Glad for the reprieve, Trish leaped from the car as soon as David parked beside barn 41, near their stall. A silver and blue horse van was stationed in the road waiting to load. The sounds of an early-morning track were music to Trish’s ears. Horses nickering, a sharp whinny, people laughing, the rhythmic grunts of a galloping horse counterpoint with pounding hooves on the dirt track, a bird warbling his sunrise song in one of the gigantic oak trees.
Spitfire nickered as soon as he heard Trish greet Patrick. He tossed his head, spraying her with drops from his recent drink, then wuffled her hair and nosed her hands for the carrot she always carried. Trish gave him his treat and scratched behind his ears and down his cheek. The colt leaned his head against her chest and closed his eyes in bliss.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ll be a-spoilin’ him rotten.” Patrick shook his head, but his smile told Trish that he understood the special relationship she and Spitfire shared. “Come on, old son.” Patrick slipped into the stall and saddled the colt with practiced ease. “You be in bad need of a good run.”
Trish fitted the headstall over the soft black ears and buckled the chin strap. Spitfire answered a whinny from a horse a few stalls down.
“Ouch, right in my ear.” Trish rubbed her ringing ear. “Did you have to be so loud?”
“He’s just letting ’em all know he’s king.” Patrick smoothed the already gleaming black shoulder as he unhooked the green web gate across the stall entrance. “Now, you trot once around and then gallop nice and easy another. Let him get the kinks out.” Patrick boosted Trish into the saddle. “We’ll give him a short work tomorrow.”
Trish nodded. She slid her feet into the iron stirrups and clucked her horse forward. Spitfire walked with that loose-limbed gait that told Trish he was completely relaxed. His stride lengthened as they approached the entrance to the track, and Trish went to a post as he trotted out to the left.
The soothing rhythm made it too easy for her mind to keep chewing on David’s comment. If he had a bad feeling—David wasn’t one to talk much about his feelings. And for him to—Trish jerked her attention back to the present. She had to concentrate on riding. Accidents happened too easily when a rider let the mind wander.
“Wish I could just keep riding,” Trish muttered when she slid to the ground, much too soon for her liking.
While she’d tried to think of answers for her interviewer, Trish knew that journalists often threw a curve.
And that’s exactly what he did.
“Where will you be riding after the Belmont?” Bill Williams looked up from his writing pad.
“I—I’m not sure.” Trish couldn’t think up anything but the truth. “You see, I promised to make up a chemistry class this summer. The school let me drop it when I was having too much trouble with that and racing and all the other stuff going on.”
“By other stuff, you mean your father’s illness?”
Trish nodded. Why, oh why, had she mentioned the chemistry? “Dad and I originally talked about Longacres in Seattle, but I’ve been invited to ride in California too, so—”
“Is chemistry really so important?”
“No, but my promise is.” Trish felt a flush start up her neck. How could she switch the subject?
“Other young riders get their GED or hire a tutor. Or just drop out of school. What do you think you’ll do?”
Trish took a deep breath. “My mom would never let me get my GED or drop out. She thinks college is really important.”
“What do you think?”
“Well…” Trish paused to give her brain time to get in gear before she said something she’d be sorry for. “School is important. But so is racing. Somehow we’ll just have to work it all out.”
When Williams finally said good-bye, Trish felt like she’d been scrubbed and hung up to dry like the bandages that swung from the wire along the aisle. She left the tack room and slipped under the web gate in Spitfire’s stall.
“Come on, you guys, let’s eat.” She gave Spitfire a quick hug. “I’d rather wash ten horses than go through an interview again.”
“You sounded pretty cool to me.” David picked up the bucket full of grooming gear. Trish watched as David put all the brushes and cloths away in the tack box. His whistle told her he’d gotten rid of the bad feeling he’d had. She knew where it had gone. Right to the pit of her stomach.
“Hey, what’s the matter with our Derby winner?” Red held the door for them as they entered the track kitchen. “You look like you lost your best friend.”
I did, Trish almost answered. Her father had flown back home for treatment that morning.
“She just had a go-round with that writer from Sports Illustrated,” David answered for her. “She got caught on ‘where are you racing after Belmont’?”
“Well?” Red grinned at her. “Where are you?”
“I wish I knew.” Trish picked up a tray and set it down hard on the counter. Here she was a Derby winner, and right now she felt about as low as the last-place rider.
Temper, temper. And if there was any way to strangle her resident critic, that would be fine too.
Trish ignored the three men talking around her as she mixed black cherry yogurt with crunchy dry cereal. While the combination didn’t look the greatest, it tasted good and was good for her. Why did I bring up the chemistry? Now Mom will feel—who knows what she’ll feel? Right now I feel like hiding and bawling for a week or two. She licked the yogurt off her spoon. She could feel the tears burning the back of her eyelids.
This is stupid. You have nothing to cry about, her little nagger leaped back into the act.
“I’ll see you guys back at the barn.” Trish picked up her tray and left, ignoring their protests. But no matter how fast she walked, she couldn’t get away from the thoughts swirling in her head.
Good Christians don’t get down like this. You should be ashamed of yourself. You have so much to be grateful for.
It’s okay, buddy, you’re just tired. We’ve been through a lot the last few days. And besides, your dad just left. That’s always hard.
Trish decided she liked the second voice better. And it was true. She knew all about adrenaline highs, the kind that carry you through the excitement and then dump you down the next day.
“God, help us,” she pleaded as she slipped into Spitfire’s stall and sank down in the straw in the corner. “Please take care of my dad—and us.” Spitfire snuffled her hair and licked away a tear that had escaped and trickled down her cheek. Trish laid her head on her arms and let the tears roll. Spitfire stood over her, as if keeping guard.
By the time the others returned, slightly red eyes and a wayward sniff or two were the only signs of the storm that had passed.
The sound of laughter drew Trish to the tack room. She leaned against the doorway as Patrick, deep in his story, bent forward to deliver the punch line. Red and David, both with saddle-soaped cloths in their hands, listened and cleaned tack at the same time.
When her chuckle chimed in with the others, Patrick waved Trish to a chair without a break in his monologue. She settled back for a pleasant time. His stories could go on all day and into the night if encouraged.
Two hours later and feeling more like herself, Trish took advantage of a break and stood up. Her sides ached from laughing. The tack room looked like Mr. Clean had just sent his whirlwind through.
“I need to go study for a while. Those finals are coming right up,” Trish announced.
“Need some help?” Red looked up with a hopeful grin.
“Thanks, but no thanks. Besides, what do you know about government in Washington State?”
“I could ask you questions.”
“Sure,” David added. “About racing times and track conditions.”
Red snapped a rag at David’s knee. “Thanks. You’re a big help.”
David tossed Trish the car keys. “Pick me up after evening feed.”
“I’ll bring him back.” Red turned his teasing gaz
e up to Trish. “That way you can study without interruption. Then maybe we can all go to a movie later.”
Patrick walked Trish to the car. “Sure you’ll be all right now?”
“Thanks for the stories.” Trish leaned on the open car door. “You always make me feel better.”
“Now, you’d be a-tellin’ me if I can help?”
Trish nodded. “Thanks again.”
Tuesday morning dawned heavily overcast, with predictions of rain. Even the breeze felt wet in her face as Trish galloped Spitfire around the track. While she kept him controlled, he still had a sweat-popping run. As she walked him around to cool him down, Trish thought back to the night before.
The three of them had gone to a movie, and sitting next to Red made her feel warm and restless. Until he took her hand in his—then she just felt warm. A feeling that was just right. David had punched her lightly on the arm on the way out of the theater. Just thinking about it sent a blush to her neck. So far she hadn’t seen Red again this morning. How would she act? What should she say?
Chapter
03
She didn’t have to say or do anything. Trish didn’t see Red all Tuesday morning. Or that afternoon.
“And what might be botherin’ my girl today?” Patrick asked after lunch at the track kitchen.
“She’s in love.” David dodged Trish’s well-aimed fist. “First love.” He ducked again.
Laughter twinkled from Patrick’s sky-blue eyes. “And I wouldn’t have to be a-askin’ who the young man might be.”
“I’m not in love.” Trish ignored the blush she felt creeping up her neck. “I’m in…like.”
Patrick and David looked over their shoulders at each other, then fought to keep from exploding.
“If you two can’t act any more mature than that, I’ll just go on back to the hotel and get to work. Somebody has to be an adult around here.” Trish rose to her feet, her chin tilted in a determined don’t-mess-with-me angle.
“Tricia Evanston?”
Trish stopped before she bumped into the young man she recognized as one of the jockey agents.
“Yes.” She set her tray back down on the table.
“My name is Jonathan Smith.” He extended his hand. “Do you have a minute?”
Trish nodded as she shook his hand. “Sure. You want to talk here?”
“This will be fine.” He nodded as Trish introduced David and Patrick. “Good to see you again, Patrick. Glad to have you back.” He settled into the chair on the other side of Trish. “Is it true that you haven’t signed with an agent?”
Trish nodded. “I haven’t needed to. In Portland I had all the mounts I could handle.”
“Well, a trainer came and asked me to get you to ride for him tomorrow afternoon.” Smith checked a paper he took from his pocket. “That would be in the third race. Are you interested?”
“Of course.” Trish leaned forward. She clenched her fists to keep her hands from clapping.
“You understand that you’ll need to sign a contract with me?”
Trish nodded. She had known that one day it would come to this. But she thought she’d have to find an agent herself—not that one would find her. And in Kentucky.
Jonathan pulled a folded paper from his shirt pocket. “It’s very simple, really. You can look it over if you like.” He handed Trish the typed form.
“I’d like my father to read this, if that’s okay.” Trish scanned the simple document. Her eyes stopped at the paragraph that detailed the fees. While twenty-five percent was normal, she hated giving the agent that much of her winnings.
“Dad’s not here,” David reminded her softly.
Trish caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “You need this signed before tomorrow?”
The man nodded.
“One thing you should know. I don’t take a jockey fee when I ride Spitfire, or any of our own horses, for that matter. That means you wouldn’t get any money either.”
Jonathan tipped back on the legs of the chair. He crossed his arms over his chest, appearing to be deep in thought. “Usually an agent gets his cut on any ride.” He thumped his chair back solidly on the floor. “Let’s be honest, Tricia. You are in a strong position to win the Preakness or at least come in the money. That makes you a valuable property, to me or any other agent. And face it, I’m in the business to make money too. But I can only charge you for the mounts I get for you.” A smile worked its way up to his eyes. “One thing I’ll make sure of, you’ll be racing more and more for farms other than your father’s.”
Trish handed the contract to David. “What do you think?” she asked as he and Patrick finished reading it.
“It’s standard,” Patrick replied. “And besides, if he doesn’t do a good job for you, you can fire him and hire someone else.”
Trish grinned at the twinkle she saw dancing in the old man’s eyes. She reached across the table and pulled a pen from David’s pocket. After signing her name, she handed the paper back to the agent.
“Thank you.” Jonathan refolded the paper and put it back in his pocket. “I’ll see if I can get more mounts for you before you leave—Thursday, right?”
Trish nodded. “Early, most likely.”
“And you want to ride at Pimlico.” It was more a statement than a question.
Trish nodded again.
“Good. I’ll be talking with you.” He shook hands with her and the others, and strode out of the room.
Trish settled back against her chair and stretched her arms above her head. “Well, that’s done.” Doubts chased each other through her mind like kids playing tag.
“You needn’t worry about whether you did the right thing, you know,” Patrick said, reading her mind. “As long as you’re under age and all.”
“He’s right,” David added. “Dad could cancel the contract if he thought you weren’t being treated right.”
Trish frowned. “But I gave my word.”
“I know,” Patrick said. “Just be rememberin’ that Jonathan works for you. You don’t work for him.” He pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. “And now, I’ll be getting back to our prince, and you can get back to your books. The day’ll be gone before we know it.”
Returning to the hotel, Trish hit the books with a flourish. She read two chapters for history, then started on War and Peace for English. It didn’t take long to realize she should have started the book much earlier. She was still trying to figure out who all the characters were when the phone rang.
“Jonathan Smith here,” the man responded to her greeting. “I have another mount for you tomorrow, if you’d like it. Seventh race, a claiming for fillies and mares.”
“Great—uh, let me check something.” Trish shuffled some papers by the phone. “Dad’s put in a claim for Sarah’s Pride in that race. Will that be a problem?”
“Shouldn’t. That’s not the horse I have for you. You’ll take it then?”
“Yes—and thanks.” Trish could feel a smile stretching her cheeks, causing bubbles of happiness to rise and float above her head. As they popped, they showered giggles all over her. Wait till I tell David—and Red. When she thought of Red the bubbles bounced higher. And Dad. If only he were here. I’ll have to call him tonight. Two mounts for Wednesday. In Kentucky—at Churchill Downs. Not bad for a sixteen-year-old kid from Vancouver, Washington—definitely not the horse capital of the world.
Trish had a hard time getting back into War and Peace.
Good thing I read fast, she thought as she drove to the track to pick up David, or that book could take a year. She waved at the guard on the gate and drove back to barn 41. Spitfire nickered as soon as she whistled; a horse on the other side of the barn answered him. David, Red, and Patrick lounged in the tack room.
“How’d you do today?” she asked Red.
He shook his head. “Good thing they pay something for those of us who don’t come in the money. Otherwise my bank account would be in reverse.”
“Like that nag
you had in the last race?” David asked as he stretched his hands above his head.
“You gotta understand, boy,” Patrick got in his digs, “that horse couldn’t even go backward—it just quit.”
Trish grinned at the teasing. It was nice not to be the brunt of it for a change. “What races are you in tomorrow?”
Red squinted his eyes, trying to remember. “Think I have three so far. First, fifth, and seventh.” He nodded. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“Shame you’re not up in the third. Then I could beat you in two races.”
Red thumped his chair back on all four legs. “You got another mount? Way to go! That calls for a celebration! Come on, I’m buying you a supersize Diet Coke. You two wanna join us?” He threw an arm around Trish’s shoulders and waited for an answer.
Patrick and David looked at each other and shrugged, slowly pulling themselves up from their chairs.
“You’re sure we won’t be in the way?” Patrick’s face looked uncharacteristically innocent—almost cherubic.
Trish felt like stomping on his foot, but the weight of Red’s arm seemed to lock her jaw and her feet. He tugged her around, and she kept pace with the three of them as they walked to the car.
They ordered dinner, and the time passed in a haze of laughter. Patrick topped every story anyone started. The waitress must have thought they were high on something. They were—on happiness.
That night Trish called Rhonda. She broke out in giggles as she told her about Red.
“You really like him, don’t you?”
“I guess so. Remember your teasing me about Doug Ramstead last fall?” Trish twirled her hair around a finger. “And I never even got to go out with him.”
“Yeah. He’s still a hunk too.”
“Well, Red’s here. Wish you could meet him. He and David pick on me about as much as Brad and David did, but it’s different. Really different.”
“I miss you,” Rhonda wailed.
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