Golden Filly Collection One

by Lauraine Snelling

  “So, what do you think?” David asked after stealing a peek at his watch.

  Trish concentrated. “Ummm—forty-nine and three.”

  “Wrong. Forty-nine and one,” David gloated. “You’re off by two tenths of a second.”

  “Your watch keeps getting more and more accurate, Tee.” Hal stroked Spitfire’s nose. “An accurate internal stopwatch is the one thing that sets great jockeys apart from the rest. Did you push him?”

  “Not really. But I can always tell the time easier on Spitfire. I s’pose it’s ’cause I know him so well.” She leaned forward to give Spitfire a hug. He tossed his head and flipped David’s Runnin’ On Farm hat off in the process. Trish giggled again. “See you guys at the barn before we get into any more trouble here.”

  Trish caught herself humming on the walk back to the barn. No matter how hard she tried, the melody broke through: “I will raise you up…” She rotated her shoulders to release some of the tension. If only she could be riding and racing all the time, without a moment to think about what was happening in the rest of her life.

  While the Evanstons were skipping most of the festivities of Preakness week, Thursday morning proved the exception. Trish and David finished up the chores quickly so they could join their parents and Patrick at the Sports Palace for the post position breakfast.

  “Mr. Finley!” Trish was surprised to see him.

  “It’s Adam, remember? It’s good to see you, Trish. You didn’t think we would miss this, did you?” Adam and his wife, Martha, circled the white-clothed table to give Trish a hug.

  “Hang in there,” Martha whispered in Trish’s ear.

  Trish felt the familiar burning behind her eyes. She blinked it back.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Shipson.” Trish shook hands with the owners of BlueMist Farms.

  “Congratulations on your riding,” the silver-haired Donald Shipson told her. “Spitfire looks magnificent.”

  “Thank you.”

  “My dear, you are a credit to women everywhere,” Bernice Shipson added in her soft Kentucky drawl. “We have a filly entered in tomorrow’s third we’d like you to ride.”

  “Be glad to,” Trish answered, smiling. This woman was easy to like. If Spitfire had to go to another farm, at least these people seemed like family.

  Trish caught Patrick’s nod of approval as she slid into the chair next to her father. He reached over and patted her hand, sending a warm glow all the way to her heart.

  Crystal chandeliers, plush carpet, beautiful table settings, all set off the richness of the Sports Palace. Here the wealthy came to play, but Trish didn’t feel out of place. Her family had earned their position here by right of excellence. Her gaze wandered to the gallery of oil portraits of jockeys who had won the Preakness. The display extended around the corners of the room. Would her picture join the elite one day?

  Trish could feel her butterflies trying out their wings as the drawing got under way. They were seventh on the list of nine.

  Nomatterwhat headed the list. The Steward drew number three. The numbers ninth, fifth, seventh, and eighth followed. Trish clenched her fists in her lap. Did they have to take so long between draws? A cheer went up. Equinox drew the post. The next number would be theirs.

  Hal draped his hand across the back of her chair and gripped Trish’s shoulder. She flashed him a quick smile and turned back to watch the draw.

  “Position number two. Spitfire, owned by Hal Evanston.” Between Equinox and Nomatterwhat, Trish thought. One’s a pain in the neck and the other our chief contender from the Derby.

  Trish dragged in a deep breath. At least they didn’t have as far to run this time. They could take the pole and just run the others into the ground.

  “That’ll be good,” Hal said. He nodded and patted Trish’s shoulder.

  As soon as the final two numbers were called, the crowd was on its feet, including the media. Several reporters gathered around the Evanstons, questions tumbling out. Trish listened with one ear while David slipped away. She couldn’t get away if she wanted to; her father stood, putting his hand on her shoulder.

  “What about your health, Mr. Evanston?” one of the reporters asked. “Could that keep you from running in the Belmont?”

  Hal smiled. “We have to win here first. I learned a long time ago to take one race at a time. In fact, to take one day at a time. You can’t live tomorrow until it comes. As to my health, I am in God’s hands. There is no safer place to be. I trust Him absolutely to do what is best for me and my family.”

  “And the colt—Tricia, you ride Spitfire every day. His leg any problem?”

  Trish lifted her chin and banished the tears that threatened at her father’s words. She squared her shoulders. “Spitfire’s in great shape. You know his time from yesterday, and there’s been no swelling for weeks now. We’re as ready as we can be.”

  “You’ll be retiring him to stud at BlueMist Farms then, right after the Belmont?”

  “That’s the plan, but we haven’t put a timetable on it yet,” Hal answered.

  Trish felt her father leaning more of his weight on the hand that rested on her shoulder. She glanced at her mother. Marge nodded, acknowledging that she knew what was happening.

  Trish took a deep breath. “That’s enough for today, folks. You know that we’ll be around if you have more questions later. Thank you very much.” She slipped her arm around her father’s waist.

  As the reporters left to search for other stories, Trish pulled out a chair with one hand and eased her father into it with the other.

  “You did just fine, lass,” Patrick spoke in her ear so only she heard him. “Good timing.”

  Trish stood with her hand on her father’s shoulder while he talked with the Finleys and Shipsons. Marge had taken the chair beside him. Trish could feel her father’s weariness under her hand. She wanted to throw both arms around him, to give him her strength, to fight off the disease that was causing him pain.

  You’ve got guts, Dad, she wanted to tell him. When you believe in something you both walk it and talk it. Standing up there like that announcing your faith to the world—and this isn’t the first time. She thought back to the ceremonies after the Derby. He’d given God the glory then too.

  On the way back to the barns Trish heard an argument going on in her head again. One side demanded she stay mad at God. The other insisted she needed all the strength only her heavenly Father could give her. And the courage her father had.

  Courage. Guts. Peace. Her father had it all.

  Trish had a lot of anger. And resentment.

  She slipped into Spitfire’s stall and slid down to sit in the straw in the corner. Spitfire nuzzled her hair, then cocked his back leg and dozed off again.

  Trish crossed her arms over her bent knees and rested her forehead on her arms. She tried to pray, but the ceiling here seemed as tight as the hotel’s. Why wasn’t God hearing her?

  You’re still angry, her little voice slipped in now that things were quiet. Tell Him about that.

  “So, God, I’m angry. I’m so mad I don’t even want to talk with you. I just want to scream and pound things. I want to run away from all these problems and have them all better when I come back.” Tears slipped down her cheeks and clogged her throat. “You can heal my Dad. I know you can. So why is he worse? I don’t understand.”

  Spitfire wuffled in Trish’s ear. When she raised her face, he licked the tears off her cheek. “Spitfire, I just don’t understand.” She rubbed the soft spot between his nostrils. “I don’t know what to do. How can I have the courage my father has?”

  She pulled a piece of hay out of the sling and chewed on it. “Do you think God’s gonna help me?” She pulled the horse’s head down lower so she could rub under his forelock. Spitfire closed his eyes in bliss. “Sometimes I don’t much like God, you know.”

  She chewed some more. “Do you think Dad…no—” She shook her head. “I haven’t been very nice to him lately—to anyone.” She tilted her head
back and stared at the ceiling. Spitfire blew softly on her face and licked away another tear.

  “One day at a time. That’s all I gotta take.” Trish drew circles on her knees with a fingernail. “Huh, one minute at a time is more like it.

  ” She sat silently for a while. Spitfire dozed off again. “Jesus, please help me. I need you so badly.” Her nose ran and then her eyes. She wiped them on her sleeve. But this time, bit by bit, the peace she needed so desperately slipped into the stall and snuggled around her shoulders—and into the corners of her mind.

  Patrick found Trish sometime later—curled up in the straw, sound asleep.

  The peace stayed with her all day and through the night. When her nagger tried to get on her case in the morning, she just shook her head and shut him down.

  “Better today?” Patrick asked as he boosted Trish into the saddle for morning works.

  She smiled down at him. “Better.”

  That afternoon she met the Shipsons and their trainer in the saddling paddock. Their filly sniffed Trish’s outstretched hand and up her arm to her head and shoulders. When she finished her inspection, Trish gave her a chunk of carrot and rubbed the satiny bay cheek.

  “You’re a pretty nice girl, aren’t you?” Trish murmured in the filly’s ear. “You think we can take this race? I do.”

  “She’s in top condition,” the trainer said. “Watch her, because she likes to set the pace and can run herself out. She placed at the Oaks; should have won it.”

  “Riders up!”

  Mr. Shipson grasped Trish’s knee and tossed her into the saddle. “She likes distance. I think the two of you will be a good match.”

  The blood-bay filly danced behind the lead pony. Head high, ears catching every sound, she listened to Trish’s crooning and acknowledged the applause from the stands.

  “You’re a natural ham, aren’t you?” Trish chuckled as the filly gave an extra bounce. On the canter back to the starting gates, the filly kept the pace with her lead pony, hoarding her strength for the race ahead.

  “Good girl.” Trish stroked the black mane and sleek red neck as they stood quietly in the gate waiting for the others to calm down. Trish gathered her reins and settled into the saddle.

  The filly broke clean and fast. She had the post in three strides because the number one horse missed a beat at the gate. They had the lead going into the turn and there never was a serious contender. They won by three lengths.

  “I don’t know what happened to the rest of them,” Trish said as she met the Shipsons in front of the winner’s circle. “We just went for a fast ride all by ourselves.”

  “I said I thought the two of you would click,” Shipson said as he led the filly into the winner’s circle next to the grandstand.

  After pictures, Trish looked across the heads of the crowd to the yellow and white building in the infield with the horse-and-jockey weather vane. That’s for tomorrow, she thought as she leaped to the ground. Spitfire and me. We’ll take the Preakness—for my dad.

  Chapter

  09

  How can a morning like this feel so normal? Trish thought as she trotted Spitfire around the track. The rising sun had already burned off most of the fog. A wisp or two clung to the weather vane above the infield cupola at the winner’s circle.

  “Today’s a big one,” she announced as they passed the grandstand. “Middle jewel in the Triple Crown. You ready?” Spitfire snorted and jigged sideways. He tossed his head and pulled at the bit. “No, no running now. You save it all for the last sixteenth of a mile. That’s when it counts.”

  Trish looked up at the grandstand with spotters already clinging to the fence. The yellow and black band underneath the glassed-in stands glowed in the morning sun. Each box logged two years, and the name of the Preakness winner for that year. Trish closed her eyes for a moment to picture Spitfire in big letters. Black on yellow.

  “We can do it, fella. We can.” They turned off the track and walked the easy rise to the stakes barn.

  “How’s the lad?” Patrick asked when Trish dismounted.

  “Ready.”

  “And the lass?” His grin crinkled his eyes.

  “No butterflies.” Trish laid a hand on her middle. “Hey, you guys sleepin’ in there or what?” She stuck her tongue in her cheek and cocked her head. “Guess they are. How nice.”

  “Good. You just keep calm. The filly here is ready for a long gallop. Work some of the sass out of her.”

  By the time they returned, Trish could feel the work. Sarah’s Pride had tried to pull Trish’s arms right out of their sockets—all the way. When Trish forced the filly down to a trot, the pace had pounded like a pile driver. The kid just wouldn’t settle down and go easy.

  “She can be a real handful,” Trish said, rubbing her arms. “If we can get her to quit wasting her energy on nothing, we should have a winner.” She stood in front of the steaming chestnut and looked the horse right in the eyes. “Shoulda called you Ain’t Behavin’ or some such. Whoever trained you—” She shook her head. “Well, they didn’t do us any favors.”

  Sarah’s Pride rubbed her forehead on Trish’s chest. Tired, she needed some loving, not a scolding. Trish obliged as David and Patrick washed the horse down and scraped her dry.

  As Trish thought ahead to the big event, her butterflies awoke and took an experimental flutter, as though warming up for the big one.

  Hal joined them for breakfast. “How you doing this morning?” he asked Trish as they set their trays down at the formica table.

  “Pretty good, actually,” Trish answered. “Maybe I’m getting used to this or something.” She spread strawberry jam on her toast. “What about you?”

  “Other than three reporters already this morning, everything’s fine.” They shared a smile, then Trish heard a voice behind her:

  “Excuse me. Tricia Evanston? May I ask you a question or two?”

  Trish groaned but smiled as she turned around to face the reporter. “Sure. Be glad to.”

  To the first question Trish answered, “How do I feel this morning? Excited. Spitfire and me—we’re ready. If all goes as it should, we’ll have a real good race today.”

  “Boy, if you aren’t getting the words down smooth.” David poked her shoulder as he sat down beside her after the reporter had left.

  “As they say, Davey boy, practice makes perfect.” Trish sipped her apple juice.

  “Naw, there’s a new way to say that. Perfect practice makes perfect. And my sister is not perfect.”

  “Well,” Hal added, “you have to admit she’s been getting lots of practice.”

  “Yeah, but at what?”

  Trish basked in the comfortable teasing pattern. If she didn’t look at the lines on her father’s face, she could pretend everything was all right.

  But it isn’t, her little nagger got his digs in. So don’t try to pretend. You’re a big girl now; accept life as it is. The butterflies seemed to agree as they took flying leaps, clear up into her throat.

  Trish sighed. But instead of letting her shoulders droop, she straightened up.

  “You okay?” Hal whispered.

  Trish nodded. She swallowed the flutter in her throat. “Just my friends here.” She patted her middle. “Guess they didn’t want to miss the action after all.”

  She checked into the jockey room, armed with her schoolbooks. A wistful thought took her back to Churchill Downs and the women’s jockey room there. Here there weren’t even windows. She felt as if she were in a box. The only contacts with the outside were the monitor and an intercom so she could hear the calls.

  Trish settled into a chair and pulled out her assignment list. Only three things left to check off. Her history paper only needed a final draft, so she started on that. Copying didn’t take a whole lot of concentration.

  As the day’s program flashed on the screen, Trish could hear the roar of the spectators. They’d already announced a record crowd for this running of the Preakness.

  At rac
e six, Trish put away her books and began to get ready. She polished her boots and sprayed her goggles, layering them on her helmet. Stretching took another fifteen minutes as she went through her routine, feeling the pull in each muscle with the hamstring stretches and curls. Lying back on the floor, breathing deeply, she closed her eyes. “Jesus,” she prayed, “we both know this is a biggie. Help us do our best. But most important, make my dad stronger. Fight off the cancer for him. And like him, help me to give you the glory. Amen.”

  An arm over her eyes, Trish lay there. The same peace she’d found in Spitfire’s stall was like a pillow under her now. God had heard her. She knew that for certain. And He cared.

  At the call, she checked her appearance in the mirror. Spotless white pants, black boots, crimson and gold silks, and around her neck—an etched cross on a fine gold chain. She fingered the cross. It would have been nice to have Red here. One more friend to miss. Like Rhonda and Brad. She laughed at her reflection in the mirror. And then again, maybe not exactly like Rhonda and Brad. She saluted the mirror image and left the room, carefully closing the door behind her.

  Once weighed in, she joined the other jockeys waiting for the call to go down to the horses. “Good luck,” one of the men said.

  “You too.” At the call, Trish followed them down the stairs and out across the dirt track to the turf course. Only during the running of the Preakness were the horses saddled in the infield. Yellow poles designated the spot for each entry. Spitfire waited by post two.

  He nickered when he saw Trish.

  “Missed me, did you?” She smoothed his forelock and rubbed his ears.

  “We’re praying for you,” Hal whispered in Trish’s ear as he hugged her.

  David swallowed before he could speak. “Go for the glory.”

  Patrick waited beside the colt’s shoulder. Trish started to shake his hand, but instead threw her arms around his neck and hugged him hard. “You’ll do it, lass.” She raised her leg to meet his waiting hands, and with a smooth, swift motion, settled into the saddle. When she looked down, she could see his eyes were suspiciously bright.