Golden Filly Collection Two

by Lauraine Snelling

  “Keep your mind on what you’re doing,” Red ordered the fractious filly as he pulled her down to a walk again. “You just can’t seem to understand jog, can you?” The horse shook its head.

  Trish felt a small grin turn up the corners of her mouth. If only they could ride like this forever. Their return to the barn came much too quickly.

  “I’ll see you on Friday night then?” Trish studied her boot rather than look Patrick in the face.

  “How about Saturday morning? You’ll be gettin’ in too late to make a stop by here.”

  “Yeah, I keep forgetting the time change.” She drew circles in the sand with her boot. “Ahhh, take good care of him, okay?”

  Patrick nodded. “You needn’t worry. Red here will work the girl, and Spitfire and I can walk for miles round and round.”

  “Come on, Trish,” David interrupted. “We gotta get going.”

  Trish rubbed Spitfire’s nose one more time. “See ya, fella.” The colt nickered as she followed David down the aisle. Red fell into step beside her. He took her hand and squeezed it.

  Their footsteps lagged.

  “I’ll still be here when you get back, you know.”

  “Really? I thought maybe Patrick was making that up.” Trish felt a little flutter of what could only be called joy. “I thought—I hoped—I, uh, thought I’d see you in Kentucky at least.”

  “I’m riding back in your van, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Okay? That’s great. But aren’t you missing out on a lot of mounts?”

  Red shrugged. “There’ll be others. Being with you is more important right now.”

  Trish felt the now familiar burning behind her eyes. “Thanks.” The word croaked around the lump stuck in her throat.

  David already had the car running when they caught up to him.

  “See you Saturday then?” Trish chewed her lip.

  When Red put both arms around her, Trish leaned against him. “I wish I could help you, Tee.” His breath stirred the wisps of hair around her ear.

  Trish couldn’t answer. The lump was still there. What can I say, anyway? No one can help. She wrapped both arms around his waist in answer. Her internal drum started thumping again. Just get through.

  Red lifted her chin with one finger so his lips could find hers. The kiss was gentle, soft.

  Trish pulled away. “Sorry.” She swallowed other words she wanted to say. Please understand. How could she tell Red that she couldn’t handle nice-and-gentle right now? Not and get through. Instead, she squeezed his hand and turned to fumble with the door handle of the car.

  With one hand on her shoulder as if to hold her to him, Red opened the door with his right. Trish felt a second kiss on her ear as she slipped into the car.

  “Take care now.” Red gently closed the car door and thumped on the glass.

  As they drove away, Trish forced herself not to look back. Even so, one tear sneaked by her control and slid down her cheek. She felt David’s gaze when he stopped for a red light. But instead of answering his unspoken question, she huddled tighter in the corner. So many good-byes.

  Trish worked her way back to the small end of the telescope as she packed her suitcase. When she cleaned off the closet shelf, she saw that the eagle was gone.

  “Mom…” She started to ask what happened to it, but stopped herself. Who cares? It’s just a wooden bird.

  Trish slept most of the flight home, mumbling a refusal when the flight attendant asked her food preference. She vaguely heard her mother do the same. Thanks to a half-full flight, Trish was able to lie down.

  “Approaching Portland International.” The pilot’s voice worked like an alarm.

  Trish sat up, clutching the gray blanket around her shoulders. David had stretched out too, and was still asleep.

  “Have we passed Mount Hood?” Trish asked. She felt too groggy to crawl over to the window seat to look out.

  Marge raised her head from her hand and nodded. Trish could tell she’d been crying again. Pain for her mother briefly replaced her own. How would any of them manage without her father? She closed her mind against the thought of the days, months, and years ahead.

  When the seat belt light went off, Trish pulled one bag from under the seat and waited for David to retrieve another from the overhead bins. Adam and Martha Finley led the way off the plane.

  Staggering up the ramp, Trish caught a glimpse of Rhonda. Brad Williams, the other member of the four musketeers, was right behind her. Their faces must mirror my own, she thought. Sad, afraid to smile. For her it was the fear she’d never smile again.

  “Oh, Trish,” Rhonda whispered as she hugged her friend. “I can’t believe this has really happened. Are you okay?” Rhonda wiped her tears away with the heels of her hands. “I can’t seem to quit crying.”

  Trish just nodded as she felt her friends’ arms wrap around her. Brad had included David in the community hug. What’s to say? What does okay mean anymore? She felt the tears coming and pulled away. Closeness to anyone always brought the tears on. And if she started crying, she was afraid she’d never stop.

  “Please, I…”

  Rhonda studied Trish’s face and nodded. They were the kind of friends who didn’t need to finish sentences.

  The pain hit Trish afresh. Theirs was like the relationship she’d had with her father. He’d been able to read her mind too. Was everything going to remind her of him? She felt as if she were running through a maze with no way out.

  Brad slung Trish’s pack over his shoulder and Rhonda picked up Trish’s sports bag. She dropped it again to blow her nose.

  “Come on,” Brad said to Trish. “The van’s in the short-term lot. David, if you want to head down for the rest of your luggage, we’ll bring the van around. You coming, Tee?”

  Trish turned to her mother and the Finleys. Marge nodded. “Adam, Martha, meet Brad Williams and Rhonda Seabolt. They’re like our own kids.” Turning to the young people, she said, “Kids, I know you’ve heard of the Finleys. They’ve helped us beyond measure.”

  Adam shook Brad’s hand. “Glad to meet you. We’ll pick up our car, then, and follow you.”

  Trish watched as if from the other end of her telescope. It all seemed so pointless. She followed her friends, not really joining in on the conversation but making the right responses. Still, the drive from the parking lot to the baggage claim was silent. Trish stared out the window. It had started to rain. How appropriate.

  Trish kept her distance for the next two days. The funeral would be on Thursday. The only time it seemed bearable was when she was down at the barn. Her nearly year-old filly, Miss Tee, took some time to adjust to Trish’s return.

  “You’ve grown so much.” Trish stroked the little filly’s ears. “You’re not really a baby anymore.” She smoothed the golden mane that was turning from brush to full length. Miss Tee sniffed Trish’s hair and nibbled at her fingers. Trish dug in her pocket for another carrot. “Here; all you want are treats. We’re gonna have to start working with you pretty soon. Has Brad been leading you around?” The filly shook her head and sniffed for another carrot.

  Trish rubbed the tender spot between the filly’s ears. She leaned on the fence and watched four-month-old Double Diamond race across the field. At the filly’s snort, Trish released the halter and smiled as her namesake dashed after the colt and kicked up her heels. They really looked good, both of them. It seemed as if she’d been away from home for years, not intermittent weeks. She’d been gone most of May and half of June.

  When Trish wandered out in the field where the racing stock pastured, she nearly lost it with old gray Dan’l. He trotted up as soon as she whistled, nickering his welcome and rubbing his forehead on her chest. He’d been her track tutor for the last few years, hers and most of the young stock. They used the old race horse to help train the new racers. He always set a calm example on the three-quarter-mile track at the farm and in the starting gates.

  Trish scratched his cheek and fed him another
carrot. At least with the horses she didn’t have to try to talk. Even with all the guests coming and going, the house seemed empty. If only she could pretend that her father was at the hospital as he’d been for those weeks last fall. But it was easier not to think about him at all. Not to look for him in the next stall. Not to remember his funny whistle as he worked with the horses. Not to—she fiercely shut her mind down again. It was like slamming a heavy truck door, one that had to stay shut.

  Rhonda and Brad dropped by after school. Trish levered herself off her bed and dogtailed Rhonda back to the kitchen, where Martha Finley had baked chocolate chip cookies. The four teenagers took theirs back into the living room, where Adam had a fire going to chase the chill of a drizzly, windy afternoon.

  “It’s my California blood,” he said, warming his backside in front of the blaze. “I don’t do well in this dampness.”

  Trish crumbled her cookie and stared into the leaping flames. Talking took too much effort.

  “We miss you at school,” Rhonda ventured.

  “Mmmm.”

  “I miss you.”

  Trish turned her head to look at Rhonda. “Me too.”

  “You coming back for finals?”

  “I guess.”

  Brad and Rhonda left soon after that. They and their families would join everyone at church for the memorial service.

  That evening, Trish heard her mother on the phone with her grandparents in Florida.

  “Why don’t you come out later this summer instead?” Marge said. “Then we can really have some time together. You know how I feel about traveling long distances to attend funerals.”

  Marge listened for a while. “But, Mother…No, please, stay there and come when Daddy is feeling better. Yes, I’ll call you soon. No, I’m as good as can be expected, I guess. God will get me through this. I can sense Him taking care of all of us.”

  Trish snorted and shook her head. She wanted to shake her mother. God was taking care of them? Right!

  Wednesday afternoon, Pastor Mort found Trish down in the barn cleaning tack. Everything had gotten dusty while they’d been gone, so she set to work. It helped when there was something to do. The only other way to forget was to sleep. Pastor Mort sat down beside her on a bale of straw.

  Trish greeted him with a nod, and kept on rubbing the saddle seat. She scrubbed her rag in the can of saddle soap and began another circle.

  “I’ll get right to the point, Trish. It would help if you would talk about both your father and your feelings. Your mother says you’ve pretty much walled yourself away from everyone.”

  Trish didn’t flinch, her eyes riveted on the saddle. Her hand trembled a bit as she turned the leather to work on the other side. The silence between the two deepened, stretching like a rubber band pulled taut and about to snap.

  Then Pastor Mort picked up a rag and dipped it in the saddle soap. He started on the bridle on the floor between them, rubbing the leather in smooth strokes.

  Trish looked at him in surprise.

  He smiled. “I had horses when I was young. You never forget how to clean tack.” The rubber band relaxed.

  Trish felt her shoulders slump. She hadn’t realized how tense she was. If he didn’t leave soon…She bit her lip till the pain forced back the tears.

  “Trish, I know how much you hurt inside. You and your dad had a really special relationship. Anyone could see that. And I know you must be so angry you want to tear things up.” His voice floated through the telescope, encouraging Trish to close up the distance and talk with him.

  “That’s one of the problems with our society. We never allow people to grieve. I know you’ve all been grieving for a long time—a prolonged illness causes that in a family. Now you feel like God has let you down entirely; am I right?”

  “He did!” The words exploded from the deep canyon of Trish’s heart. She clamped her teeth on her lip, knowing if she said any more she’d fly apart into a million pieces and no one would ever be able to put her back together.

  “It may seem that way, Trish. And I don’t have any easy answers for you either. All I can say is that in spite of what we think and feel, God is in control. He loves us more than we can imagine, and promises to get us through times just like this.”

  Trish glared at the bald spot on the man’s head as he bent over to smear more soap on his rag. Another one of His promises? God doesn’t live up to His promises, she wanted to scream. “My dad said something like…” The pain tore into her subconscious mind and clamped off her words. She could not think about her dad, about all the things he had said and taught her.

  She took a deep breath, but thought she would choke on the lump in her throat. “Whatever…” she croaked, and the fury she felt was stuffed down further than ever.

  The next day, Trish awoke promising herself she would not cry at the funeral. That was after she’d punched and turned her damp pillow a few times. The tears she dammed up during the day spilled over at night.

  She spent as much time as she dared down with the horses. David finally came and got her. “You’re going to be late.”

  Trish glared at him. Swallowing her Who cares? she followed him back to the house. After jerking a brush through her hair and changing clothes, she joined her mother and the Finleys as they walked silently out to the waiting cars.

  The silence enfolded Trish as she huddled in the backseat. Sixteen-year-old kids shouldn’t have to go to their father’s funeral.

  Chapter

  04

  Night mares are hobbyhorses compared to this.

  Cars filled the church parking lot and down the streets. Trish watched people walk up the front steps of the church from the safety of her backseat. Her mother and David had already gone inside. Come on, you can’t just hide out here. You have to go in. Her little nagger was beginning to sound desperate.

  Trish bit at her lip again. Why did inflicting pain on herself seem to help? She rolled down the window to let in some fresh air. The glass had steamed up. Breathing in the cold, damp air didn’t help. Nothing seemed to help.

  Get out, you chicken! she told herself in no uncertain terms. You managed to get to the hospital; you can walk yourself inside the church. You’ll get through this. You have to. The sight of David coming out the side door of the cedar-sided building and striding purposefully toward the car was all the force she needed.

  She stepped out quickly, shut the car door behind her, and followed her brother inside. Organ music swelled and filled the church. It reminded Trish of the family conference Pastor Mort had with them the night before. He said the service would be a celebration. Hal had wanted it that way.

  In fact, Hal had planned the entire service—another reason Trish didn’t want to be there. Her father had made a list of his favorite hymns and Bible verses. He’d asked that there be few flowers, preferring memorials to the jockey fund. He wanted everyone to remember and rejoice that he’d gone home. His race was finished.

  But Trish couldn’t rejoice. She stood behind her mother as Marge greeted the last of the families that had come to remember Hal.

  Then she joined her family and the Finleys in the front pew. Rhonda was right behind her and squeezed Trish’s shoulder. “You okay?” her eyes asked around the tears. Trish shook her head. She’d never be okay again.

  That evening, Trish couldn’t have told anyone about the funeral. She’d literally checked out. Her body was present, but not her mind. Her lip was raw and red, her head pounded, and her eyes burned from unshed tears. But she’d gotten through.

  Long before dark, Marge offered Trish a pain pill and a sleeping pill. She took them without a second thought, and climbed into bed exhausted. Falling asleep was like tumbling down a long, dark tunnel. At the end she felt nothing.

  Trish awoke early Friday morning. Her mouth felt like cotton balls and her head still pounded. Her eyes wouldn’t focus. Everything looked about as blurry as she felt. She staggered to the bathroom, guzzled a glass of water, and stumbled back into be
d—back down the tunnel to oblivion.

  It seemed only moments later when she heard her mother calling her name, felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder. “Trish, Trish. You need to get ready for your flight. The plane to New York leaves in an hour and a half. I let you sleep as long as I dared.”

  Trish rubbed the sleep from her eyes and pushed herself into a sitting position. She crossed her legs and held her head. It still throbbed, but not as bad as last night.

  “Are you sure you’re up to this?” Marge sat down on the edge of the bed and brushed a lock of hair from Trish’s cheek. She tilted her daughter’s chin with one finger so she could look into her eyes. “You know, you don’t have to be superwoman. You could stay here and let David go.”

  Trish shook her head. “No. Every time they’ve tried moving Spitfire without me, there’s trouble.” She swallowed, but her throat was so dry it hurt. “Could you please get me a glass of water? I feel…” She shook her head. Lousy, rotten, the pits—none of those began to describe how she really felt. Miserable, sick, lost. The hole was too black and too deep to describe.

  Marge patted Trish’s knee. “I’ll be right back.”

  Trish gulped the water down and asked for more. This time she forced herself out of bed and began pulling clothes out of the drawers to throw into her bag. She would only be gone three days—she didn’t need much.

  “You get a shower so you can navigate—I’ll pack that.” Marge handed her daughter the second glass of water. Trish sipped as she stared around the room. Where are my boots?

  As she studied the room, her glance fell on the Bible verses pinned to the wall. Most of the three-by-five cards were in her father’s handwriting. She looked away quickly. Yeah, right. The thoughts snarled like caged tigers in her mind. Dad believed all those promises and what did it get him? She kept her gaze straight ahead and stomped to the bathroom. The only way was to keep those thoughts at the other end of the telescope. She was getting pretty good at that.