Golden Filly Collection Two

by Lauraine Snelling

  But even the sound of the shower failed to drown out a voice that whispered, He got heaven. That’s the point. Trish gritted her teeth. Back in her room, she ripped the cards off the wall and dumped them in the wastebasket, careful not to read any of the words.

  “Be careful.” Marge hugged her daughter just before she and Adam Finley boarded the plane at Portland International Airport.

  Trish nodded. She forced herself to return the hug. That old burning started in the back of her throat. If only everyone would leave her alone. No talking, no touching. She made the mistake of looking into her mother’s tear-filled eyes.

  “I—” Trish swallowed—hard. She had to. The burning had turned to fire that made her eyes water. “We’ll call you tonight. Now, don’t worry. You know we’ll be all right.”

  She heard her mother’s “God keep you,” then slammed the telescope to full length. Sure, just like He kept Dad, right? She snorted in disgust.

  Adam wisely refrained from commenting on the thunderclouds that furrowed Trish’s brow. He just handed their tickets to the young man at the gate and walked down the ramp beside her.

  As soon as they were airborne, Trish flipped her seat back and curled under the blanket. This time the plane was full so she couldn’t stretch out. It didn’t matter. She slipped back into that blessed long black tunnel where pain and sorrow didn’t exist.

  Adam woke her when the plane began its approach to John F. Kennedy Airport on Long Island. How come I always wake up with a raging thirst? This time she’d have to wait until they landed before she could get a drink of water.

  “You okay?” Adam asked.

  Trish nodded. She snapped her seat upright at the request of the flight attendant. Getting oriented sounded simple, but her brain refused to function. She didn’t just need a drink of water, she needed a bucket of water poured over her head.

  By the time they arrived at the car rental office, Trish was getting impatient to see Spitfire. How could people be so slow? Getting a car in New York took longer than anywhere else she’d ever been. She took a long drink of the Diet Coke she’d bought at the first snack bar. Would the line ever move? She wasn’t the only one getting frustrated. Two businessmen behind them expressed their sentiments in language that fit the situation.

  When they finally got the car, the traffic on the beltway crawled along like a vast ribbon of parking lot. Trish slumped in her seat.

  “It’s too late to go to the track tonight.” Adam glanced at his watch. “We’d be better off just checking in to the hotel and getting something to eat.”

  “I really wanted to see Spitfire first.” Trish couldn’t help voicing her desire.

  “I know. We’re still on Pacific time, but it’s later here. Can you wait till morning?” Trish nodded. Nothing ever seemed to go right anymore. “You hungry?”

  “I don’t think so.” She did a body check. Food just didn’t seem necessary.

  “You didn’t eat on the plane.” Adam tapped his brakes again when the taillights in front of them flashed red.

  “I know.” Will this drive never end? Trish knew she was being rude, but she couldn’t seem to think of anything to say. It was easier to retreat to the other end of her telescope.

  By the time she fell onto her hotel bed, the pounding headache had returned. She dug in her case for some pain pills and slugged two of them down. The face in the mirror seemed to have lost all life and color. The circles under her eyes were getting blacker. She poured a glass of water to leave on the nightstand and flicked off the light. If only it were that easy to flick off all that had happened.

  In the morning, Trish braided her hair and brushed her teeth without looking in the mirror. Who needed reminders of how bad she looked?

  “The horse van will be ready at seven,” Adam said when he knocked on her door. “I’m checking out now. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  “Okay.” Trish finished stuffing her things into the bag and checked the bathroom again. She switched off the lights as she left the room.

  The sun was just pinking the eastern sky as they approached gate six at Belmont Park. The guard waved them through when Adam flashed his identification. The huge elm trees were still the same. Early morning track sounds hadn’t changed. Horses whinnied. Someone was whistling as he walked a horse across the road. Someone else laughed. Only Trish’s world had changed. She clamped down on the thought. No, her father wouldn’t be back. The old litany started again. Just get through!

  She greeted Patrick and sidestepped the hug he offered. Hugs were off limits. Spitfire was nearly her undoing. His familiar nicker and bobbing black head revealed his joy at seeing her. Trish wrapped both arms around the horse’s neck and buried her face in his mane. One tear forced its way through her clenched eyelids. She hung on for dear life.

  Spitfire raised his head and nibbled on her braid. When that didn’t get her attention, he blew in her ear. Trish reached up to scratch behind his ears and down his cheek. His silent whuffle thanked her.

  “How you been?” Trish whispered in his ear. Spitfire nodded and nosed her pocket for his carrot. “You miss me?” The black colt nodded again and rubbed his forehead against her chest. “Hasn’t Patrick been treating you right?” Spitfire snorted.

  “Sounds to me like you two carry on a pretty good conversation.”

  Trish spun around at the sound of the familiar voice. “Red!” She flung herself into his arms before she had time to think. Red held her close and pressed a kiss on her hair.

  “How you doin’?” His whisper brushed the wisps of hair around her ear.

  Trish just shook her head. She knew she had to get away from him before the tears started, but for a moment longer she clung to his embrace. Reluctantly, she pushed back and ducked under Spitfire’s neck. If she bit her lip hard enough the tears retreated. Forced back by sheer force of will, again. She was getting better at this.

  “You want to take Sarah’s Pride while I ride Spitfire? I’m sure she’s ready for a run.” She reached for the bridle Patrick handed to her. “How’s she been doing?”

  She could feel Red’s stare boring holes into her back. How could she tell him that hugs and kind words were too much, even from him?

  Chapter

  05

  Trish felt as if she were caught in a time warp.

  Red whistled a popular tune as he rode beside her out to the track. Both the horses picked up the pace as they neared the mile-and-a-half oval. Cicadas chirped their way into the morning chorus as the sun hit the elm trees. The fragrance of the air was a combination of horse, freshly mown grass, and summer.

  Nothing had changed. If Trish closed her eyes and pretended…She shook her head. No pretending, even if it did feel good.

  She studied the space between Spitfire’s ears. Everything had changed. She and Spitfire had run their last race. She bit down hard on her lip.

  “What is it?” Red asked.

  “Ummm, I was just thinking of the Breeder’s Cup in October. Do you think we could run in it?”

  “We?”

  “Spitfire and me.”

  Red shook his head. “I wouldn’t count on it. He’s too valuable for stud now. The syndicate would never agree.”

  “I always thought he would be my horse. I mean, I knew he was good, and winning the Kentucky Derby and then the Triple Crown was a dream come true, but I never thought—” She squeezed her knees and Spitfire broke into a slow gallop.

  “Thought what?” Sarah’s Pride kept pace, snorting and fighting the bit to go faster. She surged ahead until Red pulled her back down.

  Trish focused on the horses in front of them.

  “Thought what, Trish? What were you thinking?”

  “I never thought I would have to give him up…have to live halfway across the country from him.” She raised her voice to be heard above a horse grunting a hard gallop past them.

  “You could always come and race in Kentucky.”

  “I thought about that.” She pulled Spitfi
re back down to a walk. “But I have to finish high school first. My mom would never let me go now.”

  “Knock it off, horse.” Red tightened his reins to keep the filly from chasing after another fast-working animal.

  “You think she’s ever gonna learn some manners?” Trish grabbed on to another topic. Racing and her mother were too close to home.

  “Yeah, well, I tried. Now you get her. I’ll watch for her name in the newspapers.” Together they walked out the gate and down the narrow paved road to barn 12.

  With Patrick and Adam helping, they quickly had both horses washed, walked, and ready to load. The van arrived promptly at seven, just as they were all returning from the track kitchen and breakfast. Both horses walked up into the van without even a snort of temper or fear, much to Trish’s surprise. Maybe Sarah’s Pride was learning something after all.

  “Trish, you and Red ride in the van, and Patrick and I’ll drive the car, okay?” Adam looked up in time to catch the grin on Red’s face. “Any problem with that?”

  Red shook his head. “Nope.” He grabbed Trish’s hand and raised it with his. “Those horses may need these hands. We gotta be prepared.”

  When Red didn’t let go of her hand, Trish tried to pull it away without being too obvious, but Red turned toward the van with her in tow. “Y’all drive safely now, ya hear?” Red waved with his free hand before opening the cab door for Trish.

  The cicadas turned up the volume of their good-bye chorus as the van pulled out onto the street and headed for the Cross Island expressway. They were on their way south, to Spitfire’s new home.

  Trish pulled out her internal telescope and flipped to the large end. Maybe that way she could ignore the friendly conversation between Red and John Stokes, the van driver. And maybe if she concentrated hard enough she could sleep most of the trip. Maybe the moon was made of green cheese too.

  Red was not easy to ignore.

  Trish leaned her head back against the seat and instructed her muscles to relax. She concentrated on her hands, arms, legs, feet, willing each to relax.

  Red told a joke and both men laughed. Trish felt herself smile. Red did tell a good story.

  Back to relaxing. Trish felt warm and a bit floaty. Red’s next story depended on his southern drawl for the punch line. He drew it out perfectly. A giggle started somewhere down about Trish’s heels and bubbled its way up. She bit it back, but when Stokes came up with a topper she couldn’t help it. The giggle escaped.

  Red took her hand in his and stroked her fingers. She felt his smile and encouragement clear back down where that giggle had started. When she leaned back again, his arm cushioned her head.

  His next joke was even more outrageous.

  “You two trying to develop a comedy act or something?” she finally asked. “I think you could go on stage right now.”

  “Really?” Red drawled, wriggling his eyebrows like Groucho Marx.

  Trish shook her head. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

  “Crazy about yoo-hoo-hoo-hoo,” Red crooned. His eyebrows contorted again, and he let out a long yodel.

  “I can’t believe this.” She stared from one to the other. “Did you two know each other before?”

  “Before what?” Stokes raised his shoulders in a question.

  “Before this trip!”

  Red leaned forward to peer around Trish. “Do I know you, sir?”

  “Beats me. Where’d you find her?”

  “Hey, you’re a poet!” They high-fived hands, nearly crushing Trish between them.

  Trish groaned. “Hadn’t you better think about driving?”

  Stokes grinned at her, showing a chipped front tooth. Sandy hair curled from under his weathered and bent straw hat. “You doubtin’ my driving?”

  “No, it’s just that—well—we had an accident on the way up this stretch of road and my dad…” The light went out again, and Trish bit down on her lip.

  Nagger slipped in around her guard. Here you are having a good time—laughing even—when you should be grieving for your father. When she shuddered, Red’s arm held her tighter. She couldn’t look up to see the sympathy in his eyes. She just closed hers and prayed the miles would disappear. Maybe they should have flown the horses. But Spitfire hated loud noises, so her father had decided to truck him down.

  Back to her father again. Everything always came back to him. Trish left off gnawing on her lip and attacked a torn cuticle on her left thumb.

  When they stopped for lunch, they checked on the horses first. Spitfire nickered his welcome as soon as he heard Trish’s voice. Sarah’s Pride stamped her front foot and pawed at the rubber-coated flooring.

  “You two behave now,” Trish whispered as she gave Spitfire an extra scratching. He nudged her pocket, looking for the carrot she always carried. “Sorry, fella, I’m fresh out.” She patted his rump on her way past. “You’ll live without a treat this time.” That’s something else to remember to tell the new groom. Always carry carrots. Somehow the reminder didn’t make her feel any better.

  After pushing her lunch around on the plate so it looked like she’d eaten, Trish dug out her book bag before climbing back into the truck. But knowing she had to review for her finals and doing it were two different things. Her eyes kept drooping shut. An hour or so down the road and the book clunked to the floor.

  Red drew her over to rest on his shoulder as he leaned back against the door.

  Darkness had fallen long before the truck turned onto New Circle Road, the highway that encircled Lexington. Stokes followed the signs to Old Frankfort Pike, right in the heart of bluegrass country. Headlights flashed on both black and white board fences as the road narrowed.

  The BlueMist Farms sign leaped into the headlight glare. White board fences lined both sides of the long curving drive. A magnificent white house in traditional southern plantation style graced a knoll off to their right. The road to the barns crossed a creek and passed a pond before ending in a graveled parking area.

  Trish rubbed her eyes and stretched. While she’d only slept for a couple of hours, she felt as if they’d been in the truck for days. “What time is it?”

  Red looked at his watch. “About ten-thirty. We made good time.”

  “Let’s get them out and walk ’em around.” Patrick stepped out of his car and arched his back. He and Stokes opened the doors to the van and slid out the ramp. The clanging of the metal sounded extra loud on the soft night air.

  A pickup pulled into the paddock, its headlights trapping them in the intensity. As soon as the truck stopped, Donald Shipson stepped out and came forward to greet them. A short, wiry man, obviously an ex-jockey, joined him.

  Trish tried to escape by ducking into the van, but Adam Finley took her arm and drew her back into the circle. She watched as Patrick and the new man slapped each other on the back.

  “Can ya beat that?” Patrick beamed, his teeth gleaming in the car light. “Me old buddy, Timmy O’Ryan. Trish, meet the best man in the world to take care of Spitfire for you. Why, if I’da known…” He shook his head and slapped the man’s back again.

  Trish tried to swallow around the rock in her throat. Even she knew the name Timmy O’Ryan. While other kids collected baseball cards, Trish memorized racing times and the jockeys that set them. “I’m glad to meet you.” Her voice came out strangled. “Ummm, excuse me, I need to see to Spitfire.”

  “Can I help you, miss?” Timmy O’Ryan spoke with the same soft lilt as Patrick. And he had the same steady, blue-eyed gaze. “Maybe he’ll take to me better if you introduce us.”

  Trish nodded. Now she knew what a mouse caught in a trap must feel like.

  Spitfire nickered his special welcome when Trish entered the van. He tossed his head, impatient to be free.

  Timmy followed Trish as she patted her way up the horse’s side to his head. “Hey, old fella, I have someone new for you to meet.” She stroked the black’s cheek and rubbed his ear.

  Spitfire reached to sniff the hand the n
ew man held out. He smelled the shirtsleeve and up to the porkpie hat, then down the other arm. Timmy stood perfectly still, but his voice seemed to whisper a love song as he and Spitfire became acquainted. At last he palmed a carrot and held it for the colt to munch.

  “You’ve made a friend for life.” Trish felt as if her forced smile would crack and her with it.

  “Your father included suggestions like this in his letter of instructions. He wanted to make the transition as easy as possible.”

  Trish nodded. She turned to jerk the lead knot loose. “Come on, fella, back up.”

  Spitfire stopped in the doorway and trumpeted his arrival to any other horses who might be in the area. “Come on.” Trish tugged on the lead. “You can quit showing off anytime.”

  Two answering whinnies came from the barn just past the gate. Spitfire raised his muzzle and sniffed the slight breeze to acquaint himself with the area. Then he followed Trish through the gate and around a second grassy paddock. Timmy loosely held the other lead and paced along with them.

  “That’s the stallion barn right over there.” He pointed to a huge barn, shadowed now by the night. “He’ll have his own paddock, and better care than most people give their kids. While I’m in charge of him, there’ll be grooms helping me.”

  “He only lets me ride him.”

  “I understand. No one will ride him. We’ll hand walk him or gallop him around the training track on a lead. You’ll see, he’ll get fat and sassy, but next spring when he goes to work, that’ll change. I’ll take care of him, miss. You needn’t worry.”

  Trish felt like the horses must feel as Timmy’s gentle voice soothed her fears. Spitfire even drooped on the lead between them. “Come on, fella, let’s see what your new home looks like.”

  She knew her eyes were big as tennis balls as she stared around the softly lit interior of the stallion barn. People don’t live this good, she thought as she took in the glistening woodwork, the shiny brass fittings, and the gleaming name plates on spacious stalls. “There’s yours.” She pointed Spitfire’s head toward the large box stall with Spitfire lettered in brass on an oval blue sign. “I can’t believe this.”