Golden Filly Collection One

by Lauraine Snelling

  Just then the lights went out. A multi-projector slide show set to music and narration sprang to life on a continuous screen that circled the room just under the second-floor railing. Trish felt a lump in her throat as she watched the life of a Thoroughbred from foaling to the Derby. She kept turning to watch the scenes unfold as heroes of past Derbies galloped across the screen. A field of red tulips around the entire screen brought an “oooh” from many spectators. Haunting strains of “My Old Kentucky Home” faded away as the screen flashed names of this year’s contenders. Spitfire, Going South, Nancy’s Request, Nomatterwhat, First Admiral. Trish had to turn to keep reading. Dun Rovin’, Equinox, Waring Prince, Who Sez, Spanish Dancer, That’s All, and Sea Urchin. One of those names would be added to the list of greats.

  The lights came back on. Now all Trish could see was the broad back of the man standing in front of her. The ceremony began. A horse’s name was called, a number drawn from a container. The race secretary then placed that number beside the horse’s name on a board for all to see.

  Trish watched the people around her mark their papers. She didn’t even have a pencil. A group cheered when Who Sez drew position one. Number twelve for Spanish Dancer didn’t thrill his owners. Spitfire’s name was halfway down the list. What would his number be?

  Trish’s butterflies went berserk.

  Chapter

  14

  Spitfire, position six.” The waiting was over.

  Trish listened with only half an ear as the remaining numbers were called. Number six meant they’d be right in the middle of the field.

  As soon as the last number was posted, a reporter shoved a microphone in front of her father. Hal smiled at the question.

  “You’re right, the weather could indeed be in our favor. When you come from the Pacific Northwest, your horse better not mind the rain. Our colt runs well on a wet track. And position six can be either an asset or a handicap, depending on how fast he breaks.”

  He turned to answer another question. “No, there’s been no problem with his knee for the last couple of weeks. Running at Santa Anita caused only a mild inflammation, nothing to be concerned about.”

  Nothing to be concerned about! Trish caught herself before she made any noises. She’d been concerned, that’s for sure. If the press only knew all that had gone on.

  She’d just thought about leaving when a young woman asked her a question. “That fatal accident out in Portland, you were involved in it, weren’t you?”

  Trish thought fast. “Yes. But I wasn’t hurt much, a mild concussion.”

  “Do you feel that affected your riding? How about if you get caught in the middle during the Derby?”

  Trish took a deep breath. Should she tell them she lost two races after that and considered backing out of another? No, this wasn’t the place for total honesty.

  “How can it not affect you when a friend is killed? But you go on. You ride each race as it comes. And you do your best. Guess that’s about all you can do. Spitfire and me—we’ll do our best.”

  “Good answer,” David whispered in her ear as the reporters left to talk to others.

  Hal was answering a man with ABC lettered on his microphone. Marge had a smile pasted on her face. Trish could tell the glue was wearing thin and the smile might slip off. She signaled David and the two of them took their mother’s arms. “Let’s go look at the trophies.”

  They could identify the owners and trainers by the groups gathered around them. The crowd was thinning out now, and the television crews were dismantling the cameras and rolling up their cables.

  “How was the breakfast?” Trish shifted her attention from the humongous silver bowl in the trophy case to her mother.

  “Huge. Hundreds of people.”

  “How about the trainers’ dinner?” David asked.

  “The hotel was beautiful and the food great but…”

  Trish and David waited for her to go on.

  “But—well, we met some very nice people.” She paused, thinking. “I guess things are just different here.”

  Trish looked around the room. “I guess.”

  “Like back in there. It’s a fashion show. We just don’t do things that way at home.”

  Trish grinned. “That’s why I like it better down at the barns. Horses are easier than people. Did you see that woman all in white?”

  “If those rocks she wore were real—” David shook his head.

  “And the broad-brimmed hat. Why y’all don’t know how na-ahce it is to see ya he-ah.” Trish copied the accent and the gestures perfectly.

  “Trish.” Marge strangled on the laugh and bit her lip to keep from choking.

  “We better get outta here before you get us in trouble.” David appeared to be suffering from the same choking problem as his mother. He took both their arms and walked them past the visitor’s information desk and out the front doors. When they reached the sunshine, they looked at each other and let the laughter spill. Hal found them a bit later, still giggling.

  “Okay, what’s going on?”

  Trish and her mother looked at each other and started in again. Finally Trish took a deep breath and forced herself to look at her father, her face serious. “Y’all just don’t dress us ra-aght, Daddy de-ah.”

  “The woman in white?”

  “Oh, you noticed.” Marge slipped her arm through Hal’s.

  “How could I not?” Hal shook his head. “Let’s go check on Spitfire.”

  More reporters and writers crowded around them when they arrived back at the stable. Trish was beginning to understand what famous people meant when they talked about living in a fish bowl. She was scratching Spitfire’s cheek with his head draped over her shoulder in his favorite position when someone asked if they could take her picture. Spitfire flinched as the flash blinded his eyes.

  It was a relief when they headed back to the hotel.

  “That slide show was the neatest thing I’ve seen.” Trish popped the top on her can of Diet Coke and drank deeply.

  “It really was.” Marge leaned back in a chair. She slipped off her shoes and flexed her toes. “I’d love to see it again.”

  “The schedule is posted for showings.” Hal stretched his arms over his head. “There any coffee left?”

  David poured a cup for himself and one for his dad. “What a mass of people. This whole week is just one big party.”

  “No, it’s lots of parties. Speaking of which, we have another one to attend tonight. The Churchill Downs Derby party.” Hal looked at Marge.

  “Do we have to?”

  “We don’t have to do anything. I’m sure they won’t miss us, since I’ve heard there are usually about five hundred people at this one. Besides, according to our daughter here, I don’t dress you right. For dinner at the famous Galt House, that is.”

  Trish scrunched her eyebrows at him. “You don’t say it right either.”

  “By the way, Red was asking for you.”

  Trish felt the heat blossom on her neck. “Oh?”

  “Said he’d see you at evening feed if not before.” Hal had a knowing twinkle in his eye.

  Trish felt the blush spread to her cheekbones.

  “Seems like a right nice young man.”

  “Da-ad!” She held her Coke can to her cheek. This was crazy. She didn’t like him—did she? Did he like her? Her father certainly seemed to think so. She threw a decorator pillow at David to wipe the smirk off his face.

  “Just think, less than forty-eight hours.” David shook his head. “And it’s Derby time.”

  “Thanks a bunch.” Now her butterflies leaped into life. A swallow of soda sent them into a frenzy. “You guys are really a big help.”

  “You kids want to go to the parade?” Hal set his coffee cup on the table.

  Trish thought a minute. All those people. “How can we? Spitfire needs to eat about that time. The parade is late afternoon. I’d rather go somewhere for dinner that has great food, just us.”

  And that
’s what they did. By the time they were stuffed with hush puppies and babyback ribs, Trish was ready for bed. Mornings came so early.

  “You and that black colt, lass, you’re some pair,” Patrick said the next morning as Trish leaped to the ground. “You both seem to know what the other’s thinking. That’ll be hard to beat out there.”

  “That means a lot, coming from you,” Trish said. It was the first real compliment Patrick had given her. “I sure hope you’re right.”

  They’d just finished breakfast when Hal and Marge ushered the two newcomers into the track kitchen. Trish leaped from her seat and threw her arms first around her grandfather, then her grandmother. Her grandmother’s familiar lavender perfume lingered in the air.

  “Can you believe we’re all really meeting in Kentucky? I’m so glad you came.” She stepped back to give them the once-over. “You look great.” While her grandfather seemed a bit more stooped in the shoulders, Trish didn’t see any sign that he had been sick. Actually the two of them looked more alike than ever.

  “Hello, David.” The slender woman with snow-white hair leaned over to kiss his cheek.

  By the time Hal had introduced Patrick, Trish had brought a tray with coffee for everyone.

  “Are any of them decaf?” her grandmother asked. “I really must be careful, you know.”

  “I remembered. Those two on the outside are for you two.” Trish handed one to her grandfather. She caught her father’s wink as she handed him a cup. Careful was the operative word. When she thought about it, Trish knew where her mother got the worries—from her mother.

  When Patrick excused himself, Trish followed suit.

  “We’ll be down later,” her father said.

  That afternoon was the running of the Oaks. Trish leaned on the iron rail around their box and watched both the spectators and the race. Tomorrow she would be up in the jockey room—waiting.

  A chestnut filly with two white socks won by a length. The jockey riding her, Jerry Jones, would be up on Nomatterwhat the next afternoon. He was known to bring in winners.

  “Firefly would have taken it,” Trish said to no one in particular. “Sure wish we could have brought her.”

  “She’ll have her chance.” Hal tapped her on the shoulder with his program. “And so will you.”

  Trish wondered later what he meant by that. As she flipped to her other side—for the third time—in bed that night, she couldn’t quit thinking about the coming race. What if someone fell? What if Spitfire got hurt? What if they lost? What if they won? The what-ifs were driving her right out of her mind.

  She tried to pray. The questions paraded across her mind instead. She recited her Bible verses. Ahhhh, she felt a little calmer. Relax, she ordered her muscles. They ignored her.

  Maybe they should have gone to one of the parties they’d been invited to. Then she wouldn’t have so much time to think. She turned over—again.

  Finally Trish sat up in bed and turned on the light. The soft glow burnished the curve of the carved eagle wings. Trish smoothed a finger over the intricate carving. Her song “Raise you up on eagle’s wings, bear you on the breath of God…” drifted through her restlessness.

  What would it be like to catch the air currents and spiral higher and higher? To feel the wind in your wings? She sighed. She knew what it felt like to be held “in the palm of His hand.”

  “Thank you, Father,” she breathed. “Thank you.”

  The peace of sleep was shattered by screams and groans. By sirens and shock. By dirt and blood. The nightmare rocked through her with a vengeance.

  Trish jerked upright, gasping for air. She’d felt as if someone were sitting on her chest. She propped her shoulders against the head of the bed and waited for her heart to stop pounding. It was just a nightmare. And nightmares were always worse than reality.

  You’re scared! her little nagger whispered. You have the big race tomorrow—no—today, and you’re scared to bits. Look at you shake. You shouldn’t be afraid.

  Trish clapped her hands over her ears, but it didn’t help. She shouldn’t be scared. But then, who wouldn’t be. The Kentucky Derby was a big deal. Half the world would be watching.

  That thought didn’t help at all. Instead, she got up and went to the bathroom. She got a drink of water and climbed back into bed. This time she painted and repainted a picture of Jesus on her mental screen until she slipped off to sleep.

  Her butterflies leaped into life with the buzz of the alarm. It would have been nice if they’d overslept.

  As usual, Patrick had already fed the hungry black colt. He hummed a happy tune as he polished their racing saddle.

  After greeting him, Trish whistled softly. Spitfire, his head already over the web gate, nickered his happiness at seeing her. He nuzzled her cheek and whiskered her hand, begging for his carrot treat. Trish didn’t disappoint him.

  The sky was overcast as Trish trotted him out onto the track half an hour later. The forecast was for possible thundershowers.

  “And you don’t like thunder, do you?” Trish carried on a conversation with his ears. They twitched backward and pricked forward again, keeping track of everything around them. Trish rose in her stirrups as they trotted around the track. When he settled to a slow jog, she sat down again and enjoyed the ride. A pounding trot hadn’t helped her stomach any.

  Her father was answering questions again when they returned to the stall. Patrick and David washed the colt down, getting their own steam bath in the process. Trish washed Spitfire’s face with a soft sponge. He nibbled at the sponge, then shook his head, spraying her with water.

  “Knock it off.” She raised an arm to keep the drops out of her eyes. Spitfire curled his upper lip, as if he were laughing at her. They scraped him dry, blanketed him, and then Trish took the lead shank to walk him out. David had already cleaned the stall and spread new straw.

  Trish missed her messed-up conversations with her two Spanish-speaking helpers. They’d called Spitfire muy cabrillo, beautiful horse.

  “How you feelin’?” Red fell into step beside her.

  “Scared. You just startled me.”

  “You were kinda off in dreamland.”

  “No, I wasn’t.” But Trish knew her mind had been somewhere else. That was dangerous. She needed to concentrate on Spitfire in case something spooked him.

  “You going for breakfast?”

  Trish shot him a pained look.

  “Oh. Butterflies?”

  “A belly full.”

  “You better eat something. I’ll see you later up in the jockey room. You play pool?”

  Trish shook her head. How would she get through all those hours up in the jockey room?

  “How about Ping-Pong then? We’ll find something to make the time pass. See ya.” He trotted off.

  “Do you think he ever walks?” Spitfire shook his head.

  Trish managed to get down a piece of toast. She bypassed the milk and drank apple juice instead.

  “You’ll be fine.” Her father had his mind-reading skills in gear.

  “Wish I could stay down at the barn with you guys. At least I’d have something to do there.”

  “I know this is different and difficult. But the day’ll be gone before you know it.”

  Trish nodded, but this time she doubted her father was right.

  Spitfire shone from all the brushing. His hooves gleamed, mane and tail waved, flowing free just as Trish liked. Neither she nor her father cared for the decorative braiding some stables used. The tack was soaped and polished.

  It was quiet around the stalls. Once in a while a visitor dropped by, but horses and people were both getting a rest. Trish leaned back in the lawn chair. If only she could stay here.

  “You want me to walk you over?” David asked.

  Trish glanced at her watch. It was time. Why did she feel like she was being walked to the execution block?

  Patrick clasped her cold hands in his warm ones. “Don’t be worryin’, lass. Just give it your bes
t.”

  Trish nodded. She was afraid if she opened her mouth, the butterflies would strangle her.

  In spite of the lowering sky, the infield was fast filling with spectators. All the grandstand and bleacher area had been reserved weeks before, but crowds had poured into the infield since the gates opened at eight.

  “Did you see the car?” David nudged her arm. They were almost at the tunnel.

  “The red one?”

  “Yeah. Just think, it’ll be yours when you win. A red Chrysler Le Baron convertible.”

  “I can’t think about that now.” Trish chewed her lip. Her swallower was too dry to work.

  David handed her her sports bag at the bottom of the stairs to the second-story jockey rooms. “See you in the saddling stalls.”

  Trish stepped on the escalator. She turned once and waved to David, who waited at the bottom.

  Frances Brown was the only one in the women’s jockey room. She sat at her desk, reading a coffee-table-size book. “Hi, Trish. I brought this in for everyone to look at.” She turned to the front cover. The title, Kentucky Derby, was lettered in white above a racing Thoroughbred. “The pictures are fantastic. I’ve never seen a better book.”

  An hour later Trish was still reading it. The pictures were great but so was the text. She learned things about the history of the track and racing she’d never heard before.

  Since the first race of the day was at eleven-thirty, several other women came in. Trish was the only female riding in the Derby. She put the book down when she heard someone call her name.

  “Trish, Red’s in the other room asking for you.” Frances smiled at her. “Glad you like my book.”

  “Where did you get it? I want one.”

  “At the museum gift store. You go eat something if you can. You’ll feel better.”

  Trish wasn’t so sure. At the roar of the crowd on the monitor, her butterflies thought the applause was for them. They added new routines to their show. Trish wrapped both arms around her middle. Please, God, help me.

  Chapter

  15