Golden Filly Collection Two

by Lauraine Snelling

  “He’s laughing at you,” Juan said, his Mexican accent more pronounced around his giggle.

  “I know. And you are too because this time you weren’t the target.” Trish tried to glare at him, but her mouth wouldn’t stay straight. The corners kept tipping up in a grin.

  “Sí.” Juan rubbed his shoulder. “From yesterday.”

  Trish kept her eyes and ears open wide for the rest of the morning. She sure didn’t need any accidents to mess up this day. Their flight left at one. She said good-bye to all the horses, with a special reminder to Firefly to keep improving. Her big chance was coming up in October.

  “I’ll see you all next Friday night.” She paused in the door to the office. “You want anything from Kentucky?”

  “Get outta here.” Adam shooed her out the door. “And you be nice to that certain redheaded jockey. He might not know how to handle a California girl.”

  Trish felt the blush start flaming on her neck and explode to her cheekbones. She shook her head as she jogged out to the parking lot. Would she be a blusher for the rest of her natural life? The wind in her face felt especially good while she drove back to the condo.

  Trish stared out the window of the 727, the words “California girl” stuck on continuous replay in her mind. She leaned her head back against the seat, listening to the roar of the plane’s engines, and tried to relax. Had she changed this summer? Would Red still like her as much as he said in the cards he wrote? Would she still like him?

  Chapter

  03

  Dark had overrun dusk by the time they landed in Lexington.

  Donald and Bernice Shipson met them with hugs and laughter when they came off the plane.

  “He’s fine,” Donald Shipson answered Trish’s question before she could ask it. “I’d have brought him along if there were any way possible.” He took Marge’s carry-on bag and led them off to the baggage claim.

  The drive to BlueMist Farms seemed like a transcontinental trip. Trish could feel her foot pressing against the floorboard as if she could make the car go faster by sheer willpower. They drove directly to the parking area near the stallion barn. A mercury light cast a blue-white sheen on the crushed gravel, but it was no rival for the moon riding high in the sky. The cupolaed stallion barn threw its own hulking shadow. A carriage lamp glowed golden against the white barn wall.

  “Do you think he’ll remember me?” Trish voiced the doubt that had crept in when she wasn’t looking.

  “The horse that tips all but Runnin’ On Farm hats? You watch. He’ll be as excited as you are.” The tall, elegantly slim horse owner shook his head. “That is one smart stud we have there. He figured out how to open his stall one day. Followed Timmy right out the door. So now we put a horse-proof fastener on it.”

  Trish felt like skipping and twirling down the wide path. Not too long now till she saw Spitfire. As they neared the barn, Trish whistled the high-low tone with which she always called her horses. She waited for only a breath before she heard a stallion’s penetrating whistle followed by Spitfire’s whinny. She would recognize it anywhere. He called again. She could hear him banging a hoof against the stall wall.

  “I think your friend is calling you.” Donald Shipson beckoned toward the barn door. “Come on, I’ll turn on the lights.”

  Trish whistled again as she reached the door, this time softly. Spitfire’s nicker brought tears to her eyes. It felt like years since she’d seen him, even though it had been less than two months.

  Spitfire blinked in the sudden light, but he tossed his head and nickered again as if Trish couldn’t get there quickly enough. His nostrils quivered in a soundless love call. Trish buried her face in his thick, coarse mane and hung on, letting her tears wet the shiny black coat.

  Spitfire heaved a sigh as if he too had come home. He rested his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes when her fingers found all his favorite scratching places. Trish stroked his ears and down his cheek. After her tears dried, she turned around so she could really look at him. “How ya doin’, big guy?” Spitfire raised his nose so she would scratch under his chin. Trish tickled his whiskers and giggled when he whiskered her hand.

  “I don’t even have a carrot for you.” She stroked her hands down his face and rubbed up around his ears.

  Spitfire leaned against her and closed his eyes again.

  “Not keeping you up too late, am I?” Trish used her fingertips to tickle his whiskery upper lip. Spitfire licked her hand and whuffled at the familiar scent. When Trish raised her head, she caught the gleam of tears in her mother’s eyes.

  “Guess he remembers me, huh?” Trish swallowed the last of her own tears and hugged her horse again. “Tomorrow we’ll go for a ride, okay?” But when she stepped away, he nickered and pawed the straw in his huge box stall.

  “You may have to spend the night down here,” Bernice Shipson said with a smile. “And here I have your room all ready for you.”

  Trish stepped back and let Spitfire rub his forehead on her chest. “Now you go back to sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.” She shoved his head away. “Go on now, you heard me.” Spitfire tossed his head, his forelock swinging in the motion. But this time when she moved away, he just stood there, dark eyes alert, nostrils quivering.

  “It’s okay. I’ll be here to feed you in the morning.” Trish backed away. Spitfire pawed once, then stood perfectly still, the tips of his ears nearly touching as he watched Trish leave. He whinnied again after they closed the door, and then silence.

  “Seems he knows every word you say.” Donald Shipson shook his head. “You two are some pair.”

  “My dad always said Spitfire and I were soul mates from when he was foaled. We just understand each other.” Trish took her place in the backseat of the car. Thank you, God. Her prayer wafted silently upward. She’d mentioned her father without tearing up. That had to be a first.

  Trish fell asleep counting her blessings. Today had been easy to find three things—last count she remembered was eleven. But then, who was counting?

  Early morning in Kentucky fell soft on her skin as Trish jogged down to the stallion barn. A bright red cardinal serenaded her from a stately elm tree, then flitted across the sloping drive and sang the chorus to his mate. The rising sun cast glittering diamonds on the grass bent with dew. Off in a manicured paddock, two babies kicked up their heels and raced the fence line. Trish inhaled a breath of pure joy. While later in the day it would be hot and muggy, right now felt soft like thistledown.

  She heard a stallion trumpet, but it wasn’t Spitfire’s voice.

  Someone whistled a happy tune from the barn ahead of her. Trish stopped and threw her three-tone whistle into the air, a gift to the horse she came to visit.

  Spitfire answered immediately. A full-blown whinny, not just a nicker. He whinnied again and Trish heard a hoof bang the wooden wall.

  “easy now, me boyo, easy.” A man’s voice, with the words sounding more like “aisey,” told Trish that Timmy O’Ryan, Spitfire’s personal groom, was already in attendance.

  Trish strode through the open door, bits of carrots she’d begged from the kitchen stuffed in her pockets. Spitfire, his entire being concentrated on the door, tossed his head and nickered again. With his head out the stall, he pushed against the blue webbing gate as if to lunge out to her.

  “Morning, Trish. Donald said you’d be down early.” Timmy left off brushing the glossy black coat and joined Spitfire at the gate.

  “Hi, Timmy. Morning, Spitfire.” Trish smoothed the black forelock and rubbed the colt’s cheek.

  “Himself here’s been awaitin’ for you. I went ahead and fed him since I knew you’d want to ride.”

  “Thanks. How ya doin’, fella?” Trish held out two carrot pieces. Spitfire snuffled her hair and blew in her face before lipping the carrots. As he crunched, he rested his forehead against her chest so she could reach his ears easily.

  “You big baby.” Trish rubbed all his favorite places while she talked. “
Been a while since anyone’s been on your back. You gonna behave your-self?” Spitfire nuzzled her pocket for another carrot.

  “I’ll get him saddled and then bring around a mount.” Timmy pushed his porkpie hat back on his head. “He sure is happy to see you.”

  “I’ll saddle him, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.” The slim man, garbed all in tan but for shiny black boots, crossed to the tack room and returned with an english saddle, pad, and bridle. “You don’t need a racing saddle on him now, or would you rather have one?”

  “No, that’s fine.” Trish took the saddle from him and set it over the half door of the stall. “Come on, fella, let’s get ready to see the country.”

  While Trish set the saddle in place and hooked the girth, Spitfire watched her over his shoulder, as if not wanting her out of his sight. When she led him outside, he sighed and nuzzled her shoulder.

  “You be careful now…no nipping.” Trish let him droop his head over her shoulder while they waited for Timmy to join them. She stroked his nose, all the while murmuring the singsong she’d trained him with. Love words with their own special meaning. The colt’s eyes drooped and his chin sank lower.

  “Hard to believe he’s that same ball of fire that won the Triple Crown.” The groom led his mount up and stopped to give Trish a boost into the saddle. Then he swung aboard his horse and led the way down a lane between two black board fences that stretched over the gently rolling hills.

  When they returned, Donald Shipson met them in the exercise ring off to the side of the two-story barn. “Breakfast’s ready, Trish, so how about letting Timmy cool him out and brush him down? We’re running today at Keeneland and thought maybe you and your mother would like to join us. Bernice says not to tell you our surprise.”

  Trish swung to the ground and let Spitfire rub his forehead against her shoulder. She had planned on spending more time with her horse, grooming and bathing him. She glanced up in time to see a wink flash between the two men. Something was up, all right.

  She gave Spitfire the last carrot from her pocket and scratched between his ears while he munched. “See you later, fella. You be good now.” Trish smoothed his forelock and handed Timmy the reins. “See you later too.”

  Spitfire nickered as she climbed in the pickup with Mr. Shipson. When Trish waved, he raised his head and sent his shrill whinny floating after her.

  “What surprise?” Trish turned to the man driving.

  “I promised not to tell.” Shipson looked as innocent as a kid with his hand in the cookie jar.

  “Not fair.”

  “I know, but it sure is fun.” His soft Kentucky drawl floated on the air.

  “What races are you in?”

  “Second and seventh. There’s a three-year-old filly I think you should look at while we’re there. Almost claimed her myself, but right now I don’t need any new animals. Patrick asked me to keep my eyes open.” Shipson parked the pickup in front of the pillared plantation house. “Sure hope you’re hungry. Sarah outdid herself she was so glad to hear you were coming. Said she’d get you convinced southern cooking has no equal, one way or another.”

  Trish groaned. “If I ate all she wanted me to, I’d weigh enough for two jockeys.” Together they climbed the three broad stairs to the double doors with a stained-glass fanlight above them.

  Trish discovered the surprise when she joined the Shipsons in the saddling paddock for the second race. As the jockeys paraded down from the jockey room, Red Holloran stopped at stall number three.

  Trish felt her stomach catch on her kneecaps going down and plunk about on her ankles. Yep, she still liked him. Her stomach didn’t travel so far for any guy—just this one.

  The grin that split his freckled face and the powerful arms that wrapped her in a hug told her the answer to her other question. Yep, he still liked her. When he let her loose, her face matched his hair. She could feel the heat, like a sunburn.

  “You didn’t know, did you?” Red asked as he kept her hand clasped in his.

  “No, I wondered why there was no message at the Shipsons’. Then I was afraid you hadn’t heard I was coming.” Trish wished sheer mind control could cut the flaming in her cheeks. That and the current that sizzled up her arm.

  “Riders up.” The call echoed from the loudspeakers in the center of the paddock.

  Red let go of her hand. “You’ll still be here when I’m done?”

  Trish nodded. “How many mounts do you have today?”

  “Four; two for BlueMist.” Red accepted the mount from Donald Shipson. “Pray me a win.” He touched his whip to his helmet and away they went, Shipson leading until they picked up their pony rider.

  When all eight entries filed out the tunnel, the group made their way to the owner’s box. “He’s not only an excellent jockey but a fine young man.” Donald Shipson mounted the stairs beside Trish.

  “Does he ride much for you?”

  “Whenever I can get him. He’s gotten pretty popular in the last few months. Good hand with the horses and developing real skill in bringing a horse out of the pack. I think he’ll become one of the greats if he goes on like he has.”

  Trish thought about her last two months of not winning. Her father had said much the same about her and look what happened.

  She watched across the infield to where the horses were entering the gates. As the shot fired, she sent her prayer for Red’s safety heavenward.

  It seemed so strange to be in the grandstand instead of down along the fence or, even better, mounted on one of the straining horses rounding the turn and making their first drive past the stands.

  “He’s right where I wanted him,” Shipson said, his eyes fixed on the surging field. “Let that number one wear himself out with too fast a pace.” He raised his binoculars as they moved into the backstretch. Trish wished she’d brought some. It was easy to lose a bright red gelding in the midst of three others. And at that distance, the blue and white silks of BlueMist disappeared also.

  Coming out of the turn, the blue and white silks on a bright red gelding pulled away from the two on either side, and with each stride the horse increased his lead. Red won by six lengths.

  Trish heard herself screaming encouragement as the winner crossed the line and raised his whip in victory. She hugged her mother and danced in place until they paraded down to the winner’s circle. This time, instead of standing in front of the horse, she joined the others on the risers behind. The camera flashed, the horse was led away, and she thumped Red on the arm as he accepted congratulations from the Shipsons.

  “Thanks for the prayers,” he whispered in her ear, all the while smiling and graciously acknowledging the good wishes from others around him.

  “I only prayed for your safety, not a win.” Trish smiled along with him.

  “Thanks anyway. I’ll see you after the seventh. Pray for more wins.” He squeezed her hand and left to return to the jockey room.

  He won again on Shipson’s horse in the seventh, the largest race of the day. This time the excitement in the winner’s circle crackled like an electric wire. Red had come from behind after a bad bump and won by only a nose.

  Trish’s heart still hammered after the near miss. She could tell that her thank you, God had been heartily joined with those of the Shipsons and her mother. Now she knew what it felt like to be helpless in the stands when someone you cared about fought their way around the track.

  “Thanks again.” Red pulled a red rose from the bouquet he held and handed it to her. “You prayed the best way.”

  Trish held the bloodred blossom to her nose. The sweet fragrance overlaid the smell of horse and sweat and fear. “You’re welcome.” She pushed the words past the lump in her throat.

  “You’ll join us for dinner, won’t you, son?” Donald Shipson asked.

  “Be glad to, sir,” Red answered. “Is it all right if Trish rides with me?” At Marge’s nod, he turned back to Trish. “I’ll meet you right here then?”

&nb
sp; “How about down at barn fourteen? I want them to see that filly of Orson’s. She was scratched from the fifth today, but at least they can look at her.”

  “Fine. See you. Oh, and I rode that filly once. She’s got heart but not enough condition.” He waved again and trotted off to the jockey room.

  Talk at the supper table revolved around the races of the day and then to the gray filly.

  “I don’t know,” Marge answered. “If Portland Meadows doesn’t open this fall, I guess we’re shipping ours down to Adam Finley. I hate to take on another new horse when we’re in such a state of confusion.”

  “What have you heard about the situation there?” Shipson wiped his mouth with a snowy napkin. “Any change?”

  Marge shook her head. “No one seems to know anything for sure.”

  “Rumor has it that The Meadows is already closed.” Red leaned forward. “I hate to see another track go down.”

  “What about me? I’ll have to commute to California to ride.” Trish carefully refrained from looking at her mother. How would they ever run their horses only on the weekends when she could fly down there? “It just isn’t fair.”

  Since when is life fair? her nagger whispered in her ear as if he’d been waiting for a chance to dig in his claws.

  Chapter

  04

  The rest of the weekend passed in a blur. Before Trish knew it, she was back on the plane, heading for Vancouver. School would begin in the morning.

  She leaned back against the headrest and let her mind play with the

  scenes of the weekend. Red Holloran nearly nosed Spitfire out for first place. She’d see both of them again in October, less than a month away. And this Friday she would fly down to San Francisco to race on Saturday and drive back to Vancouver on Sunday.