Golden Filly Collection Two

by Lauraine Snelling

  14

  Trish took the roll on her shoulder.

  Her mount lunged back up on her feet and galloped down the track after the receding field.

  Trish continued the somersault roll to a sitting position and took a moment to get her bearings. She sat in the dirt of the track, breathing hard; coughing, and spitting some dirt from her mouth. After flexing her arms and legs to be sure everything was intact, she staggered to her feet, still a bit woozy from the force of the fall.

  A track ambulance stopped beside her and the paramedics jumped out. “You okay?” one asked as he swung open the rear door and reached for his case.

  “I’m fine. You don’t need any of that stuff.” Trish flinched when she moved her head. “I’m just shook up.” She grimaced again when she touched her right shoulder.

  “Bruised too, I’d guess.” A young woman grasped Trish’s right hand. “Squeeze.” She watched Trish’s flinching response. “You’d better have them look at that in First Aid. Come on, jump in. We’ll take you over there.”

  Jumping was a bit beyond Trish’s ability at that moment, but she climbed into the ambulance for the ride to the nurse’s station in the same building as the jockey rooms.

  By the time Trish sat down on a gurney in one of the curtained-off examining alcoves, her shoulder was throbbing. She rotated it carefully. It worked, but it hurt.

  Waiting for the nurse, Trish laid back and closed her eyes.

  “I think she’s done for as far as racing is concerned.” Trish tried to ignore the man’s voice on the other side of the room, but he spoke too clearly. “Anyone could have won on Spitfire; he was that good.”

  “I don’t know,” the other voice responded. “She’s won plenty of other races too.”

  “Yeah, before her father died. She’s just a lucky kid who’s run out of luck.” His voice was a hoarse whisper, but Trish heard him with no trouble.

  Does he think I’m deaf or something?

  “No better than a green apprentice. It was all hype, nothing more.”

  Was it true? Is that what people were actually saying and thinking about her?

  “So, how’re you doing?” A gray-haired nurse with a warm smile swished back the curtain. “Heard you took quite a spill out there.”

  Trish nodded. “It’s just my shoulder. A hot shower’ll take care of the rest.” The man’s insensitive words pounded in her brain. While the nurse helped her remove her silks, she could feel the anger and hurt burning in her stomach and flaring up into her chest.

  Trish winced when the woman moved the injured shoulder and gently but firmly felt for a break. “Just a bruise, I’m sure. You have any more mounts today?” Trish shook her head. “Good. Let’s ice it and put it in a sling to take the pressure off. Knowing jockeys, though, you’ll be up and riding again tomorrow.”

  Trish tried to smile, but it felt as if her face would crack with the effort. Was her gift with horses really gone? Buried with her father?

  The nurse slapped a chemical ice bag to activate it. Trish turned onto her stomach, and the woman placed the bag high on Trish’s shoulder blade, then pulled a sheet over her.

  “Lie there with the ice for a bit, and I’ll get you some aspirin. A nap wouldn’t hurt either.”

  But sleep was out of the question. Trish had a hard time lying still. When she squirmed, the pack slipped. She slid it back in place again and took a deep breath to relax. The pack slipped again. Trish rolled over and swung her feet to the floor. This is not working.

  She pulled her silk shirt around her shoulders and headed for the door. In the hall she ran into the nurse. She shook her head. “Why don’t you go down to the whirlpool and then see the masseuse?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “And use the sling…”

  Trish ignored the pain in her shoulder as she changed clothes in the women’s jockey room. She jammed her things into her sports bag, her arm back in the sling, and hurried out the door. All the way around the south end of the track and into the parking lot, her shoulder throbbed and the anger churned in her stomach.

  Slinging her bag into the backseat of her car, Trish slid into the driver’s seat. She punched the button to put the top down and started her engine.

  Each time she shifted, the pain in her arm reminded her of the pain in her heart, the pain in her mind. How much more of this can I take?

  She stopped for the lights, northbound on Camino Real. She had no particular destination. The sign read “92 to Half Moon Bay.” Trish took the cloverleaf and headed west, over the hills to the Pacific Ocean.

  The winding road invoked speed. Trish shifted down on the upgrade and leaned on the accelerator. Wind blew her hair back and made her eyes water. She roared around one curve and hit the brakes. A truck and trailer rumbled up the grade in front of her.

  You don’t learn too fast, do you, her nagging voice shouted above the roar of the car’s engine.

  Trish backed off. All she needed right now was a traffic ticket or, worse, an accident. The truck ahead of her picked up speed after it crested the last hill. Trish could see the ocean in the distance. She followed the curving road down between bushy hills that finally opened onto a narrow valley, lined on both sides with Christmas tree farms. As the valley widened, she passed truck farming, a winery, and the houses and businesses of the town of Half Moon Bay. The road ended at a traffic light on Highway 1.

  Waiting for the light, Trish debated. Left or right—where was the nearest beach? Because she was in the left-hand lane, she turned south when the light changed. She watched for beach access signs, but only saw more housing and planted fields of squash or pumpkin that reminded her of her mother’s garden. There were huge green spiky plants that looked like thistles along the sides of the road.

  Finally, she spotted a sign—Redondo Beach. It pointed to the right. She turned at the edge of a golf course and slowly followed a bumpy road between giant eucalyptus trees. She’d asked Adam about them one day. Today’s heat caused their pungent aroma to drift on the breeze.

  A poor excuse for a fence corralled a group of horses to her left. It was made of sticks, baling wire, bent or broken posts, and colored baling twine. Her father would have deplored a fence like that.

  The road dead-ended in a parking area on a high bluff. Trish could see a beach off to the right and a few small buildings. To the left a sign read Strawberry Farm. There was a house with lots of windows overlooking the ocean. She got out of her car and shaded her eyes to look over the water. A freighter steamed north on the horizon. A couple of small fishing crafts bobbed on the swells closer in.

  The surf roared below, while gulls rode the thermals and screeched overhead. A peaceful scene, Trish thought. Where’s the peace? She reached for her bag in the backseat. Stuffing it into the trunk, Trish grabbed a blanket that was kept there for occasions such as this. When she pulled it out, she saw a box she didn’t remember bringing.

  She dropped the blanket and picked up the box. An envelope was taped to the top of it. There was a note inside, in her mother’s handwriting.

  Dear Trish,

  I hope you find this when you need it and are ready for it.

  Love always, Mom

  Trish’s fingers trembled as she cut the tape that secured the lid with her car keys. She took a deep breath. Do I really want to see what’s in this box?

  She shook her head at the silly thought. What could possibly be in a box from her mother that she wouldn’t want to see?

  She lifted out the first item, wrapped in newspaper. “No!” She knew by the weight of it that she held the carved eagle she’d given her father for Christmas. Gently undoing the paper, she ran her hand along the delicately carved wings, then set it down, her jaw clenched against the memories. There were three books in the box also. On top was her father’s journal, then the blank book he’d given her to write in, and finally, her own Bible.

  Trish rubbed her aching shoulder and stared at the contents of the box as if they were a snake rea
dy to strike.

  She could hear Pastor Mort’s voice in her head: “Read your father’s journal.”

  “No. I can’t handle this right now.” She slammed the trunk lid shut and started down the steep embankment to the beach. A third of the way down, Trish stopped short. She’d forgotten her blanket.

  She turned and wearily climbed back up the washed-out path. When she opened the trunk for the blanket, she impulsively grabbed the two journals with it and slammed the lid again.

  After slipping and sliding her way to the hot sand, she walked up the beach a ways before dropping her stuff at the base of the cliff. She took off her tennis shoes and socks, rolled up the pant legs of her jeans, then jogged down to the surf.

  “Yikes! I thought California water was warm.” She backed up and let a dying wave wash over her feet. The backwash sucked the sand out from under her heels. As her feet adjusted to the frigid water, she followed the wave action out, tugging on her pants in an effort to keep them dry. When a wave slapped higher than she thought it would, she threw up her hands and waded farther. Next time she’d bring shorts and a swimsuit.

  But even the crashing symphony of the surf couldn’t drown out the conflicting voices in Trish’s head. She rubbed her burning eyes, and pounded up the beach at the edge of the waves. It didn’t help. Nothing helped.

  Trish returned to the blanket and flipped it out. The journals tumbled into the sand. She picked up her father’s journal and carefully brushed it off. A pen dropped loose when she opened the clasp.

  She flopped back on the blanket and shielded her eyes with her arm. Do I really want to read this? She sat up again and opened the book to the first page.

  Dear God…Right now I am so angry I can’t even begin to describe it. Why are you doing this to me? Cancer! I thought you loved me, and now this. How can this be consistent with love?

  Trish closed her eyes and rested her forehead on her bent knees. He felt the same way I do! She continued reading.

  How can I love you and tell others about your love when you do this to me? Why didn’t you just strike me dead and get it over with? Oh, God, why? Why?

  Trish wanted to shout the same questions, but with the lump in her throat she could hardly whisper. “Why did you take my dad away? He was a good man.” She sobbed as she dropped the journal beside her on the blanket. “Why?”

  A seagull drifted overhead, screaming into the wind.

  Trish searched the blanket for the pen. She picked up the blank journal and began to write. The words flowed out as fast as she could get them down. There was no “Dear God,” only hurt and rage and despair.

  After a while her hand cramped and her eyes burned. Her throat was so dry she could hardly swallow. The sun hovered over a bank of gray fog that shrouded the horizon, and a breeze whipped sand over the edge of the blanket. Trish shivered. She flipped back to the first pages again. I wrote that? She wanted to rip out the pages, but caught herself. She dropped the book and picked up her father’s again.

  But I know God is my strength and power. He makes my way perfect. That is my Bible promise for today. I will hang on to it. How will I get through this without you, my Father?

  Trish slammed the book shut. She picked up her blanket and tucked the books into the folds. She had a chemistry class tonight.

  Back in the car Trish slumped against the seat. She felt like a deflated balloon, but somehow rested too. She stared out at the fog creeping in to the shore, and watched a gull wheel and cry. He rose higher, then lower, basking in the flow of the wind current. Trish wished she could take life’s ups and downs that effortlessly.

  Chapter

  15

  When would she learn to study the right stuff?

  Trish stared at the chemistry paper she’d just corrected. She’d missed four out of twelve this time—barely passing. Why was she wasting her time taking this stupid class? It wasn’t as if she wanted to be a scientist or something. She bit down on her lip. Nothing was going right.

  When Trish walked through the doorway to the Finleys’ living room, she saw Martha reading in a chair by the window. The soft light seemed to surround her in a golden glow. A nature tape was playing, and the music was unbelievably peaceful. Martha looked up and smiled. “I’m glad you’re home. How about something to eat?”

  Trish dropped her bags on the stair. “I had some yogurt before class. I think I’m okay.”

  Martha rose to her feet. “Well, I’m hungry. How about a piece of homemade apple pie with ice cream? Adam says my pies would take a blue ribbon. I don’t know about that, but I think they’re pretty good.”

  “Okay.” Trish felt lethargic. Maybe something to eat would help. She followed her hostess into the bright blue-and-white-tiled kitchen. “All right if I have some milk with it?”

  “Of course, dear. Help yourself. I’ll have coffee.” Martha set two plates on the glass-topped table in the bay window, overlooking a flower-bordered patio.

  “Hmmm, this is good,” Trish said, tasting the pie. “You bake as good as my mom.”

  “That’s some compliment; I’ve tasted her baking. Marge gave me her recipe for cinnamon rolls. I’ll have to make them while you’re here.”

  When they’d finished eating, Martha asked, “What’s happened, Trish? You look unhappy.”

  Trish tried to brighten up. “Oh, nothing.”

  “You can’t fool me, Trish. Something is wrong. You’ll feel better if you tell me what’s troubling you.”

  Trish sighed. “I—I barely passed another chemistry quiz.” She rubbed her shoulder. “Did Adam tell you I took a dive at the track?”

  Martha nodded. “Yes. When you didn’t return to the barns, he said he checked First Aid. The nurse said you’d left in a hurry.”

  “I drove out to Redondo Beach.”

  “Oh? How bad is your shoulder?”

  “It’s just a bruise. I’m supposed to be wearing a sling, actually.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In the car. I couldn’t shift gears with it on.”

  “Trish, if I can help you in any way, I’d be grateful to do that. I know you miss your dad terribly, and you never talk about him. Someone told me something a long time ago that has stuck with me. ‘A joy shared is doubled; a burden shared is cut in half.’ Please let us help you.”

  Trish nodded. “Thanks. You always do.” She shoved her chair back and picked up her plate and glass. “You know anything about chemistry?”

  “I wish I did.” Martha followed Trish to the sink. “Leave these till morning. How about if you and I go shopping Monday afternoon? I know you’re needing school clothes, and I haven’t shopped for something like that for years.”

  Trish looked at her in amazement. “I was going to ask you to go.”

  “See? Great minds…” Martha flipped off the light switch. “Hope tomorrow is better for you.”

  Martha’s good wishes seemed to help. Morning works went better than usual. Sarah’s Pride acted as if she finally believed Trish was in charge, and Gatesby slow-galloped without pounding her to pieces. By the time they were finished with the entire string, Trish caught herself whistling. It was a tune she’d heard someone else singing on the way to the track.

  She still felt great when she joined Adam in the saddling paddock for the second race. She stroked Firefly’s neck and smoothed the filly’s forelock. “How about your first race in California? You ready to whip ’em?” The filly rubbed her forehead against Trish’s chest.

  “You know, I’d rather you come from behind,” Adam was saying. “Hang off the pace about third or fourth until the stretch. She’s got plenty of power. Make sure you don’t get boxed in on the rail. That happens real easy in the number-two position.”

  Trish nodded. Maybe this would be her day. Maybe she’d finally find herself in the winner’s circle.

  A good crowd filled the stands for the mile-long Camino Real Derby. The big purse had drawn some horses up from Southern California. The parade to post increased Trish
’s feelings of both exhilaration and confidence. She patted the filly’s neck.

  “This is our day, girl; I can feel it.”

  Firefly stood quietly in the gate while the horses on both sides of her acted up. Number three had to be released and brought back in. At the bell, they broke clean. Firefly hit her stride immediately. So did the two on either side of her. Going into the first turn, the three were neck and neck. Halfway through the turn the horse on the outside bumped Firefly, who bumped the inside horse and sent it crashing into the rail.

  Firefly kept her feet but lost ground. She straightened out on the stretch but couldn’t seem to gain what she needed to be in competition. They finished fifth.

  When Trish jumped to the ground, she saw blood running down the filly’s rear leg. She’d been cut in the fray.

  “That crazy jock on three,” she muttered as she stroked the filly’s neck. “He should be disqualified for riding carelessly like that. You’re going to lodge a complaint, aren’t you?” she asked Adam as soon as he’d inspected the wound.

  “Yes, but it probably won’t do much good. Three came in third.”

  “How bad is she?”

  “I’ll call the vet, just in case.” Adam handed Trish her saddle. “See you back at the barn?”

  Trish nodded. “If I’d just…”

  “Trish, it wasn’t your fault. You can’t take responsibility for what every rider does.” Firefly limped off behind him.

  Trish didn’t need her nagger. She scolded herself all the way to the barn, her anger rising with every negative thought. Maybe everyone’s right. Maybe I’m not any good anymore. I sure should have kept out of that mess. What a lousy ride.

  The vet had just finished checking Firefly’s leg when Trish arrived. “How is she?”

  “Not too bad. She’s got plenty of heart to have finished with a cut like this. But it should heal clean.” He turned to Adam. “Call me if there’s any problem.”

  Trish went to the tack room and dug in the refrigerator for a carrot. Trish broke it in pieces and fed them to the filly one at a time, all the while telling her what a great horse she was. By sheer force of will, she kept her own anger at bay.