Golden Filly Collection Two

by Lauraine Snelling

  She turned her head, keeping one eye on the speaker. “Do you think…” She stopped to listen as Bob Diego called for a report from the secretary. “Have you heard anything, you know, illegal or something going on here at the track?”

  Marge put a finger up to her lips and shook her head. Trish leaned close to hear Curt’s answer.

  “No, have you?”

  Trish nodded and watched her mother out of the corner of her eye. “Sort of.”

  “We’ll talk later.”

  Trish could feel her mother’s frown clear down to her bones.

  Chapter

  06

  I thought I asked you to stay out of that.” Marge laid her purse on the counter with extreme care.

  Trish walked to the sink and filled a glass of water at the tap. “I just asked if he’d heard anything.”

  “And then you agreed to talk with him further.” Marge crossed her arms across her chest. “Trish, I just don’t want you to get involved.”

  “Mother, we are involved whether we want to be or not. If that track doesn’t open, where will we race? I race.” Trish put her hand to her chest. She fought against the catch in her voice. “You know how much I hate to have someone else ride our horses. That’s my job.”

  “I know how…” Marge shook her head. “No, I don’t know exactly how you feel, but I think I understand.” She held up a hand to ward off Trish’s protests. “I know you want to ride, especially after almost quitting, but things aren’t the same as they used to be. No one else could ride Spitfire. You had to be there. But now others can ride for us, and if we have to, that’s what we’ll do.”

  Trish felt an angry fist grab her gut and twist. She stared at the square set of her mother’s chin, then clamped her arms across her belly to halt the twisting. “Why are you being so unreasonable?” She fought to keep her voice from rising to a screech. If only she could scream and yell. “I don’t want someone else to ride our horses.”

  Go ahead, act like a little kid again and then she’ll really think you’re ready to be treated like an adult. Trish’s nagger was only voicing the words she’d been burying.

  Marge turned and leaned her weight on her rigid arms, staring out the window at the mercury-lighted yard. “I think I’m being very reasonable. All I’m asking is that you stay out of the controversy—if there really is one—at Portland Meadows.”

  “But somebody has to be involved.”

  “Somebody is. You heard them vote to ask for an extension before the city council votes. Bob Diego will take the petition to the council tomorrow night.”

  “Sure, after they argued back and forth. They’re scared to do anything. You’d think they want the track to close. What a bunch a…” She sucked in a deep breath and adopted a more controlled tone. “All I want is to be able go to the meetings and see what happens. That isn’t too much to ask.”

  “Trish, we’ll talk about this later.” Bright red stained Marge’s cheeks, and her voice snicked each word like a scalpel.

  Trish stared at her mother. Angry words threatened to pour past her clenched teeth, but instead of spitting them out, she turned and stormed down the hall to her room. This was such a stupid fight. She grabbed the edge of the door, ready to slam it closed, but stopped. The click sounded even louder than her pounding heart.

  All the things she wished she’d said thundered through her mind as she undressed for bed. She threw her jeans in the corner and flung her shirt over the back of the chair. Why bother to put things away? Just because her mother liked a clean room. She barely resisted kicking the chair leg when she nudged it with her stockinged toe.

  “If you really cared about my riding, you’d let me go,” she muttered to herself as she pulled her nightshirt over her head. “You never wanted me to ride anyway.” The box of tissues fell to the floor when she snapped off the lamp on her bedstand. The name she called it wouldn’t fit in Sunday school.

  When Trish curled up under the covers, she shivered in her fight against the tears. Here she’d been home only a few days, and she and her mother were already fighting. It’s not fair. She just doesn’t understand.

  Yeah, sure, you think you’re so grown-up, and here you are fighting again. Thought you promised not to lose your temper anymore. The voices raged inside her head.

  If Mom only cared enough about me and the horses. She doesn’t understand. What if I have to quit riding. I can’t stand all this. I hate being mad.

  She turned over and fumbled on the floor for the tissue box. After blowing her nose—again—she flopped back on the bed and let the tears trickle down into her ears. The yawning pit reached up with tentacle arms to suck her down in.

  At the thought of saying her prayers, she blew her nose again and turned over. Sure, ask God for help. How could she when she knew He’d expect her to go and tell her mother how sorry she was. Sorry was right. What a sorry mess.

  The nightmares returned with a vengeance. Trish awoke sometime in the night with her heart pounding like she’d run two miles. A weight seemed to sit on her chest, threatening to cut off the air she gulped as if it were nearly gone.

  When she tried to picture Jesus in her mind, all she could see was her mother’s eyes. Sad eyes with a hint of a tear at the corners. Angry eyes too, with sparks that flashed when the two of them got into it.

  Trish scrubbed her hands across her own eyes. She had promised herself to never fight with her mother again. They didn’t need it, either of them. A sense of desolation settled over Trish’s bed, pushing her heart down through her ribs and into the bedsprings. It lay there, heavy and thick, clogging her throat and burning her eyes.

  When she finally fell asleep again, it was to toss and turn, trying to throw off the suffocating blanket.

  When she awoke, she knew she should go ask her mother’s forgiveness. It was the only thing to do. But when she entered the kitchen ready for school, the emptiness echoed around her. The full coffeepot told her that Marge had been there. Trish walked back through the living room and checked her mother’s bedroom. Empty. In the living room, she stopped to stare at her father’s recliner. If only he were here, life would be so different. Back in the kitchen, Trish looked out the window. The van stood dripping in the misting rain. So her mother hadn’t left the farm anyway.

  Trish sucked in a deep breath that only went as far as the top of her lungs. The weight wouldn’t let it go any further. So her mother was down at the barn. She probably had plenty to do down there. So what?

  After fixing herself a slice of peanut butter toast and pouring a glass of milk, Trish meandered back to her bedroom, munching as she went. If only she could talk with her mother the way she had with her father. He understood. And he wasn’t a worrywart. She shook her head and blinked her eyes. If she started crying now, her mascara would run and she’d have to do her makeup all over again.

  She grabbed her book bag and purse, retrieved the empty glass from her desk, and headed for the front door. The urge to throw the glass into the sink surprisingly changed into rinsing it out and sticking it in the dishwasher. At least she couldn’t be accused of leaving the kitchen in a mess.

  She headed out the door for the van. If only she had her own car, then she wouldn’t have to use her mother’s. She tossed her bags in the center and buckled her seat belt. What a lousy, rotten day this looked to be. And all because her mother lived at the height of unreasonableness. If she’d dared, she’d have spun gravel on the way out.

  She turned into Rhonda’s driveway. Maybe she should go live with the Finleys. They seemed to know what a kid needed.

  “Hi.” Rhonda leaped into the van, shaking her head to keep the raindrops from sinking into her fly-away mass of carrot waves and curls. She took one look at Trish’s face. “Uh-oh. What’s wrong now?”

  “You don’t want to know.” Trish put the van in motion before Rhonda finished settling into the seat.

  “Probably not, but tell me anyway. That way I know when to duck.”

  “Yeah,
well.” Trish clamped her teeth on her lower lip. If she talked about it anymore, she’d cry. And she was not going to cry over a fight with her mother or anything else.

  After the silence lengthened, Rhonda turned to her friend. “Let me guess then. You had a fight with your mom.”

  Trish shot her a surprised glance. “How’d you figure that out?”

  “Easy. No one else to fight with at your house, and you’re wearing your don’t-mess-with-me look.”

  Trish muttered something under her breath.

  “Well?”

  “Well what?” Trish waited for traffic to pass and turned into the Prairie High parking lot.

  “What happened?” Rhonda enunciated carefully as if Trish were hard of hearing.

  “She’s telling me not to get involved with this mess at Portland Meadows.”

  “So.”

  “So what?”

  “So, are you involved? And what does she mean?”

  Trish parked the van by the back fence. “You know we went to the TBA meeting last night.” Rhonda nodded. “I met a reporter there, Curt Donovan, from The Oregonian, and he got all interested when I asked him if he’d heard about anything wrong going on over there. Said he’d call me.”

  “Is he cute?”

  “Rhonda Seabolt, for pete’s sake, you got guys on the mind all the time?”

  Rhonda rolled her eyes and shook her head. “No, dummy, but face it, if you’re gonna be working with this Curt guy, you’ll have more fun if he’s cute.”

  Trish shoved her door open. “Forget it.” She grabbed her gear and stepped down, locking the doors in the same motion.

  Rhonda fell into step beside her as they crossed the parking lot, trying to dodge between the raindrops. “Face it, now you’re not so bummed out about your mom, are you?”

  Trish just glared at her. Bummed out fit the bill, all right.

  The drippy rain hadn’t let up and neither had her mood by the time Trish returned home that afternoon. Sure she’d laughed and joked with the guys at the lunch table, but she could have been someone else for all she cared. She let Rhonda talk nonstop all the way home about Jason, the exchange student. That way she didn’t have to answer any questions.

  The truck was gone when she got home—and so was her mother.

  After changing into her work clothes, Trish grabbed an apple from the bowl on the table and walked past the bubbling fish tank and into the living room. As if drawn by a magnet, she sank into the comforting arms of her father’s recliner. When she closed her eyes and tipped her head against the cushiony back, thoughts chased each other through her mind. She needed to talk to her mother—that was a sure thing. She wished she could talk with her dad—that was impossible. And talking to God—why bother?

  If she opened her eyes, Trish knew she would see that old black pit yawning before her.

  You’d think you’d have learned all this by now. Her nagger took this moment to come out of hiding. You know we’ve been over and over this. Trish laid her arm across her eyes.

  Yeah. She thought she’d learned the lessons too. But it was so hard to praise God when things were in such a mess again.

  “And I had such good intentions.” She opened her eyes and let her gaze drift around the room.…The fieldstone fireplace where they’d toasted marshmallows and burned hot dogs. Her mother’s rocking chair. Trish’s gaze skittered past that item. Her father’s Bible on the end table beside the chair.

  It was as if he could come back at any moment; everything was waiting for him. She closed her eyes again. She was waiting for him. Before the burning could swell into tears, she pushed herself to her feet and headed for the barn. At least down there she wouldn’t have time to think.

  “Hi, Patrick, sorry I’m late.” Trish pasted an almost smile on her face. It was the best she could do. And she didn’t look the trainer in the eye.

  “Not to worry.” Patrick brought out the saddle and settled it just behind the gelding’s withers.

  “Where’s Brad?” Trish fetched her helmet from the tack room.

  “Had some errands to run before work today. He should be along any minute.” Patrick checked the girth and cupped his hands to give her a leg up. “You want to tell me what’s wrong now or later?”

  Trish paused with her knee in the air. “How’d you know?” Patrick just shook his head and tossed her into the saddle. Trish stared down at the top of his grungy fedora. “Mom and I had a big fight.”

  Patrick nodded his head. “Sure and she’s hurtin’ too.”

  “She tell you?”

  This time the old trainer shook his head. He looked up at Trish, laying his hand on her knee. “No. Just these old eyes see more’n I want them to sometimes.”

  “She said I had to stay out of the mess at The Meadows.” Trish stroked her mount’s black mane and down his shoulder.

  “And yer sure there’s something wrong there, then?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think? What have you heard?”

  “I think you should walk this son once around and then gallop him nice and easy for another two.” He took hold of the reins and turned the bay gelding toward the fenced oval. “Be watchin’ him for any weakness in that right fore.”

  Trish started to say something but thought the better of it and nudged her mount forward instead.

  “So what do you think I should do?” Trish asked when they’d finished the schedule Patrick had set. Brad had left for the day and no lights showed at the house yet.

  “I think you know what to do. Your mother has good reasons for what she asks. The two of you will work something out.”

  Trish shut the tack room door and shoved home the latch. “What have you heard?”

  Patrick shook his head. “I’m thinkin’ I shouldn’t be tellin’ you this, but I know you’ll hear it some where. A couple of bug boys were laughing about how Smithson, the assistant manager, must have won the lottery or something.”

  “The lottery?”

  “He’s driving a brand-new, loaded Corvette XR1. Cherry red.”

  “Smithson?”

  “Now, it may be that his uncle died and left him money…”

  “Or he’s in debt to his armpits.”

  “So I’m just a’tellin’ you what I heard.”

  “Thanks, Patrick.” Trish whistled for Caesar and trotted past Patrick’s mobile home up to the house. She had homework to do, and maybe she’d put dinner in the oven.

  “How come a house can feel and even smell empty?” she asked Caesar after sliding open the glass door to the deck. “Yes, you can come in.” A quick yip and a doggie grin was her thanks.

  Trish turned on the lights, retrieved a frozen casserole from the freezer out in the garage, and slid it into the heating oven. The collie padded behind her down the hall to her room and curled up on the rug by her bed. She was on the second chapter in her American government book when she heard the truck return.

  Trish’s gaze locked on a card on the wall. “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” That one was in her handwriting. She muttered the verse for a second time before shoving the chair back. This wouldn’t be easy.

  “Mom, I’m sorry—”

  “Tee, we have to talk.” Their words mishmashed together into cords that drew the two of them into each other’s arms.

  Marge brushed Trish’s bangs to the side and kissed her daughter’s forehead. “I think I let the worries get to me again. I keep telling myself you’re about grown-up, but something in me doesn’t believe it.”

  “Where were you?”

  “At my grief group, and then I stopped to talk with Pastor Mort. He said to remind you that the one for teens meets on Mondays at the Methodist church right after school.”

  Trish let that pass. “I hate fighting. Please forgive me?” She leaned her cheek against her mother’s chest. Somehow the words weren’t as hard to say as she’d feared.

  “Of course.” Marge leaned her cheek against her daughter’s thick hair. S
he sniffed and dug in her pocket for a tissue. After blowing her nose, she sniffed again, this time in appreciation. “You started dinner. And here I was trying to figure out what we’d eat.” She hugged Trish one last time. “How soon till it’s ready?”

  After dinner, Marge lit a fire in the fireplace and settled into her chair with her knitting. Trish brought her books in and curled up in her father’s chair. Music drifted from the stereo, playing a countermelody to the snapping and hissing of the burning wood.

  “We need to lay some ground rules for this year,” Marge said when Trish closed her books.

  “Okay.” Trish felt a tug of resentment but reined it down.

  “School has to be your first priority, and good grades are—”

  “Mom, I’ll maintain a B or better, I promise.”

  “Thank you. I want you to be able to choose any college you want, and grades count.” Marge leaned forward. “And no more than one road trip a month.” The words fell into a shocked silence.

  “But, but what if The Meadows doesn’t open? I can’t—I need—M-o-t-h-e-r.” Trish put all her pleading into that one word.

  “We’ll just have to deal with that when and if the time comes. Dad always said to take one day at a time, and that’s what we’ll do.”

  Trish leaned back in her chair. One road trip a month. Why, the trip to Kentucky would take care of October. And she was heading for San Francisco on Friday. So much for September. She raised her hands and then dropped them in her lap.

  They had to get racing back at The Meadows. They just had to.

  The ringing phone brought her to her feet. “I’ll get it.”

  “Trish, I’ve decided to let you attend the city council meeting with me tomorrow night.” Her mother tossed the comment at Trish as she passed.

  Trish nearly lost her voice to the shock. “R-Runnin’ On Farm,” she stammered into the kitchen phone.

  “Can I speak with Trish Evanston, please?” a strong male voice said in her ear.

  “Speaking.” The voice sounded familiar.

  “Hi, this is Curt Donovan, the reporter from The Oregonian. You remember me?”