. See ya.”

  David looked from the retreating jockey to Trish. “Is there something going on here I should know about?”

  Trish fe
lt a blush creep up her neck. “David!”

  Marge leaned against the half wall, smiling at her daughter. “He seems like a very nice young man.”

  David snorted. He dumped the feed in Spitfire’s box. “Let’s go see Dad.”

  “You guys wait out here,” Trish said twenty minutes later as she dug in her pocket for the hotel key. “Dad needs a good surprise.” She opened the door to the dark suite. “Dad?” She flicked on the light switch by the door.

  “In here.” Hal’s voice sounded as if he just woke up.

  “There’s someone here who needs to talk with you.”

  “Okay, just a minute.”

  Trish clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the giggles that bubbled up like a shaken soda can. She glanced at David to see the same look on his face. Marge had her tongue stuck in her cheek.

  Hal wore his robe over a pair of jeans and was brushing his hair back with his hands as he came around the corner. The look on his face made the secrecy well worthwhile. He hugged Marge first, and with her tucked against his side, he wrapped his other arm around his son’s neck and squeezed hard.

  Trish could also tell from her dad’s look that he was thinking, “Thank you, God,” just like she was. Her mother had come, fear or not. They were together, the way they should be. Trish felt a weight float away from her shoulders that she hadn’t realized was so heavy.

  They ordered room service and sat around catching up for the next couple of hours.

  “Good news,” Marge said at one point. “Grandpa and Grandma are coming for sure; said they wouldn’t miss it. They’ll arrive on Friday.”

  “Will they stay long enough to go sightseeing with us?” Trish asked.

  Marge shrugged. “Got me. You know what a rush they’re always in to get back to their volunteering. I think they’re busier now than when they were working.”

  Trish fell asleep that night with a smile on her face. Her family was all together.

  “This area doesn’t look at all like I expected,” David said as he and Trish drove to the track the next morning.

  “I know. The bluegrass country is really around Lexington. But wait till you see the Ohio River. It’s huge. We haven’t been anywhere yet since Dad got sick. Maybe this weekend.” She parked by their barn. “We need to get you a badge later.”

  If it weren’t for the difference in scenery, Trish would have felt as if she were home. She and David worked together like the team they’d become since their father’s illness began. Having her brother there made her even more aware how much she’d missed him.

  “Slow gallop now,” David reminded her as he gave her a leg up. Spitfire stood quietly. “Is he feeling all right?” David nodded at the horse.

  “Sure, why?”

  “Well, he—he’s quieter. Not such a clown.”

  Trish leaned forward and smoothed Spitfire’s mane to one side. “I don’t know. He seems to realize this is serious business. But you missed out on a real tantrum with the thunderstorm. Like at the airport. He doesn’t like loud noises.”

  It had rained during the night and the morning air smelled fresh-washed and rose-petal soft on Trish’s skin. She walked the colt once around the track, staying close by the outside rail. The rising sunlight sparkled on the twin spires above the grandstand.

  At the second round, they broke into a slow gallop. Spitfire settled into the rocking gait, ears pricked, always aware of the horses working around him but not concerned. Trish relaxed along with him. There was no place on earth she’d rather be.

  Red saluted her with his whip as he galloped by.

  Trish pointed out the sights on the backside as she and David jogged over to the track kitchen for breakfast. On the way back they stopped at the office for his badge.

  At ten the farrier arrived with his tools to shoe the colt. Spitfire stood like a perfect gentleman, only rubbing his forehead on Trish’s chest as she held him.

  Saturday morning after the chores were done, Hal called Trish and David into the office. “I think it’s time we brought in someone else to help us,” he said. “Now, I don’t want you to think it’s because you haven’t been doing a good job. You know better than that.” He smoothed back a lock of hair that fell over Trish’s cheek. “I just think we need to make life easier for all of us, and thanks to Spitfire’s win at Santa Anita, we can afford it.”

  “You have someone in mind?” David asked.

  Hal nodded. “His name is Patrick O’Hern. Trish met him earlier this week. He had a tremendous reputation until…”

  “Until—” David interrupted a long pause.

  “Well, he—ummm—”

  Warning bells went off in Trish’s mind. Her father was on his helping-others mode again. What had Patrick done?

  “He became an alcoholic after his wife died and his whole life fell apart.” Hal said the words in a rush, as if he couldn’t wait to get them out. “But with God’s help, he’s turned his life around. I feel privileged to work with him. The man knows more about horses and racing than—”

  “It’s okay, Dad.” David nodded and shrugged at the same time. “We trust you. If you think Patrick is who we need, that’s great. Right, Trish?”

  Trish nodded. “Sure. I liked him.” But a squirmy little doubt dug in at the back of her mind.

  “It’s settled then. I’ll page him and see if he can meet us up at the track kitchen.”

  The meeting with Patrick went according to Hal’s plan. The man would start work on Monday.

  The pace stepped up after the weekend. It seemed there were more reporters each day. Trish began to wonder where they all came from. All the Derby entries were now on site. As Trish watched the other horses work, she tried to compare them to Spitfire.

  “You’re just prejudiced,” David said after one of her comments about the bad temper of the chestnut called Going South. His trainer had posted a sign warning visitors to keep back.

  “Where’d you ever get that idea?” Trish tried to look innocent, but the mischief dancing in her eyes gave her away.

  They all fell easily into the new routine. Since Patrick stayed on the grounds, he fed Spitfire in the morning so Trish and David could sleep in a bit later. Then David mucked out the stall while Trish took Spitfire out on the track. The colt and Patrick hit it off from the first moment Patrick slipped the black a carrot chunk.

  “Breeze him five furlongs,” Hal said as Patrick boosted Trish up on Tuesday morning. “Trot once around to warm him up, then let him loose in front of the wooden stands.” He pointed to the wooden bleachers constructed for owners and trainers by the gate to the track. “Patrick and I’ll clock you from there.”

  Spitfire seemed to sense this morning was different. He played with the bit and danced sideways on the far turn. Trish snapped her goggles into place. As they came around the near turn, she angled him to the rail and let him extend to a gallop.

  “Okay, fella, let’s get ready,” she crooned into his twitching ears. At the furlong marker she gave him his head and shouted, “Go, Spitfire!” She crouched high over his withers as he exploded under her. With each stride he gained speed, like a sprinter off the mark. She remained in the high position, hands firm and encouraging. She almost missed the fifth marker, and the sixth passed before she could bring him down. They cantered on around the track.

  The grin on her father’s face told her all she needed to know. But her internal stopwatch already knew the colt had run well. The only question—could he last the mile and a quarter? Santa Anita had been a mile and an eighth. An eighth of a mile, one furlong, didn’t seem far, unless you were running on pure heart by then. Races could be won or lost in the last stride.

  “Here, lass, I’ll walk ’im.” Patrick reached for the lead shank.

  “No, that’s okay, I need something to keep busy. You guys are doing all the hard stuff.” Trish relaxed after walking Spitfire out. His knee stayed cool to the touch, as if there had never been an injury. One more big relief.

  Each day
her internal aerial troupe took to practicing new routines. Anytime she thought of the coming race she could feel the butterflies leaping, fluttering, and diving.

  “You okay?” Red asked her Wednesday morning at the kitchen.

  “Why?”

  “’Cause you’ve been stirrin’ those eggs ’stead of eating them.” He pointed to her plate.

  “Guess I’m just not hungry.”

  “She always like this?” Red asked David. The two had become good friends in a short time.

  Now Trish had two big brothers bossing her around. Except that when her hand touched Red’s, it didn’t feel the same as when she brushed David’s. Think about that later! she ordered, after her shoulder tingled from Red’s casual touch.

  Thursday morning arrived either too soon or not soon enough—Trish wasn’t sure which. This was the day for choosing post positions. She woke up to a mist hovering just above the ground. At the track, horses seemed to float in and out, like phantoms in a ghostly dance.

  Marge and Hal attended the breakfast for owners, but Trish, David, and Patrick stayed with Spitfire, finishing morning chores. They went through the routine without talking, grabbed a quick bite to eat, and headed for the museum. Red had advised them to get there early, since the place would be packed.

  The statue of Secretariat with its blanket of roses had been moved, and a podium with microphones was set up in its place in the oval room of the museum. Stage lights made the area brighter than day. TV crews were setting up their cameras, with cables snaking across the carpet.

  As the time drew nearer, the room filled with spectators, owners, trainers, officials; and reporters with tape recorders, camcorders, and clipboards. Everyone was handed a sheet of paper with the twelve horses running listed.

  “Here.” Hal handed each of them a gold baseball cap with “Spitfire” lettered in crimson. “I meant to give you these before you left this morning. How’d everything go?”

  “Fine.” Trish bent the brim and settled her cap in place. “How was the breakfast?” She grinned at her mother. Even Marge, dressed in her navy silk suit, wore the crimson and gold hat.