“Yeah, me too. David’s flying home for Brad’s graduation. Wish I could. Just think, one more of our musketeers is done with Prairie High. Only you and I’ll be left.”
“Yeah. And you’re never here.”
When Trish hung up half an hour later, she winced at the thought of the phone bill. Talking from halfway across the country wasn’t the same as a mile away. She lay back on her bed and thought of all the news Rhonda had told her about school. If only Rhonda could come to Kentucky. It seemed as if school and Vancouver were in another life. Distance does that, she remembered her father saying.
Thinking about him made Trish jerk upright and dial Runnin’ On Farm. There was no answer. She checked her watch. Nine-thirty eastern time meant six-thirty at home.
“David.” She stood and walked into the living room, where he was watching television. “There’s no answer at home. Where do you think Mom and Dad are?” A frown wrinkled her forehead.
David blinked awake and rubbed his eyes. A yawn caught him before he could answer. He checked his watch. Seeing the time brought him instantly awake.
“You suppose they’re at the hospital?” He ran a hand through the dark curls that fell on his forehead.
Trish walked across the room to the window and stared out, her teeth tugging her bottom lip. “David, remember that bad feeling you had? Well, I’ve got it now.”
Chapter
04
Trish awoke to the phone ringing on Wednesday morning. Her heart seemed to leap right out of her chest. She fumbled for both the phone and the lamp switch. What’s wrong with Spitfire? chased Could it be Dad? through her brain.
“Hello?” Even her voice sounded scared.
“Good morning, Tee.”
Trish collapsed back against the pillows. “Hi, Mom. What’s wrong?”
“We just wanted to get in touch with you two before you left for the track. Sorry to call so early.”
“That’s okay.” Trish leaned over to shut off the alarm. “It was time to get up anyway. How’s Dad?”
“Not doing real well right now. He had a bad reaction to the chemo and the doctor wants to do more tests.”
“More tests?”
“It’s routine at this point, and they may have to change his medication. Anyway, we won’t be flying back today as we’d planned. Dad says he’ll call you this evening and let you know whether to go on without us or not.”
Trish felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. “But—but…Is Dad there? Can I talk with him?”
“He’s at the hospital now, and finally sleeping. He was up and down all night. I just came home to check on things here and pick up some clean clothes.” Marge’s voice had an edge of worry to it again. She took a deep breath. “How are things going there?”
For an instant Trish couldn’t even remember why she’d tried to call the night before. “We called last night. I knew something was wrong when no one answered.” She paused for her thoughts to catch up with her. “Tell Dad I signed with an agent. I have two mounts this afternoon.”
“Are you sure that’s the best thing to do? You know you’ll be heading back to school as soon as Belmont is over.” Her mother’s worry was more obvious now.
“Mo-om.”
“I’m sorry, Trish. I can’t even think straight right now. Just be careful. Tell David we’ll talk to him tonight. Good-bye now.”
Trish stared at the phone in her hand. If only I could have talked with Dad. She could feel the tears prick at the back of her eyes.
Don’t be such a baby, her little nagger scolded. He was at the hospital, not the farm. You know, if you’d pray more… Trish slammed the receiver down. She felt like slamming something else.
She stomped into the other room. “David.” She shook his shoulder. “David, how could you sleep through the phone and everything?”
David pulled a pillow over his head, then flipped over with a suddenly wide-awake glare. “What do you mean, the phone?”
“Mom called. They’re not coming today and maybe not even tomorrow.”
“Dad’s worse?” He was really awake now.
“I don’t know how bad. He’s in the hospital. More tests.” Trish balled a section of her nightshirt in her fist. “What do we do now?” she pleaded.
“We take care of Spitfire. Then you study, and ride this afternoon.” David reached for his jeans draped across the bottom of his bed. “And we pray like crazy. Now get going. We leave in ten minutes.”
Trish wanted to argue—or smack him for his methodical tone. Better yet, she felt like locking herself in the bathroom and turning on the shower so no one could hear her scream.
Instead, she dragged herself back to her room and started dressing. God, what are you doing with my dad? Why can’t things get better instead of worse? Why don’t you just leave us alone?
David and Trish hardly talked on the way to the track. Patrick had Spitfire fed and groomed by the time they arrived.
“Sorry we’re late,” David said. “Things aren’t good at home.”
That’s the understatement of the year, Trish thought as she leaned against Spitfire’s shoulder and rubbed his neck. The colt snuffled her hair and whiskered her cheek as if to cheer her up.
“They know, lass,” Patrick said softly behind her. “Animals always know when those they love are hurtin’.”
Trish felt the tears again. She buried her face in Spitfire’s mane. “Dad’s got to get better again. We need him here. I need him. I—” She sniffed back the tears. “Patrick, do you pray?”
“Of course, lass. How else could I be livin’ and workin’ again? Only God could cure a drunk like me.” He swiped a finger across his eyes. “And your father now—he gave me this job. And I’m thinkin’ it’s to be takin’ care of more than a horse. I’d like to give back some of what your father gave me.”
Trish turned and let the old trainer put his arms around her. He patted her back, all the while crooning to her as he did with Spitfire. The music worked the same magic on humans as it did on horses.
Trish mopped her eyes again. “Well, let’s get this kid out on the track.” She nodded at Spitfire, who pricked his ears at David’s tuneless whistle in the aisle. “Thanks, Patrick.”
“Your dad’ll be here soon.” Patrick patted Trish’s shoulder. “I feel it in my bones.”
“You okay?” David asked when he gave her a leg up. Concern darkened his eyes.
Trish nodded. “We’ll make it.” She gathered her reins and clucked Spitfire forward.
You know, if you were really a good Christian, you wouldn’t worry about your dad like this, her nagger gloated. And what happened to the old I-will-not-cry Trish?
God loves you no matter what, her other little voice responded. Remember, He knows what He’s doing now just like He has in the past. Remember when you fell apart in the parking lot at Portland Meadows? God’ll take care of you now too.
Trish shut both voices off by shoving her boots into the iron stirrups and nudging Spitfire into a trot. But it sure was nice to know someone was on her side.
Red saluted her with his whip as he slow-galloped a bay around the track. “See you later?” His question floated back on the slight breeze.
Now that Spitfire was warmed up, Trish turned the colt clockwise and gave him enough rein for a steady gallop. Spitfire pulled at the restraint, pleading for a chance to run. Trish only laughed at him when he tossed his head at her refusal.
“You big goof. You think you can run anytime you want.” She rode high in the stirrups, her weight helping to keep the horse under control. “I should be working those two I’m riding today.”
Spitfire flicked his ears back and forth, listening to her voice while keeping track of everything around him.
“You know, if you’d just let someone else ride you like this in the morning, I could go home for Brad’s graduation,” Trish spoke to the horse. “I might as well be tied in the stall with you.”
The colt snorted, shaking his head
as if he disagreed with her.
Trish felt as if someone had smacked her between the shoulder blades. What had she just said?
Her nagger didn’t miss a beat. Sure. Here you are doing what every jockey dreams of, and you’re griping. There’s just no pleasing you, is there? Where’s that attitude of gratitude you’re supposed to have anyway?
“Sorry, fella,” Trish muttered to her horse. “It’s not your fault we let you get used to only me for a rider.” She shrugged off the negative feelings and concentrated on the remaining ride. When she pulled Spitfire back down to a trot, he hadn’t run enough to work up a decent sweat.
“You sure are in good condition,” Trish told him as they trotted out the track entrance. “I should be running a track myself.” Spitfire nodded his agreement. “What do you know about it?” Trish laughed as she jumped to the ground, giving him a playful scratch under his forelock.
“I’ve gotta go meet my horses and trainers for this afternoon,” Trish said after giving Spitfire a last pat. “So don’t wait breakfast for me. I’ll have to leave for the hotel right after.”
Trish checked the barn numbers that her agent Jonathan had written down for her. Numbers 20 and 22—both of them housed the horses of smaller farms.
“Mr. Danielson around?” she asked a young Hispanic man grooming a horse.
“Sí, él está ahí.” He pointed to the office as he spoke.
Trish listened hard as her brain translated the words. She smiled back at him. “Gracias.” She’d probably do better in Spanish if she’d just make a point of talking to the people around the track. If they’d only speak slower.
When Trish approached the office she could hear two men arguing inside.
“But you don’t know anything about her,” one said.
“She won the Derby, didn’t she?” answered the other. “That’s enough for me.”
“She only won because she was riding her father’s colt. No one else would let her near their horses.”
Trish felt her ears burning. The flush crept all the way up her face. She walked back outside the barn and leaned against the wall. Guess I’ll just have to prove that I can ride, she thought. She pushed the hurt she felt down where she couldn’t feel it, at least for the moment.
In a few seconds a man wearing a brown sweater strode out of the barn, and with the voice of the one who questioned her ability, he spoke to one of the grooms. Taking a deep breath and pasting a smile on her face, Trish walked back into the barn.
“Mr. Danielson?” She cleared her throat. “I’m Tricia Evanston.”
Danielson glanced from Trish to the back of the man striding across the hot-walking area.
Trish lifted her chin to boost her confidence. No matter what anyone thought, she wasn’t going to back down on her commitment.
The man nodded slightly as if reading her mind. Then he smiled and extended his hand. “Glad to meet you, Tricia. How about taking this fellow out for a warm-up? Juan, saddle Jiminy for her, please.”
The dark bay horse sported a white star between his eyes. Instead of looking friendly and curious like most horses did, he laid his ears back and reached out as if to take a nip.
Trish stopped and studied the animal. “Is he nasty mean or just a tease?”
Danielson grabbed the halter and rubbed the horse’s cheek. “Jiminy here is nothing but a big bluff. He thinks he’s tough, but—”
“He’s really a big softy,” Trish finished for him. She extended her palm with a piece of carrot in it. “We have one like him at home, but you have to watch out, because he’ll really nip you.” Trish reached up to scratch the horse’s ears and under the short mane.
“He’s been in the money twice but never won,” Danielson filled her in on the horse’s history. “Then he pulled a muscle, and is just coming back.” By this time the horse was saddled and Danielson gave Trish a leg up. “Take him half a circuit at a walk and then jog the rest.”
Trish kept up her usual stream of singsong chatter as they circled the track, and Jiminy settled into a ground-eating stride when she turned him to the left. He watched all the action around them as though a spectator instead of a participant. When Trish nudged him to a trot, he settled easily into the gait.
“We’re gonna have to light a fire under you, old man,” Trish muttered as she rode back to the barn. “I’ll see you this afternoon.” She slipped Jiminy another carrot chunk as soon as the groom removed the bridle.
“That’s a good way to make him your slave for life.” Danielson tipped his hat back, then ran a hand down the gelding’s shoulder and right foreleg. “Okay, take him away.” A woman took the lead and led the horse off to the hot walker.
“I need to meet another trainer,” Trish said as she and Danielson walked back to the office. “So if there’s nothing else, I’ll see you in the saddling paddock, third race.”
“Fine. And by the way, Tricia, don’t let some things you might hear get to you.” The twinkle in the man’s deep blue eyes told Trish he knew she’d overheard the earlier conversation.
Trish grinned back. “Thanks.”
She located the next trainer leaning on the fence watching the action on the track. By the time they’d met and talked, it was eight o’clock. His mare had been warmed up earlier. Trish checked her watch. She didn’t have a lot of time before she had to be back in the jockey room.
Praying on her way back to the hotel, Trish stopped to catch a fast-food breakfast, knowing the buffet at the hotel would be closed by now. “God, please help me to keep my mind on my work,” she prayed aloud, in case God could hear better that way.
In her room she reviewed the characters in War and Peace and read further. “These Russian names are gonna do me in,” she muttered. “How will I ever write a book report? I can’t pronounce the names, let alone spell them.”
When it was time to leave for the track, she stuffed the novel and her history book into her sports bag. She could resume study in the jockey room. On the drive out she tried to concentrate on getting geared up for the race. When thoughts of her father intruded, she gritted her teeth and did what he’d always told her to do: Stick in a Bible verse so the fear can’t take over. Finally, she resorted to a song. “He will raise you up on eagle’s wings, bear you…” Boy, did she ever need those eagle’s wings once again.
“Tricia, there’s a redheaded young man out here asking for you.” Frances Brown, keeper of the women’s jockey room, leaned against the door frame. Trish was camped on one of the beds, making it a study hall. “He seems to have a special interest in you.”
Trish couldn’t help but respond to the grin that crinkled Frances’s face clear up to her eyes. At the thought of Red, a fuzzy feeling warmed Trish’s middle. She marked her place in her history book and leaped off the bed. So much for good intentions to study.
“Hi, Trish—got time for a quick soda?” Red greeted her in one breath.
“Sure.” Trish smiled back at him. When they bumped shoulders walking into the rec room, she thought back to the time Red had held her hand at the movie. Would he hold it again? The thought sent a familiar flush up her neck. If only she didn’t blush so easily.
As soon as they took their sodas to a table and sat down, a couple of other jockeys joined them. It wasn’t long before Red was the center of the group. He seemed to draw attention wherever he went. Trish hid her smile behind her paper cup. It felt good to know he had come especially for her.
When Trish followed the other jockeys down the stairs and out to the saddling paddock for the third race, she felt the old familiar butterflies take a couple of practice leaps before beginning their regular show. By the time she fell into step with the trainer Danielson, they were in rare form. Trish swallowed hard. Settle down.
“Now, you can use that whip to keep old Jiminy’s mind on his business,” Danielson said as he gave Trish a leg up. “I like my horses to come from behind, but take advantage of that number two position. Don’t let him drift out.”
; Trish nodded, stuffing her reluctance to use a whip back where it belonged. All horses weren’t trained like those at Runnin’ On Farm.
Jiminy behaved like a veteran as he galloped out to the starting gate and walked in flat-footed. Trish tightened the reins, forcing him to center his weight on his haunches and prepare for the start.
As the gate clanged open, Jiminy leaped forward in perfect time. Ears pricked, he suddenly seemed to realize what he was supposed to be doing—racing.
“Yeah, that’s the way!” Trish shouted at him as they surged past the number one horse and took the rail. “Come on, come on, don’t be lazy now.” She kept a firm hold on his mouth so he couldn’t drift and bump into another horse. With only six furlongs to run, they couldn’t miss a beat.
Jiminy held his number one position through the turn and into the final stretch. When two other horses pulled up even with them, Trish went to the whip. Jiminy flattened his black ears and obeyed quickly. His stride lengthened, while heavy grunts matched the pounding of his feet.
One horse kept the pace and began to pull ahead.
Trish encouraged Jiminy again with her voice and the leather whip. Each stride brought the white columns closer. One more command screamed at the twitching ears and they flashed across the wire. They’d won by a nose.
That’ll show ’em, Trish thought as she accepted congratulations from the trainer and the owner. She recognized the owner as the man in the brown sweater that morning, the one who’d said she couldn’t ride anything but Spitfire.
She smiled for the cameras. This photo would go in a frame on her wall.
When she pulled a fourth place out of a field of ten in the seventh race, Trish didn’t feel too badly. The mare she rode tried to quit in the stretch but Trish had kept her running. That in itself was something to be proud of. She had shown her skill as a jockey again.
Besides, Sarah’s Pride, the filly her father had put claiming money on, had won. Runnin’ On Farm now owned a new horse. Trish followed David and Patrick as they led their new acquisition back to the barn.
“Ya done good, lass,” Patrick said. “Guess that’ll show ’em what you’re made of.”
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