Golden Filly Collection Two

by Lauraine Snelling

  She thought a moment. Would Red be called a friend? Or a boyfriend? She fingered the cross on a chain around her neck. He’d given it to her to remember him by. She felt a shiver travel up her back. He really was a neat person. She touched her lips. The kisses had been nice. She giggled at the thought. Nice was not a good enough word. Rhonda was right.

  That night she fell asleep in front of the television in the family room.

  “Trish, it’s two o’clock.” Martha shook Trish’s shoulder. “Come on, get up to bed.”

  Trish blinked her eyes and sat up, trying to clear the fog from her brain. The last she remembered was—she blinked again, she couldn’t remember. “Uh, okay, thanks.” She got up and stumbled up the stairs. She was asleep again before she pulled the covers up.

  She was late for morning works.

  “I’m sorry, guess I forgot to set my alarm.” Trish slumped into the canvas chair.

  Adam studied her face. “Looks to me like you shoulda slept about ten hours longer. But no matter, since three of the horses won’t work this morning…”

  Guilt made her bite her lip. She should’ve checked on the horses herself, at least the horses from Runnin’ On Farm. “How’s the mare?”

  “About the same. We caught it in time, I think. We’ll let Gatesby have a rest too, just in case. Firefly seems fine, just warm her up this morning. She’s in the Camino Diablo, the stakes for this afternoon.” He rose to his feet. “Carlos has her ready, if you are.”

  Trish nodded. As ready as she’d ever be. She and Firefly slow-trotted the oval of the smaller track that lay close to the freeway. Cars were already slowing down in the morning rush-hour commute. The brassy sun peeped above the hills on the eastern side of San Francisco Bay, promising another hot day.

  The filly tracked all the sights, sounds, and smells of the morning bustle, her ears and nostrils in constant motion. Trish leaned forward and stroked the shiny red neck. “You’re a beauty, you know that?” Firefly tossed her head and snorted.

  Back at the barn when works were finished, Trish slumped back in her chair in the office. She crossed one booted foot over the other knee and picked off a piece of dried mud. A sigh escaped. She dropped her chin on her chest and rotated her head from side to side and back to front.

  “Okay, what is it?”

  “Huh?” She sat up straight.

  “Something’s on your mind.” Adam leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head.

  Trish ran her tongue over her lower lip. “Maybe—I—uh—I think you should put someone else up on Firefly today so she has a chance. She could win that—if…”

  “If?”

  Trish almost swallowed the words. “If I weren’t riding her.” The silence in the office was broken only by a huge fly buzzing at the window. “Adam, I can hardly even get ’em around the track. You could still get someone good, anyone would be better’n me.”

  When the silence stretched until Trish felt it quivering between them, she looked up to see Adam staring at her and shaking his head. “No, Trish. All you need is one good race and you’ll be fine again. I think this afternoon will do it for you.”

  Trish pushed herself to her feet, shaking her head all the while. I can’t believe you did that, she scolded herself on the way out to her car. Maybe you should just chuck it all in and go home. Maybe you really are all washed up. She leaned her forehead against the black cloth roof of her car. Quitters never win and winners never quit. How many times had her father said that through the years? If only he were here to say it now.

  That afternoon Firefly pranced as if all the world applauded her personally. She trotted beside the pony rider, ears forward, neck arched, her coat almost the same crimson as that in Trish’s silks. Crimson and gold, Runnin’ On Farm colors and also those of Prairie High.

  All ten entries walked into the gates without a problem. Trish gathered her reins and crouched forward, feeling Firefly settle on her haunches, ready for the gun.

  The gates flew open. Firefly leaped forward. The horse on their right stumbled, crashed into Firefly, and hit the ground.

  Chapter

  04

  Sheer willpower kept Firefly on her feet.

  Trish wasn’t sure whose willpower won as she clung to the filly’s neck and held the reins firm. Another stride and the filly regained her balance. Two more strides and they were running straight. One more stride and Trish could feel a shudder in the right fore.

  Firefly pulled up limping badly.

  Trish vaulted to the ground. She ran a hand down the filly’s leg, all the while murmuring the soothing sounds that calmed the horse. She could feel the swelling popping up right under her fingertips.

  Slowly she led the limping filly out the gate and back to the barns. Adam caught up with her before she passed the first row of stalls.

  “You should have…”

  Adam held up a hand. “That could have happened to anybody.”

  Everything in Trish wanted to scream I told you so! She bit her tongue to keep the words back. Now her filly was injured and a strain like this could cause permanent damage. She thought of all the trouble they’d had with Spitfire’s leg.

  Her eyes felt scratchy along with her throat. After Carlos and Adam took over the care of the filly, she pulled a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and chug-a-lugged half of it. When would this cycle end?

  Trish left the track and headed for the beach. While it was already late afternoon, she didn’t have to meet her tutor until seven. Maybe, just maybe, she’d hear her song again and find the peace that went along with it. Traffic snaked to a crawl where Highway 92 crossed the Crystal Springs Reservoir and became a two-lane road. All the way up the winding, hilly road and down the ocean side to Half Moon Bay, the cars played either stop-and-go or slow-and-go.

  Trish thrummed her fingers on the steering wheel. They were using up her time, her precious beach time. The sun hovered above the band of clouds hugging the horizon when she finally parked the car at Redondo Beach. She grabbed her blanket and pack from the trunk and slipped and slid down the rough trail.

  Low tide exposed a wide expanse of beach as Trish trudged south toward her favorite spot. Since she and the gulls were the only visitors, she quickly spread her blanket and dropped into the middle of it.

  Hugging her knees, she watched the gulls wheeling and dipping above her. Would her song come? She listened intently. The offshore breeze sent sand skittering before it and peppered the cliff behind her with its breath, loosening bits of rust and orange sandstone. It tugged on her hair, freeing tendrils from the braid down her back and blowing them into her eyes.

  Impatiently she brushed them away. Where was her song? She tried humming a few bars but her throat closed.

  Clutching her legs, Trish rocked forward and back, leaning her cheek on her jeans-clad knees. When she despaired of the song coming today, she hauled the journals out of her pack and, laying her father’s beside her, dug out a pen and opened her own. The words poured out.

  Why? Why is everything falling apart? I can’t ride, I can’t win, and most of all—I can’t quit crying. This isn’t fair! And when I’m not crying, I’m sleeping. Right now, I could lie down and in one minute be sound asleep. Maybe there’s something terribly wrong with me. God, where are you? My dad always said you loved us no matter what. If this is what love is like, do me a favor. Go love someone else.

  Trish stared at what she’d written. After blowing her nose, she picked up the pen again. I want to have faith like my dad did. She thought a bit, chewing on the end of her pen. I guess. Do I really? Or do I just want to run away from the pain? I hurt so bad. My head aches, my nose is all plugged, and I’m so tired.

  “Please, God. Help me.” She closed the book. Did she hear it? The song? “Dear God, I need those eagle’s wings so bad.”

  She laid her book down and picked up her father’s. Flipping through its pages, she saw verse after verse. One stuck out because it was underlined and circled. “Peace I lea
ve with you; my peace I give you.”

  Trish felt like tearing the page out and ripping it to shreds to let the wind blow it away. Peace, there was no peace. She ground her teeth together. Fury, red hot and snapping sparks, blurred her vision. Her father said God lived up to His promises. Then why, even here at the beach today, was there was no peace? No song. No nothing.

  The seagull dipped low and screeched at her.

  “Shut up, you—you stupid bird.” She threw a handful of sand at him, and with one last keening cry he tipped his wings and drifted off.

  Never had she felt so alone. She looked up and down the beach. Totally empty. “Father, Dad, Daddy, help me!” The scream tore from her raw throat.

  She dropped her head on the leather-covered journal and waited for the burning tears to flood her eyes. But they didn’t. The burn continued.

  Dry-eyed, she traced the embossed design of the cross on the front of the journal. “Please, please,” she whispered, “please help me.”

  The sun disappeared behind the two-toned gray band of clouds swelling on the horizon. The wind, cold now, tugged and pulled at the figure sprawled on the square of red plaid spread on the shifting sand.

  Trish sat up. She picked up her journal and stuck the pen in the pages, then placed it and her father’s journal back in her blue pack. The song hadn’t come. She stood, shook out the blanket, and folded it up. If peace came, what would it feel like? What did Jesus mean by “His peace”? She dug the journal out of the bag again and opened it, searching for the right page.

  There. “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you.” The words hadn’t changed. She read them again. And then her father’s words that followed:

  Father, God, I need your peace so desperately. Sometimes I am so afraid, and then I am comforted by your words. Peace means to me, right now, that you are in control and you will never let me go. Your love, your grace, are eternal, forever, and that means right now. Thank you, my Lord and my God.

  Trish shivered in the wind. Her dad had been afraid too. She closed the book, keeping one finger in the place. “Thank you.”

  The tune floated in on the wind and curled around her bleeding heart.

  When she reached the top of the cliff, she turned and looked over the white frosted breakers that crashed on the sand. One last ray of sun beamed up and painted the underside of the cloud in molten fire.

  Trish hummed the song under her breath as she placed her bag and blanket in the trunk and removed her purse and schoolbag. She’d have time to grab a hamburger in Half Moon Bay before driving the curving road back up to the school.

  “You look like something the cat wouldn’t even drag in,” Richard, her tutor, said when she dropped into the chair beside him.

  “Thanks a lot. I needed to hear that.” Trish smoothed the windblown hair back from her face. “Driving a convertible messes my hair. So what!”

  “Nah, not just that. Your eyes are all red; you look like you’ve been crying for a week. What happened, your boyfriend dump you?”

  Trish stared at him. “Since when do you care? All you’ve ever talked about is chemistry.”

  “Trish, that’s what you pay me for.”

  “Well, you’re not doing a very good job.” Trish leaned back against the seat and crossed her ankles.

  “Hey, your grades aren’t my fault. You just aren’t concentrating. I’ve watched you, your mind is off someplace far away. I think I’m just wasting my time.”

  “Fine. Quit then.” Trish bit the inside of her cheek.

  “No, we need to get to the bottom of this. You want to tell me what’s wrong?”

  Trish stared at him, her mind at war behind her burning eyes. “Not really.”

  Richard stared at her.

  Trish stared back at him. One fat tear slipped from under her control and meandered down her cheek.

  She clenched her fingers into fists until she could feel the nails biting into the palms of her hands. She would not back down.

  Richard leaned forward and pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket. With a gentle touch, he wiped the tear away.

  Trish’s lip quivered. Her nose ran, followed by the tears she’d tried so hard to hold back.

  Richard handed her the handkerchief. “Here. While you wipe your face, I’m going out in the hall to get us a couple of sodas. You like Diet Coke, right?” Trish nodded. “And then we’ll talk, okay?” Trish nodded again.

  The drink felt heavenly, both slipping down her throat and as the can pressed against her swollen eyes. “Thank you.” She swallowed several more times and put the can to her cheek.

  “My dad died a couple months ago.” She took another drink. “Do you know much about Thoroughbred horse racing?”

  Richard shook his head.

  “Well, I’m a jockey and…” Once having begun, Trish told the entire story, about their dream of winning with Spitfire, and about all the races they’d won. “And now I can’t quit crying; I can’t think; I can’t do anything right anymore.”

  “Man, that’s a bummer. No wonder you look sad, kinda spaced out all the time.” Richard tugged at an earlobe that held a tiny diamond post. “Bummer.”

  “Yeah, you could call it that.” Trish blew her nose again. “Sorry, I messed up your handkerchief. I’ll take it home and wash it.”

  “No problem.” Richard stared down at the chemistry books forgotten on the oak table in front of him. He looked up at her, seeming to stare through her eyes right into her brain. “I have something that can help you.”

  Trish stared back. “You do? Really?”

  “Really.” He dug in the pocket of his sweat shirt. “Here.” He dropped four white capsules into her hand. “Uppers. They’ll make you feel better. I promise.”

  Chapter

  05

  Don’t worry, you can’t get hooked on a couple of uppers.”

  Trish’s fingers trembled. “I—I know that.”

  “Well, I just thought they might help—like give you some energy and make you think better, maybe win a race or two. You know, even the doctors give these out.”

  Trish nodded. “I know. He—the doctor offered me some right after my dad died. Said it would help make things easier.”

  “Did you try it?”

  Trish shook her head.

  Richard looked at her and rolled his eyes. “Why not?”

  “My dad always said we should depend on God for help, not pills and—stuff.”

  “Didn’t he take the medicines the doctors told him to?”

  Trish felt like her head was tied to a string. Nod yes, shake no. Her hands wouldn’t quit trembling.

  “Well, think about it.” He checked the clock on the wall. “We better get on the chemistry. I gotta be somewhere else in a while.”

  Trish shoved the pills in her pocket and opened her book. Maybe it was a good idea if those simple little white things could make her understand this stuff. But as Richard explained the formulas, her mind flitted off again. She fought to keep her eyes open. The warm room, full stomach, a droning voice—

  “Trish, you’re not paying attention!” Richard slammed his book shut.

  Trish started. Her eyes flew open and her heart pounded. “You scared me.”

  He looked at her in disgust. “Take it from me, you need help.” He pushed himself to his feet and gathered up his books. “And there’s always more where those came from. All you have to do is ask.”

  Trish watched as he strode out the room, his blond ponytail curling down past his shoulders. He was trying to help, he really was. If only she could stay awake.

  All you have to do is ask, kept ringing in her ears on the drive back to the condominium. That’s what her father always said too. He quoted the verse all the time, “Ask and you shall receive.” Just ask. She snorted. She was sure he didn’t mean ask for drugs.

  But she had asked. She’d begged and pleaded for God to make her father well again. And He had—or the medicines had—for a time. But then her father died. Th
e tears that always hovered just behind her eyelids pooled and blurred her vision. She wiped them away with the back of her hand.

  And she’d prayed to win races. She had. And not just she and Spitfire. She’d won on plenty of other horses too. Her father always said she had a gift for understanding horses and getting the best out of them. So—had God taken the gift away?

  She parked in the driveway at the hillside condo. Did God give gifts and take them away? Did He just answer prayers when He felt like it?

  Wait a minute! She thumped her fist on the steering wheel. You said once you didn’t believe in God anymore—remember? You said He wasn’t real, but at the beach you were praying and begging again.

  The battle waged in her mind. One side yelled there was no God, and the other insisted God was her Father and loved her dearly. Trish dug her fingers into both sides of her scalp and rubbed until it hurt.

  But who else can I turn to? What else is left? She pulled the pills from her pocket and stared at them in the light of the streetlamp. Would they really make her feel better? She stuffed them in her purse, grabbed her bags, and ran up the brick stairs.

  She fell asleep after working only one chemistry problem. The thump of the book on the floor woke her so she could undress and crawl into bed. Another evening shot down. Would she never get this stuff?

  The next morning, after working the horses that were healthy, Trish slumped into the chair in the office. She alternately sipped orange juice and munched a bagel. Adam and Carlos both favored coffee with their bagels, and Adam’s was smeared liberally with cream cheese.

  “You got any mounts in the next week or so?” Adam asked around a mouthful.

  Trish shook her head. “Should bug my agent, but—I don’t know—who’d want to hire me?”

  Adam glared at her. “Well, there’re lots of other jockeys who make up the races without winning.”

  “Yeah, right.” She looked up in time to find Carlos glaring at her too, sparks seeming to fly from his dark eyes.