Golden Filly Collection One

by Lauraine Snelling

  Trish strangled the receiver with her hand. Her throat clenched so tight she didn’t think she’d be able to talk. But her father’s welcome voice broke the dam for her.

  “It’s okay, Tee,” she finally heard him say. “Come on now, you’ll be all right. We’re coming, but I may not make it to the saddling paddock. Look for me in the winner’s circle.”

  “Dad, I’m so scared.”

  “I know. But it’s okay. Just go out there and ride. Go for the glory.”

  Trish sniffed and fumbled in her pocket for a tissue. “Thanks. I love you.”

  “I know that. And I love you too. See you soon.”

  What did her father mean by soon? The fifth race came and went. Trish began her pre-race routine. She sprayed her goggles, polished her boots, brushed her hair. She even added extra deodorant—she’d need it today for sure. Then she was down on the floor doing stretches.

  When the call came she was dressed and ready. “This is it, God. For your glory.” She walked out the door and over to the men’s jockey room to weigh in.

  “Mom and Dad are on their way,” David called, as Trish walked with the other jockeys down the incline to the saddling paddock.

  “I know. I talked to them.” Trish stepped in front of Spitfire and leaned her forehead against his. “Well, fella, can you run a mile and a half today? We gotta do it—for Dad.”

  The noise of the crowd receded. It was as though there were a crystal bell around Trish’s head. She could see what was going on, but the noise and the pressure were at bay. She was in a literal sea of peace.

  “You’ll do it, lass.” Patrick gave her a leg up at the call.

  With David and Patrick on either side, they followed the rest of the field up the incline and under the clubhouse.

  The last bugle notes of the parade to post hovered on the slight breeze as Trish picked up her pony rider on the edge of the track. The track was listed as fast, the sun warm but not hot.

  As they stepped onto the track, Trish heard her father’s voice in her mind: “Remember, you’re a winner. And winners never quit.” She leaned forward and stroked Spitfire’s neck.

  “They’re cheering for you,” she crooned, acknowledging the applause of the crowd. Then they were chanting, “Spitfire—Spitfire—Spitfire.”

  For one brief moment Trish wanted to turn and run. But she looked between Spitfire’s ears at the track ahead. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. The verse put steel in her spine. She squared her shoulders and let the thunder of the crowd set her blood to pumping. I can do all things.… They cantered back past the crowd toward the starting gates.

  Equinox was typically obnoxious. He didn’t get any better with another race. Trish shook her head. They’d never let a horse get away with that kind of behavior on their farm. Spitfire waited patiently for his turn. He entered the gate and settled for the break.

  The shot. The gate clanged open.

  “They’re off!”

  Spitfire broke clean and settled into an easy stride. He ran, head up, ears pricked, as if they were out for a joyride. He and Trish seemed of one mind as they let two others set the pace. Patrick had reminded Trish to lay back and let the others wear themselves out. The real race would begin after the mile marker.

  Trish loosened the reins. Spitfire snorted and flew past the third-place runner. He took the rail, two lengths behind the two dueling for the lead. Going into the turn it was Who Sez and Nomatterwhat, neck and neck. They pounded out of the turn and Who Sez faltered.

  Spitfire passed him as if the gray were standing still. Now it was Nomatterwhat and Spitfire, just like in the last two races. Only now Nomatterwhat led by two lengths.

  At the mile-and-a-quarter pole Trish crouched tight against Spitfire’s neck, making herself as small as possible to cut the wind. “Okay, fella, this is it,” she urged him forward. Her arms and legs lifted the horse onward. Stride for stride they gained on the lead.

  Trish could hear the stands going wild. Her heart thundered with Spitfire’s heaving grunts. Neck and neck for two strides and Spitfire began to pull away. Ahead by a nose, by a neck. Nomatterwhat disappeared from their view. They flashed across the finish line, ahead by a length. Trish raised her arm. Victory. Spitfire had won the Triple Crown!

  Tears made rivulets down Trish’s dusty face. “You did it! We did it!” She raised her face to the heavens. “Thank you, God. We did it!” She turned and cantered back to stand her horse in front of the clubhouse crowd.

  Applause rolled over them in waves. Spitfire stood, sides heaving but head up accepting the accolades like the king he was. Trish turned him toward the winner’s circle. She felt him falter, then walk carefully as though he were in pain.

  A crowd surged in and around the winner’s circle. Huge cameras eyed them from every angle. Trish searched the crowd, looking for only one face. When she couldn’t find her father, she started to dismount.

  “No, lass.” Patrick grabbed the reins.

  “You can’t fail him now,” David hissed at her. “Let’s just get through the ceremony.”

  Trish blinked back the tears and smiled at the Finleys and the Shipsons. She smiled when the cameramen asked her to, and raised her arms so they could drape the blanket of white carnations across her lap and Spitfire’s withers. She smiled again. Her cheeks felt as if they were cracked.

  As the cameras flashed again and the announcer began his spiel, Trish heard another voice. This one from the man she loved above all others—her father. “I have fought the good fight, Tee. I have won my race. Remember that I love you.”

  “Dad’s gone, isn’t he?” she asked David, searching for the truth in his eyes.

  David nodded and reached up to grasp her hand. “They got a message to us after the race had started.”

  Trish leaned against Spitfire’s neck, fighting the knife thrust of the awful reality. My father… She pushed herself upright. Teeth clenched against the tears streaming down her face, Trish turned to face the cameras. With his life and his love her father had taught her courage. She raised her arm, the victory salute.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My special thanks to Mel Howell, head of security for the Maryland Racing Commission, for sharing his fund of racing knowledge and his time with us at Pimlico. Thanks too to all those friendly people who answered my questions at Belmont and Aquaduct. All of you helped make our New York trip a special event.