Golden Filly Collection Two

by Lauraine Snelling

  “See?” Rhonda nodded at the scene. “Red convertibles attract guys.”

  Trish spotted a familiar station wagon on the other side of the parking lot and pulled in next to it. She didn’t want the extra attention.

  But she couldn’t turn off the congratulations of the Prairie High students who were gathered inside. She glued her smile in place until she could hide behind a hot fudge sundae.

  “What are you gonna name it?” Rhonda licked her spoon and stared at Trish’s puzzled look. “The car, silly. You have to give it a name.”

  They hadn’t come up with a good one by the time Trish dropped Rhonda off at home.

  That evening Marge called a family meeting. “I think we need to lay some ground rules about the cars,” she said as they gathered around the dining room table.

  Trish tried to ignore the empty place where her father always sat. Patrick occupied the chair beside her. She listened with only half an ear, because she already knew what the rules would be. No picking up riders, no speeding, no crazy driving—as if Trish would do any of those things. She nodded in all the right places.

  “Now, about the summer…” Marge folded her hands on the table in front of her. “What do you think of taking the summer off and not racing anywhere until Portland Meadows opens in the fall?”

  Trish shrugged.

  “Maybe my opinion’s out of place,” Patrick said carefully, “but it’d be a shame not to race those three. They’ll be ready in a couple of weeks.”

  “Dad had planned on Longacres,” David put in. “We could go up just for the races we enter.”

  “There’s always California,” Patrick spoke again, not sure of his place in the decision. “You know Adam wants Trish to come down there.”

  “Trish promised to take a class at Clark College this summer to make up chemistry,” Marge spoke in her my-mind’s-made-up tone.

  Trish felt like an invisible child. Everyone seemed to be talking around her, as if they all knew what was best for her.

  “Well, we could just ship the three horses to California, and let Adam take care of them.” David rubbed the bridge of his nose. “That would make it easier for everyone.”

  Trish jerked alive. “I ride our horses.” She stood up so fast her chair fell backward. “Where the horses go, I go.” She stalked out of the room.

  Chapter

  08

  Trish felt like kicking her bedroom door shut.

  Her eyes burned. Her throat felt tight as if she were being strangled. When there was a knock at her door she muttered, “Leave me alone.”

  “Trish…” Marge tapped again, then opened the door.

  “I said, leave me alone.” Trish stared out the window, her knuckles white as they gripped the sill.

  “I’ve tried that; it isn’t working.” Marge sat down on Trish’s bed.

  Silence hung in the room, like the oppression before a summer storm.

  “Tee, I…”

  “Don’t call me that!” Trish whirled around. “That was Dad’s name for me. And he’s not here!”

  “I know, Trish, but…”

  “I can’t stand it! You all talk as if nothing’s happened. ‘Trish is taking chemistry. We could ship the horses to California.’” Her voice rose as she spoke. “I can’t take any more of this.”

  “It’s not easy for any of us, Trish. You aren’t the only one affected.” Marge straightened up on the bed, trying to control her own emotions. “We’re all doing the best we can with a situation none of us likes. Do you think your father wanted to die and leave us all?”

  “Well, he did, didn’t he?” Trish turned back to the window, unable to face the tears streaming down her mother’s face. The desire to fling herself into her mother’s arms was strong, but she hung on to the windowsill, unable to let down the floodgate of her own tears.

  Finally Marge sighed and pulled a tissue from the nightstand. “Trish, I understand your anger, but you can’t keep taking it out on the rest of us. We’re trying to get through ourselves, and we want to help you.”

  “Don’t.”

  Marge stood and joined her daughter at the window. “How about talking with Pastor Mort?”

  Trish shook her head. “No way.”

  When Marge tried to give her a hug, Trish sidestepped so it turned into a pat on the shoulder.

  “I need to go see how Miss Tee is.”

  The next morning, after long gallops on the three horses in training, plus a nip from Gatesby, Trish took a lead shank out to the pasture and waited for Miss Tee to meet her at the fence. The filly danced up and stopped just out of reach. She extended her muzzle in search of a treat, but leaped away when Trish reached for the halter.

  “Great. This is turning into a perfect morning.” Trish forced herself to stand perfectly still and wait for the filly to come to her; her patience lasting only long enough for Miss Tee to sniff her hand for the usual carrot.

  “Sorry, you didn’t earn one today.” She snapped the lead shank in place and led the filly through the gate.

  “Where you going?” David asked when Trish continued past the barns and toward the drive.

  “Taking her for a long walk. She needs to learn some manners.”

  “Well, take her around the track then.”

  “David, quit the boss stuff. I know what I’m doing.” She clucked to the filly and walked off. She could hear David muttering and complaining but chose to ignore both him and Patrick. “You’re my horse, you’d think I could do what I want.” Miss Tee bumped her head against Trish’s shoulder as if begging for her treat. Trish gave her a small piece of carrot.

  Her dog, Caesar, padded beside them as they alternately trotted and walked down the long gravel driveway. “Come on, Miss Tee,” Trish encouraged the filly, “you have to do the same thing I do.” She tugged on the lead shank to pick up the pace. Miss Tee pulled her head up and back, ears flat, each time the lead shank tightened over her nose. Trish patted her neck. “You’re just making life miserable for yourself. Go along with me; it’s easier.”

  Trish turned forward and clucked with a tug again. They were nearly at the Runnin’ On Farm sign; time to turn back. At the instant she turned, a rabbit dashed across the drive in front of them. Caesar exploded after the rabbit, his sharp bark cutting the air.

  Miss Tee bolted. Her shoulder spun Trish around, sending her to her knees. The force ripped the lead shank from her hands, and the filly tore out onto the road, swerving just in time to avoid broadsiding an oncoming car.

  The filly whinnied in fear, the lead shank slapping her on the side, and galloped up the road.

  Trish felt as if she were watching a horror movie in slow motion. She leaped to her feet and dashed after the horse.

  “Can we help you?” the driver of the car stopped to ask. “I thought we’d hit her for sure.”

  “If you could wait here…no, back there on the other side of our driveway, and stop any oncoming cars…” Trish pointed behind her.

  “Okay.” The man backed up.

  Trish ran on ahead. She could see Miss Tee just over the rise, still running hard. A horn honked. Brakes squealed.

  Trish poured on all the speed she had, terrified she’d find the filly crushed on the road ahead.

  She topped the rise. A car was swerved sideways in the road, but the filly ran on.

  Each breath burned her lungs as Trish sucked in great gulps of air, still pounding up the road. Then she heard a vehicle pulling up beside her.

  “Trish, for pete’s sake, get in!” David stopped the truck long enough for Trish to jump on the running board and hang on to the doorframe. “I told you—” David clipped off his words. “What happened?”

  “A rabbit ran out and Caesar chased it. Miss Tee spooked. I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to her.”

  Another car was stopped in the road ahead of them, the driver waving his arms to stop the rampaging horse. Miss Tee swerved to the side and galloped up the driveway to Brad’s house.
/>   “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Trish muttered, totally unaware that she was praying in spite of herself.

  Brad had heard the commotion and swung open the gate to the corral by the barn. Miss Tee dodged away from his waving arms and into the corral.

  Trish leaped to the ground as David slammed on the brakes.

  “I’m going back to thank those people who helped us,” David called as he backed out the driveway.

  The filly stood spraddle-legged in the center of the dirt pen. Her head drooped, sides heaving as she struggled to catch her breath.

  Trish and Brad slowly walked up to her on either side, both talking gently. Lather flecked both flanks and chest of the weary filly. Only her ears flicked back and forth to show she knew they were there. When Trish caught the lead shank under Miss Tee’s chin, she trembled but stood still.

  “I’ll get another,” Brad murmured when Trish had the horse secured. He returned in seconds with another shank to clip on.

  All the while Trish crooned her song in the filly’s twitching ears, scolding, but soothing. “You crazy horse, you’ve seen rabbits before. Boy, are we in for it now.”

  “What happened? How’d she get loose?” Brad stroked Miss Tee’s sweaty neck.

  “Don’t ask.” Trish shook her head. “Hang on tight, okay?” When Brad had the strap secure, she squatted down to run her hands over the filly’s legs, checking for any strains.

  David joined them in the corral. “She okay?” At Trish’s nod, he let out a breath.

  Trish looked up. A thundercloud was perched on David’s forehead; she knew lightning was about to strike.

  “If you two lead her, I’ll drive in front to protect you. I don’t think we need to bring the trailer over.”

  “That okay with you?” Trish asked Brad.

  “Sure.”

  Miss Tee released a huge sigh and nuzzled Trish’s pocket for a carrot. While she munched the treat, she rubbed her forehead against Trish’s shoulder.

  The trek home passed without incident. Brad didn’t let go until the filly was safely housed in one of the stalls.

  “For crying out loud, Trish!” David slammed his fist against the wall. “You know better than that. I told you not to take her out. Where’s your head? You could have gotten her killed; yourself too.”

  Patrick handed Trish a bucket of warm water. “Let’s get her washed down and blanketed.”

  “She’s not hurt,” Trish snapped back. “And you don’t have to tell me how stupid I was; I already know that.”

  Brad took the bucket from Trish, and he and Patrick each took a side of the filly and went to work.

  “You don’t know she’s not hurt, and now she’ll probably be scared to death of cars and everything else. She could be wind-broken for all we know.”

  “Quit yelling at me! You’re not perfect either.”

  “You deserve to be yelled at. You were totally irresponsible. Dad woulda had your hide.”

  “If you two are going to fight, move it away from here,” Patrick inter-rupted. “You’re scaring her again.”

  “Fine.” Trish spun on her heel and jogged up the rise to the house.

  “We’re not finished yet!” David called after her.

  “Oh, yes we are.” She pounded up the stairs and burst through the door.

  “What happened?” Marge turned, her face in a frown.

  “Ask David. He has all the answers.” In her room, Trish pulled her suitcase off the closet shelf. She threw in jeans, T-shirts, and underwear. She was pulling blouses off hangers when her mother entered the room.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Kentucky.” Trish rolled a sweat shirt and stuffed it in a corner of the case.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean I’m going to see Spitfire. The Shipsons invited me to come anytime, and I’m going.”

  “Trish, this is crazy.” Marge stood between her daughter and the suitcase. “You’re not going anywhere. That college class starts next week, and you’ve work to do here besides.”

  “Mother, listen to me. I cannot stay here another minute. I’m going stark-raving mad. Today I did something so stupid it almost cost us a horse. Everywhere I look I expect to see Dad, and he’s not here. Right now, I wouldn’t even want to see him.”

  “Well, you’re not going to Kentucky. We can work this out.”

  “No.” Trish shook her head. “I can’t stand to stay here. Let me go see if Spitfire is all right.”

  “You don’t have a ticket. It’ll cost a fortune.” Marge sank down on Trish’s bed.

  “You’ve forgotten, I have money now. More money than any girl needs.” Trish dusted off her riding boots and added them to the bag.

  “No. I just can’t see it, Trish.” Marge covered her face with her hands. “Not now, anyway.”

  “Running away? Great.” David stood in the doorway.

  “What’s it to you? I’d think you’d be happy to have such a stupid person out of your way.”

  “Trish, David.” Marge raised her voice.

  “I’m going, and that’s it!” Trish snapped the locks on the suitcase.

  Marge rose to her feet. “Enough!” The word sliced the air.

  Trish and David stared at their mother.

  Marge took a deep breath. “Now…” She looked to Trish, then David. “I know you mean well, David, but you’re not helping things right now. Let me deal with your sister.”

  “Right.” David turned and retreated down the hall.

  “Trish, I don’t want you to go to Kentucky right now. Running away never solved anything.”

  You should know, Trish thought, glaring at her mother. You checked out when things got too tough, remember? But nothing came out of her mouth; she just gritted her teeth. Then, “Mom, I’ll be back in time for school, I promise. Maybe this trip will help me. It can’t hurt anything.”

  Marge pulled the desk chair out and sat with her arms resting on its back. She took a deep breath and sighed, watching Trish pace from the bed to the window.

  Trish sank down on the end of the bed. “Mom, I feel like I’m going crazy. What am I going to do? What’s happening to me? To us?” Her voice faded into a whisper.

  Marge shook her head, then rested her chin on her rolled fists. “It’s called grief, Trish. We all have to work through it.” She looked out the window, seeming to study the leaves rustling in the slight breeze. Then she smiled at Trish, as if returning from a faraway place. “I know how much you love that horse. Maybe seeing him would help. But I have one condition—” she paused “—that you go see Pastor Mort first.”

  Trish fell back across the bed. “I can’t, Mom. I just can’t. Not now, anyway. I—I’ll go when I get back.” She chewed on her thumbnail. “Please don’t make me go. Not now.”

  “What about Patrick’s training schedule?”

  “David can ride for the four, five days I’m gone.”

  Marge pushed her hair off her forehead. “You promise you’ll see Pastor Mort when you get back?”

  Trish nodded. “Yes. I will. I really will.”

  “Call the Shipsons, then, and ask if it’s all right with them.”

  “Thanks, Mom!”

  Chapter

  09

  Trish wondered if Spitfire would look different.

  She stared out the plane window as the aircraft approached the Lexington airport. She still had a hard time believing she was in Kentucky. Only yesterday she’d had the incident with Miss Tee on the road. It seemed as if her telescope were playing tricks on her, putting home at the small end, far away.

  She’d called Rhonda last night to say she was leaving for a few days. It was strange, but she hadn’t told her best friend about the fight, if you could call it that, with her mother and her brother. Was she losing contact with Rhonda too?

  Mrs. Shipson had promised to meet the plane, even seemed offended when Trish talked about renting a car.

  Trish chewed on her knuckle. She hadn�
��t called Red. Did she want to see him too? Why were there so many questions buzzing around in her head? She wished things could go back to the way they used to be.

  Bernice Shipson, silver-haired and stylish as ever, greeted Trish with a quick hug. Her soft accent was musical and friendly. “Do you have other luggage to pick up?”

  “Yes, I couldn’t fit it all into my carry-on.” Trish dug out her tickets to show the baggage claim. “I really appreciate your letting me come on such short notice.”

  “We meant it when we said you are welcome anytime, Trish. I found myself feeling a little jealous when Martha Finley talked about you going to California. We haven’t had young people in our home for a long while.”

  “I don’t remember hearing you speak of children.” Trish switched her bag from one shoulder to the other.

  “No, our only son was killed in Vietnam,” Mrs. Shipson said softly.

  “Oh…I—I’m so sorry,” Trish stammered. “I didn’t know.”

  “Not many people do. It was a long time ago. The pain has eased considerably…” She smiled at Trish. “That’s why I can tell you with all honesty that you will get through this time of grief for your father. Right now it hurts so badly you don’t know how you’ll ever make it, but God lives up to His promises. Someday the pain will be bittersweet—blended with all the good memories.”

  It was hard for Trish to hear this. Wasn’t it God who had let her father die?

  As if reading her mind, Mrs. Shipson laid her hand on Trish’s arm. “Right now you are so angry with God, you’re certain you’ll never have anything to do with Him again.”

  Trish stared at her. “You felt that way too?”

  The woman nodded.

  “What did you do?”

  “I decided to trust God—and rest. There was nothing else I could do.”

  A hurrying traveler bumped into Trish and apologized.

  “We’ll talk again, if you like. I just wanted you to know that I understand what you’re feeling. And I’m glad Donald and I could be here for you.” She smiled through misty eyes. “Now, let’s get your things. A certain black horse will be thrilled to see you.”