Golden Filly Collection Two

by Lauraine Snelling

  As they were loading Trish’s bags in the trunk, Trish said, “Mrs. Shipson…”

  “Please call me Bernice.”

  “Bernice, thank you.”

  Conversation flowed between them all the way to BlueMist Farms as though they were old friends. Bernice pointed out the sights and shared bits of local folklore.

  Trish felt as if she were in a whole new world. Even the soft leather seat of the Cadillac they were riding in seemed to wrap comfort around her. And the gentle, cool air blowing through the air vents refreshed her. If only Dad were here, it would be perfect flitted through her mind. If only there were no more if only’s. She tried to concentrate on the story Bernice was telling her.

  They drove straight down to the stallion barn. Trish whistled her two-tone call to Spitfire as soon as she stepped out of the car. A sharp whinny and pounding hooves was her immediate answer. Inside the barn, Spitfire waited impatiently at the door of his stall. He nickered again and then again, as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  Trish leaned her forehead against his and rubbed both his satiny cheeks with trembling hands. “I’ve missed you so, fella; you just have no idea.”

  He bumped her gently with his nose and nuzzled her pocket. Trish pulled out a withered bit of carrot, but Spitfire didn’t seem to mind. He munched once and blew in her face, ruffling her bangs. Trish rubbed his ears and smoothed his forelock.

  “I think he missed you as much as you missed him.” Bernice stood back to let the two of them talk.

  “I see you made it, lass.” Timmy O’Ryan sounded so much like Patrick that Trish did a double take. “Like I told you on the phone, he was off his feed for a few days at first. Kind of moped around here, but I can see you’re the medicine he needed.”

  “And you for me,” Trish murmured into the colt’s twitching ears. Spitfire shook his head. Her breath tickled. He draped his head over her shoulder, cocked a back foot, and sighed. His eyes closed in contentment as Trish kept stroking.

  Timmy laughed, a low, musical chuckle. “What a baby he is. One of the grooms wouldn’t believe this unless he saw it.”

  “Why, did something happen?”

  “Spitfire was living up to his name one morning. Jumping around and backing his groom into a corner. Then he grabbed the guy’s hat and threw it across the stall.” The trainer rocked back on his heels. “You can be sure that Nick is real cautious around the big black now.”

  “Up to your old tricks, eh?” Trish jiggled Spitfire’s halter to wake him up. “Hats are his favorite toy. I think he just likes to see how people react. Huh, fella?” Trish tickled the colt’s whiskery upper lip.

  Spitfire twitched it back and forth and licked her hand.

  “Why don’t you exercise him every morning while you’re here,” Timmy said, a grin creasing his leathery face.

  “I’d love to.” Trish smoothed one hand after the other down the black’s long face.

  “Dinner’s waiting up at the house,” Mrs. Shipson said, after checking her watch. “If you can bear to leave him, that is.”

  Trish gave Spitfire a last pat. “See you in the morning, fella.” The colt nickered when she walked away, then let loose with a shrill whinny. “I’ll be back.” Trish waved from the door.

  “There’s no doubt he’s your horse,” Bernice said as she slid into the driver’s side of the car.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  At the house, Mrs. Shipson led Trish down the hall to the same lovely, antique-furnished room. “I’ve been calling this Trish’s room ever since you were here,” she said. The sheer curtains billowed in the evening breeze as she opened the door. “I hate to rush you, but dinner is ready to serve. Just wash and come down. You can put your things away later, if that’s all right.”

  “Sure. I’ll be right down.”

  The same friendly woman served dinner as before. “Now, y’all just eat up,” she said with a broad smile. “There’s nothing like my cookin’ out your way.” She set a platter of fried chicken right in front of Trish. “Now, that there’s fried okra, in case you ain’t had that before.” She pointed to a bowl of unfamiliar green vegetable. “And I ’spect you to have more’n one biscuit. We gotta spoil you right quick if you’re gonna stay only a few days.” Her laugh drifted back over her shoulder as she returned to the kitchen for more food.

  Mr. Shipson said the blessing and then smiled at Trish. “Sarah’s one of a kind. She and I grew up together. Her mother was our family cook before her. And you’d better eat her food or her feelings will be hurt. There’s nothing she likes better than seeing people enjoy her cooking.”

  Trish took a piece of chicken and passed the platter to Bernice. “She made enough to feed ten teenagers.”

  “I know. She’s always afraid someone will go away hungry.”

  Not much chance of that, Trish thought as she turned down a third helping. She felt she would burst.

  “I thought we might go to Louisville tomorrow to attend the races,” Bernice said, tucking her snowy-white napkin back into the silver napkin ring. “I’ve heard a certain red-headed jockey is riding tomorrow.”

  Trish could feel the heat of a blush rise to her cheeks. She grinned at the older woman. “I’d like that.”

  “Does he know you’re here?”

  Trish shook her head.

  “Then we’ll just surprise him, won’t we?”

  The ride around the track the next morning was a bit of heaven for Trish. She rode Spitfire around several times, and then Timmy beckoned her off to a utility track that led toward a grove of trees.

  Trish inhaled deeply of the soft morning air. The sun just peeked over the tops of the lacy-leaved oak trees, gilding everything with a golden brush. Spitfire snorted and jigged sideways. The bit jangled as he tossed his head.

  “They fox hunt through here in the fall,” Timmy said as they jogged along. “You should come for that sometime. You know how to jump?”

  “Not really, although I’ve tried it a couple of times. My best friend is the jumper in the bunch. She’d go crazy here.”

  “Bring her along. I’m sure we could find mounts for both of you. You’re planning on coming for the Breeder’s Cup anyway, aren’t you?”

  A thrill of excitement skittered up Trish’s back. “Uh…I don’t know yet.” Wouldn’t that be something. But I’d have to be back in school in October. It was an idea worth thinking about, anyway.

  Driving into the parking lot at Churchill Downs the next afternoon brought back a rush of memories for Trish. But being a spectator instead of a jockey made it easier as she leaned on the outside of the fence to the paddocks.

  “Hey, Red, good luck!” Trish called after him as he followed the others to the saddling paddock.

  Red stopped so fast the jockey behind him bumped into him.

  “Trish!” He stepped toward her, a grin splitting his face. He clasped her cheeks in both hands and planted a kiss right on her astonished mouth. “I can’t believe you’re here. Why didn’t you call? I could have met your plane.”

  “I know. So, I surprised you.” Trish wasn’t sure if her cheeks were warm from a blush or from his hands.

  “See you right after this race, okay?” Red waved at the official who motioned him to the saddling paddock. “Don’t you leave, hear?” He blew her another kiss as he backpedaled to the paddock.

  “I think that young man is very fond of you.” Bernice chuckled softly. “His face just lit up when you called his name.”

  Trish fanned herself with the program. Talk about faces lighting up.

  “Would you like something to drink before we head for our box?”

  “Thank you. That would be nice.”

  After another delicious meal in the evening, Trish thought, I could get used to this lifestyle. A private box at the track, someone to wait on me, make my bed. I get to play with Spitfire, and no mucking stalls.

  Up in her room, she leaned back against the stack of lace-trimmed pillows on her bed. Yes, I co
uld like this. Home seemed very far away—like on another planet. Thoughts of Red pulled her ahead to the next afternoon. He planned to take her out to dinner and to a movie. Mrs. Shipson had winked and nodded her approval when she heard of the invitation.

  After their ride the next morning, Spitfire nibbled Trish’s braid as she brushed him. “Knock it off.” Trish smacked him on the nose, then hugged him. “You big goof; when are you gonna grow up?” Spitfire snorted and shook his head.

  “I think he understands every word you say,” Donald Shipson said as he watched the girl and horse together.

  “I was the first human to touch him.” Trish brushed a bit of straw off the colt’s ear. “We’ve been best buds ever since.”

  “Must be terribly hard for you at home, with both him and your father gone.”

  Trish nodded. “It is.”

  “Well, if you ever decide to come to Kentucky, you know where your home is.” He pushed away from the stall door. “You about ready for breakfast?”

  “You people eat like this all the time?”

  “You have to learn to pick and choose—and not let Sarah railroad you. Also, I run from the big house to the barns rather than take a car. That helps.”

  Together, they jogged down the road and across the creek. Huge oak trees shaded the drive to the house and made the rise deceptive. Trish was puffing a bit when they stopped at the front porch.

  The date with Red would live on in Trish’s memory for a long time. He took her to a white-tablecloth restaurant, where she wished she’d had a nice dress to wear instead of just slacks and a blouse. She tried cajun food for the first time and nearly choked on the spicy blackened red fish.

  Red handed her the bread basket. “Here. This works better than water.” His eyes twinkled in the candlelight.

  After the dessert, which the waiter brought flaming to their table, Red set a small box in front of Trish. “So you think of me often,” he said softly.

  “I already do.” Trish fingered the gold cross he’d given her before. “I wear it all the time.”

  Her hand trembled as she opened the box. Inside lay a gold link bracelet with a delicate gold charm. It was a racing horse and jockey. “Oh, Red, it’s beautiful!” She lifted it from the box and looked at it more closely. “Thank you,” she said to his smiling face. It was all she could manage. The familiar lump had taken up its place in her throat.

  Red put the bracelet on Trish’s wrist and fastened the clasp and the safety chain. “Now you can think of me more often.” He leaned forward and kissed her softly.

  Before she knew it, Sunday arrived—time to go home. Red, the Ship-sons, and Timmy O’Ryan waved her off at the airport. Trish could feel a smile deep inside as she sat on the plane waiting for takeoff. If this had been a true example of southern hospitality, she knew she liked it.

  Her mood lasted until the plane landed in Portland. Marge and David were there to meet her, but she still looked for her father. All the pain came crashing down around her. He would never again be there to welcome her home.

  Chapter

  10

  Anywhere is better than home, Trish thought.

  She stared at the empty recliner by the fireplace. It was always the first place she looked when she came in the front door—as if the last weeks had been a bad dream.

  The weight of her loss settled heavier on her shoulders with each step down the hall to her bedroom. She dropped her suitcase, threw herself across her bed, and drifted off into that no-man’s-land between waking and sleeping.

  Sometime later she jerked upright. “Dad?” She stared around the room, her gaze searching for the source of the voice. She was so certain she’d heard her father call her. But there was no one there. She could only hear the drone of the television from the living room.

  She rubbed her eyes and shook her head. Was she really going crazy after all? When she flopped back against the pillows, scenes of Kentucky drifted through her mind. Spitfire, the dates with Red, BlueMist Farms and the wonderful people there. Why did the pain return when she came home?

  “I can’t stand this,” she muttered as she pulled on her boots. She ran down the hall and out the front door, totally ignoring her mother’s questioning voice.

  “Where you going?” David asked as she stormed into the tack room. He dropped the bridle he’d been cleaning and rose to his feet. Patrick looked up from the records he’d been studying.

  “Welcome home, lass.” He shut the book. “Can we be helpin’ you?”

  “No.” Trish reached for bridle and saddle. “I’m just going riding for a while on Dan’l. I won’t be gone long.”

  “It’s getting late to be out on the road.”

  “I know. I’ll go back up the hill.”

  “You okay, Trish?” David sat back down.

  “I guess.” But she shook her head as she said it.

  Dan’l seemed to enjoy the ride more than Trish did. He danced back into the stable area and tossed his head when she jumped to the ground. “Thanks, old man.” Trish stripped off the tack and gave the aging gray Thoroughbred a halfhearted brushing before she released him back into pasture.

  The lights from Patrick’s mobile home brightened the road up to the house. “I should stop and see him,” she told Caesar as they padded up the gentle rise. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  She stopped for a moment on the deck at the back of the house. Her mother’s fuchsias and begonias spilled over their baskets in explosions of pinks and purples. Peeper frogs chorused from down by the drainage ditch. Trish and her father used to sit out here and watch the humming-birds drink at the purple and white fuchsia blossoms.

  Memories everywhere.

  She slid open the sliding glass door into the family room. The fish tank bubbled away in the corner, just like always.

  “There’s dinner in the oven,” her mother called from the living room. Trish could hear the squeak of her mother’s rocker. She must be knitting—like always.

  “Thanks, anyway, I’m not hung—” Trish froze in the doorway. “What are you doing in Dad’s chair?” Her voice cracked on the words.

  David looked up from his place in the worn leather recliner. “What’s with you?”

  “That’s Dad’s chair. You have no right sitting there.” She advanced on him like she would pull him bodily from the chair.

  “Knock it off. I can sit here; Dad wouldn’t mind.” David raised his hands to keep her from pounding him.

  “Trish, what is the matter with you?” Marge rose from her rocker.

  “That’s Dad chair!” Trish screamed. “Neither of you care!” She stormed from the room, but before she was out of earshot she heard David say, “You’d better do something about her, Mom, before she goes off the deep end.”

  Trish entered the sanctuary of her own room and wrapped both arms around herself to stop the shaking. Her throat and eyes burned. Was this what life would be like at home from now on? She bit her lip hard. Who needs this?

  It sounded as if her mother were in the next county when she came into Trish’s room sometime later. “Trish, we need to talk about this.”

  Trish buried her face deeper in the pillow and shook her head. “I can’t,” she mumbled. She fell back into that black hole where memories and bad feelings didn’t exist.

  She missed morning works the next day, and slept until her mother came in at ten. “You have to register today, Trish.” The voice cut through Trish’s fog like a drill sergeant’s.

  Trish rolled on her back and threw an arm over her face. “I have all day.”

  “No, you have an appointment with Pastor Mort at one. And you need to register first.”

  Trish threw back the covers and leaped to her feet. “I’m not talking to him today, Mom.”

  “Yes, you are,” Marge said firmly. “You promised me you would when you got back from Kentucky, remember?”

  “Fine. I need to go to the bathroom.” She brushed past her mother and headed down the hall. Her head pounded like a herd of
runaway ponies.

  She drove into Vancouver with the top of the convertible down even though the skies were gray. Maybe a little rain on her head wouldn’t hurt. You gotta get hold of yourself, she ordered. You’re acting crazy.

  She stopped at a stoplight. Then the sound of a horn behind her made her pop the clutch. The car stalled. Another horn blared while Trish restarted her car and eased through the signal. She’d zoned out again.

  A light mist was falling as Trish turned into the parking lot of the administration building at Clark College. She pushed the button to raise the convertible top and waited till it snapped in place. Raindrops formed a trickle down the windshield. Even the sky was crying. She clamped down on the thought.

  She finally pushed herself out of the car and headed for the double glass doors. She could see long tables set up for registration inside.

  “Excuse me,” someone behind her said.

  Trish still had her hand on the door. She removed it and stepped aside. She couldn’t make herself go in.

  She arrived early at the church for her appointment. When she closed her eyes and rested her head against the neck rest in her car, she tried to picture Spitfire—and their rides in Kentucky. The picture wouldn’t come. All she could see was the misery on her mother’s face, and on David’s when she yelled at him. What was she doing to them?

  A tap on her window brought her back to the present with a start. “Oh—Pastor Mort.”

  “Sorry, Trish. I didn’t mean to startle you. Would you like to come in now?”

  Trish nodded and bit back the “Not really.”

  “That’s some car you have there. We missed you. How was Kentucky?”

  “Oh, it was…wonderful. Spitfire was as happy to see me as I was to see him. It’s hard being so far apart.” She walked through the door he held open for her. “Thanks.”

  “Can I get you a Coke or something?” Pastor Mort hung his coat on a rack by the door.

  Trish shook her head. “No, thanks.”

  “Sit down, sit down. I know this is hard for you, Trish, but I’m glad to see you. It seems like you’ve been gone a long time.” He took a chair opposite Trish, rather than behind his desk.