“I’ll ask. Sounds like fun.”
A few minutes later, Trish chewed her bottom lip while she drove up and down the lot at the high school, looking for a place to park. Last year had been a rough one. What did this year hold?
Football quarterback Doug Ramstead waved her into a parking place beside his shiny black pickup with red flames painted on the side. “Good to see ya, Trish, Rhonda.” He clapped a hand to his forehead. “Oh, wow! You two are…” A wolf whistle came from another car.
Rhonda and Trish grinned at each other as they strolled across the parking lot. Yep, that was the reaction they wanted.
“Maybe he still likes you.” Rhonda nudged Trish and glanced toward the blond, biceps-bulging football star. “He did last year.”
Chapter
05
I think this is gonna be a fun year.” Rhonda slid into the seat next to Trish. Fourth-period government was the only class they had together.
“What makes you think that?” Trish dug in her purse for a lipstick. She ducked her head to peek into the narrow mirror attached to the lipstick tube. After applying a coat of cranberry lip gloss, she rolled her lips together and put everything back in her purse. She straightened just as the teacher, Ms. Wainwright, entered the room.
“She’s new,” Rhonda whispered. “She’s the drama coach too.”
“I know, I have her for speech seventh period,” Trish answered.
The final bell rang. Trish caught a movement out of her eye. She turned her head to see Doug Ramstead take the seat on her other side. He grinned at her and waved at Rhonda.
“From now on, you will all be in your seats by the final bell.” The teacher stood in front of the class, looking more like one of the students than a faculty member. Her wavy blond hair, caught up in combs on the sides, tumbled below her shoulders. Wire-rimmed glasses failed to hide the twinkle in her blue eyes, even though her words sounded stern.
Trish heard a faint whistle from somewhere behind her. He was right. Their new teacher could make plenty of money modeling in her spare time.
“As you can see on the board, my name is Carolyn Wainwright, and due to the school policies, you’ll be wise to call me Ms. Wainwright. You may have heard, I am also the new drama coach, and I’ll see some of you in speech this afternoon.
“Now, I know you all groan at the thought of a semester on how our country is governed, but I guarantee you’ll understand the process better by the time we’re finished. As our preamble says, this is government ‘of the people, by the people, and for the people.’ Since many of you will be eligible to vote in the next election, we’ll start with local government and politics. By the way, there’ll be ways to earn extra points for outside activities.”
Trish listened carefully. The teacher’s enthusiasm overrode even the rumbling of a hungry stomach. Trish rubbed her midsection and hoped no one could hear the noise.
“Me too,” Doug Ramstead whispered.
Trish could feel the heat begin at the base of her neck. Rhonda giggled on the other side of her. Trish shot a glare at her friend and tried to ignore the blush she knew stained her cheeks by now. She felt like using the papers in her notebook to fan her flaming face.
When the bell rang, she joined the rush for the door.
“What a babe.”
Trish heard two guys talking behind her.
“Yeah, and to think she’s a teacher. What a waste.”
Trish glanced at Rhonda, and the two rolled their eyes upward in the age-old feminine sign of disgust for crude comments. Especially such comments from those of the male gender.
“So, how’s our world-class jockey doing?” Doug Ramstead inserted himself between them with an arm about each of their waists. “You two starting a new rage at good old Prairie?”
“Meaning?” Rhonda shifted her books to her other arm.
“Such hot threads.” He grinned at Trish. “Being a world-class jockey must be paying off.”
“Thanks, I think,” Trish answered.
“How about eating lunch at my table?”
“Your table!” Rhonda pulled open the door, only to have him reach over her and hold the door for both of them. “Who died and made you king?”
“He thinks being the big QB gives him special rights. Like there’s a table in there labeled football stars.” Trish turned to leave her stuff in her locker.
“I’ll save your places,” Doug said over his shoulder.
“Did that all just happen or have I been caught in a dream warp?” Rhonda leaned against the closed locker next to them and fanned her face.
“You nut. He’s just Doug, same as he’s always been.”
“Yeah, a flirt, gorgeous, the quarterback of Prairie High, and he liked our outfits.”
“Who wouldn’t?” The girl with the locker next to them interrupted. “Where’d you find clothes like that?”
“California.” Rhonda assumed a model’s languid pose against the lockers. She ruined it with a giggle.
“You still racing?” the girl asked Trish.
“Yeah, but now only on weekends. Depends on when Portland Meadows opens.” The three made their way toward the lunchroom.
“You sure did well. I kept reading about you and Spitfire winning the Triple Crown. That was really something.” She tucked her long straight hair behind her right ear.
“Thanks. Seems like it all happened so long ago.”
“Over here.” Doug Ramstead waved from the table Brad, Rhonda, and Trish had always sat at.
Trish and Rhonda exchanged glances. Rhonda shrugged and raised her eyebrows. “This is gonna be fun,” she whispered as together they carried their trays with salad, milk, and rolls across the room, dodging bodies and trays as they went.
“Sit here.” Doug patted the seats beside him on his left. “I beat off those meatheads for you.”
By the time they finished lunch, Trish felt like she’d returned to a world she’d nearly forgotten. It seemed as if her life at the track and her life at home were in two different galaxies, at least a time warp apart.
“I think he likes you,” Rhonda said just before they separated to go to their classes.
“Right. He invited us both, remember?”
“Yeah, but he likes you.”
“And I like a jockey.”
“Who’s in Kentucky.”
“Rhonda, go to class.” Trish stepped into her classroom just as the bell rang.
By the end of the day, she felt like if she had to sit still one more minute, she would fly into bitty pieces. What a difference between tracktime and schooltime. During the last minutes before the bell rang, she pictured what she would be doing at the track. Most likely waiting in the jockey room or riding in a race, the horse driving for the finish line.
Her mind flashed to Kentucky. Wonder what it would take to bring Red out to the tracks on the West Coast? she thought. What if she could see him more often? Her middle turned to mush.
The bell rang, sending her dream into a billion splinters.
She caught the end of the teacher’s statement. Something about bringing gear for the weight-training class.
She stopped one of the other students. “What did he say at the end?”
“Bring your gear tomorrow.”
“I know, but what gear specifically?”
The boy looked at her like she’d slipped a cog somewhere. “Like gloves, sweats or shorts, you know.” He stared at her a moment more. “Say, you’re Trish, the jockey, aren’t you? How come you need weight training? Don’t you get enough of a workout at the track?”
Trish fell into step beside him. “Nope, not right now. Especially not since Portland Meadows might not be opening.”
“What are you going to do?”
Trish shrugged. “Beats me. There’s a meeting tonight about it.”
“Well, good luck.” He paused before turning off to his locker. “See you tomorrow?”
Trish nodded. “All ready for a workout.” After dropping off h
er books at her locker, Trish headed for the van. The boy’s question drummed in her ears. What was she going to do?
Her nagger uncurled from his prolonged nap and whispered in her ear, Nothing, if your mother can help it. And remember, you don’t want to get on her bad side again. This new peace between the two of you has been pretty nice.
Trish answered a couple of greetings as she crossed the parking lot, but she didn’t slow her step. She and Patrick had plenty of work to do. And today she would see her long-time friend Brad Williams. No, Clark College hadn’t started yet. Funny, she didn’t know his schedule either. She had lots of catching up to do.
Rhonda waited for her beside the maroon minivan. A guy tall enough to make her look short leaned against the van door, occupying all the redhead’s attention.
Trish stopped a bit away. Rhonda sure was getting the looks today. Who was this guy? Certainly a new man on campus. And one who looked like he’d already made himself at home.
“Hi.” Trish unlocked her door and threw her book bag on the floor between the seats. She hit the automatic unlock button on the door so Rhonda could get in.
“See ya.” Rhonda followed Trish’s actions and slid into the seat. “Cool dude, huh?” She waved just before slamming the door.
“Who is he?” Trish put the key in the ignition.
“Jason Wollensvaldt. Our exchange student from Germany. Would you believe I met him in German class?” Rhonda’s words tripped over themselves in her rush to give Trish the news.
“Why’s he taking German if he’s from there?” Trish followed the line of vehicles out the side gate of the parking lot onto 117th Avenue.
“Telling us about life in Germany. He’s planning to play basket ball.”
“I’m sure by tomorrow you’ll know his life history.”
“Maybe. He said he was going to call me this evening.”
“Fast work, Seabolt.” Trish shook her head. “Hope he likes horses.”
Even the van seemed to take a deep breath to recover from Rhonda’s nonstop enthusiasm after she had made her exit. Trish waved in return and sucked in the silence. Rhonda thought school would be fantastic this year. Trish wasn’t ready to concede fantastic, but things were looking mighty good. Doug Ramstead seemed determined to spend more time with them. Or was it her? She mentally shrugged. Didn’t hurt to be invited to sit at the same lunch table as the most popular guy at Prairie High.
The baby blue Mustang occupied its normal place in the driveway. Brad would be either down helping Patrick or in the kitchen making sure the latest batch of cookies didn’t go to waste.
Trish stepped out of the van with ladylike precision, simply because with a long, straight skirt, jumping wasn’t possible. She leaned forward to accept a doggie kiss, and after ruffling Caesar’s ears, entered the front door.
Chocolate-chip-cookie perfume greeted her nose even before the sound of voices announced her mother’s whereabouts. Trish dropped her bag on the counter, picked up two cookies, still warm from the oven, and ambled into the dining room where Brad, Patrick, and Marge sat around the table.
“Look at you.” Brad accompanied his comment with a wolf whistle, a difficult accomplishment with a mouthful of cookie.
“Thanks, I guess.” Trish patted his head as she walked by him to her place at the end of the table. “Hi, Patrick.”
“How was school?” Marge handed around a napkin.
“You should ask Rhonda. I think she’s in love.”
“Already?” Marge leaned back in her chair. “Other than that, how was your day?”
“I think this’ll be a good year. New drama coach. I have her for American government and speech. She says we each need a special project. Plus a term paper, plus a couple of shorter papers.” She copied her mother’s laid-back pose. “Nothing much to keep me busy.”
Brad leaned over and snitched the cookie she’d laid on the table. “Be glad you’re not in college yet. They think term paper means once a week.” Trish groaned along with him and made a grab for her cookie. “Hey, pig face, that’s mine.”
“Now children, there’s plenty more where that came from.”
Brad grinned around a mouthful of crunch. “David told me to keep you on your toes while he was gone. Afraid you’d get soft or something without a big brother to keep you in line.”
Trish snorted in mock disgust. “Dream on.”
“Well, how about the two of you joining me at the stables before you come to blows.” Patrick pushed his chair back and picked up his battered fedora. “Thanks for the coffee.” He stopped at the sliding glass door. “You coming down too, Marge? We need to be showin’ these young hotshots how much you’ve done with the babies.”
Marge nodded. “I have to return a phone call, so Trish and I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
“Who was on the phone?” Trish asked after changing her clothes.
“Bob Diablo. Reminding us about the meeting tonight. Said to tell you ‘buenos dias’ and he’s glad you’re home again.”
“So we’re all going?” Trish shoved Caesar with her knee so he could tear around and bark at her. His tongue lolled to one side in a doggie grin of delight.
“Unless you have homework.”
“Right.”
After galloping the three horses Patrick was training for outside owners, Trish leaned on the paddock fence and watched her mother lunge Miss Tee. The filly half reared and struck out at an imaginary foe with her front legs. At a twitch of the line, she settled back to a spirited trot, her lengthening brush of a mane bouncing in the breeze.
“Hard to believe she’s really a year old.” Trish rested her elbows on the fence.
“We’ll start with a saddle and pad soon. The gelding Feelin’ Free is ready for breaking.” Patrick watched the action with a smile on his face. “Your mother has come a long way.”
“Yep. Makes me jealous that Miss Tee knows her better than me.”
“True, for now. But that’ll change when you start riding her.” Patrick turned to look directly at Trish. “Caring for the babies filled a big hole in your mother’s life. She gets terrible lonesome sometimes.”
“She tell you that?” Trish turned her head to look at him with surprise.
Patrick shook his head. “Didn’t need to.”
Trish studied her mother. Graying hair feathered back on the sides, and one lock flopping down on her forehead, Marge looked years younger than forty. Her full mouth curved in a smile as the filly shook her head. Booted feet spread to brace against any coltish behavior, and her plaid shirt rolled up to the elbows, Trish’s mother looked totally relaxed and competent.
Why, she’s beautiful, Trish thought. And she’s having a great time. Trish shook her head. All those years when Hal had been alive, Marge had never worked with the horses. In fact, Trish thought her mother hated or at least disliked the animals. Maybe this was another of those things she’d have to rethink. Could they work together?
That night the three of them rode to the racetrack in the minivan. Trish sat in the back, thinking about the meeting ahead. This was another first for her: The first TBA—Thoroughbred Association—meeting without her father. He’d been president of the organization several times through the years.
With a rush the tears stung the backs of her eyelids and clogged her nose. Trish sniffed and dug in her purse for a tissue. Before she could roll her eyes in evasive action, the drops trickled down her cheeks. She blew her nose and mopped her face.
Marge reached back with one hand and patted her daughter’s knee.
Trish sniffed again. When she took a deep breath, it was as if a storm had crackled with heat lightning and then blown over after smattering the earth with only a drop or two. “Whew.” She let her air out on a sigh. With one finger she wiped beneath her eyes to keep her mascara from smudging. At least she wouldn’t go into the meeting looking like a raccoon.
It seemed like years since she’d been at Portland Meadows. The lighted horses that usually raced ac
ross the front of the dark green building were only dim outlines. Vehicles filled the parking slots closest to the building. It didn’t look to be a large crowd.
Trish walked through the glass doors along with her mother and Patrick. Her father should be here. He’d know what to do. She swallowed the thought and clamped her jaw against the quiver she could feel returning.
“Good to see you Trish,” someone called from the group of men congregating in the corner. “Welcome home,” another voice added.
“Thanks.” Trish tossed the word in that direction along with an almost smile.
“You all think you could get in here so we can start this meeting?” Bob Diego poked his head out of the door. “Buenos dias, amiga.” His dark eyes crinkled at the corners when he saw Trish. Even his mustache smiled. “Welcome home.”
Trish stilled the quiver enough to return his greeting. As the members filed into the room, she started toward a chair at the back.
“Mind if I sit here?” A man wearing a brown leather bomber jacket pointed at the chair beside her.
Trish looked up into smiling hazel eyes. “No, I guess not.”
“My name is Curt Donovan. I’m from The Oregonian.” He took off his jacket and hung it over the back of the tan folding chair.
“I’m Trish Evanston.”
“I know. I’ve been writing about you for months. Not often a reporter gets to be in on history.” He sat down on the chair and turned to watch her.
“History?” Trish felt like she was reacting in slow motion.
“You set records. First woman to win the Derby. First woman to win the Triple Crown. Congratulations.”
“Oh, that.” Trish blinked. It seemed like that had all happened in another lifetime. “Umm, thanks.” She dug deep for her manners, aware that her mother sat on her right.
A gavel rapped from the podium. “Let’s call this meeting to order.”
Trish thought a moment and then asked the questions that had been plaguing her. She spoke in an undertone so as not to disrupt the meeting. “Curt?”
“What?” He leaned close to hear her.
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