Golden Filly Collection Two

by Lauraine Snelling

  “Sure.” Trish propped the phone between her shoulder and ear. “How can I help you?”

  “I think I have some information you might be interested in.”

  Trish sank down to her corner, propped in the V of the cabinet and wall. “Really?”

  Chapter

  07

  Can I meet with you after school tomorrow?”

  Trish fumbled for an answer. “Ummm, I really don’t have time. I start working with our horses here as soon as I get home from school.”

  “I could come there.”

  Trish thought hard. What if he had something important to ask her? Shouldn’t she tell him what Patrick had said? He needed all the available information to conduct a decent investigation. “Just a minute, okay? I’ll be right back.”

  She crossed her legs and rose to her feet. Placing the phone carefully on the counter, she walked back into the living room. “Mom?” Marge raised her head from counting stitches. “That’s Curt Donovan on the phone. He’d like to come talk with me tomorrow after school.”

  “About Portland Meadows?”

  Trish shrugged. “I guess.” What else would he want to see her for? She kept her pose relaxed, nonchalant, like this didn’t really mean much to her. Inside she was screaming please, please!

  Marge laid her knitting in her lap. “If he comes, I want to be there, along with Patrick. And I need your promise that if I tell you to back out down the road, you’ll do it without an argument.”

  Trish sucked in her breath. That was a tall order. “You mean…”

  “I mean that Runnin’ On Farm will do all we can to make sure there’s racing at Portland Meadows this year, but we will do this together.” She stared at her daughter, as if assessing Trish’s honor. A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “After all, three heads are better than one.” She picked up her knitting again. “And besides that, he’s too old for you.”

  Trish felt the heat flame her cheeks. “Mother!” She fled to the kitchen, chased by her mother’s chuckle.

  After making the arrangements with Curt, she hung up the phone and ambled back into the living room. She shook her head at the question in her mother’s eyebrows and settled back to finish her homework. Stranger things had happened, but at that moment, she was hard pressed to think of any.

  Crossing the parking lot after school the next day, Rhonda pleaded for the chance to join the discussion.

  “Oh, Rhonda. You just want to see what Curt looks like.” Trish threw up her hands. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d think guys took over your brain this summer.”

  “What’s wrong with that? We’re seniors, remember? We should have some guys in our lives. You have Red.”

  “Yeah, two thousand miles away.” Trish flinched at the pang of guilt. She hadn’t written to him since she’d come home. And she hadn’t thanked the Shipsons yet either.

  “Well, you could have Doug too, if you’d open your eyes.”

  “Rhonda Seabolt, you’re the most…” Trish spluttered. She couldn’t think of a name bad enough. At least not one that she would use on such a long-time friend and cohort.

  Rhonda slammed the car door and pulled out her seat belt. “So, can I come?”

  “Whatever.” Trish started the car and joined the line of vehicles snaking out the back gate. “But if you…”

  Rhonda raised one hand in pledge. “I’ll keep a lid on this mouth of mine, I promise. Best friend’s honor.”

  Trish carefully kept her gaze away from Rhonda after she’d introduced them. She knew she’d see that I-told-you-so expression. Curt Donovan wasn’t just cute; he was good-looking. Dark blond hair, square jaw, and hazel eyes that lighted with laughter. All six feet of him announced an athletic past, if not present.

  She would not look at Rhonda.

  “So let me tell you what I’ve learned so far.” Curt’s deep voice brought her back to the moment. He raised his hands and shrugged. “Nothing.”

  Trish felt her stomach bounce down about her knees. She glanced at her mother, who raised an eyebrow. Patrick tipped his hat back and leaned against the board fence.

  “Tell him what you heard.” Trish nodded toward the trainer.

  “Well, it ain’t much. Just that Smithson, the assistant manager, is drivin’ a fancy new Corvette.”

  “Really.” Curt jotted something on his note pad.

  “He drove a dented, chugging, rusted pickup before that,” Trish added.

  Curt raised an eyebrow. “Anything else?”

  All three of them shook their heads.

  “Except Mom’s bad feeling.”

  Curt looked at Marge, who shook her head. “I have no basis for it in fact. Just that sometimes I have a feeling about things, and Hal always said to go with my gut.”

  Curt jotted down something else and stuck his paper back in his pocket. “Well, this gives me something to go on. Maybe I’ll spend some time on the backside and keep my ears open. You hear anything else, you let me know, okay?”

  “Will you be at the city council meeting tomorrow night?” Marge asked.

  “Of course. I’ll see you all then?” His question was for everyone, but his eyes asked Trish. At her nod, he smiled, said good-bye to them all, and strode back to his car. He waved just before climbing into the well-used compact.

  “I think I’ll go to the meeting too.” Rhonda sighed.

  “You nut.” Trish gave her an elbow in the direction of her ribs. “Come on, you can ride Patrick’s filly. I’ll take the gelding.”

  When she got back to the house after chores were finished, a letter from Red lay on the oak table in the entry. “Fiddle.” Trish slit the envelope and read the funny card as she walked down the hall. How come he always managed to write before she did? He must have mailed it from the airport just after they left.

  Before she could get involved in anything else, she sat at her desk and wrote letters to both Red and the Shipsons. Thank you seemed such weak words for all the charming couple had done for her and her mother.

  Trish sealed the envelopes and took them down the hall with her. “You got any stamps?” She paused at the doorway of the kitchen to inhale. “What smells so good?”

  Marge turned from checking something in the oven. “Sure. Stamps are in the desk like always, and roast beef. How about mashed potatoes?”

  “Great.” Trish retrieved the stamps. After sticking them in place, she left the envelopes on the entry table so they’d get mailed. “Mom, I’ve been thinking.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “No, I mean really.” Trish leaned a hip against the counter. “What could we send to the Shipsons as a thank-you gift? A card just doesn’t seem enough.”

  “You’re right.” Marge poured herself a cup of coffee. “How about flowers?” Trish wrinkled her nose. “Candy.” A shake of the head. “How about we give it some thought?”

  “Okay.” Trish rubbed a finger across her chin. It felt like a zit was starting. She headed for the bathroom and some medication. She stared at the face in the mirror, making faces to check her skin. Sure enough, another one by her nose. Must be close to that time of the month. Maybe that’s why she’d been feeling like falling into the yawning pit.

  She made another face at the girl in the mirror and flicked out the light. She had a speech to prepare for next week. What could she talk about?

  Something you’re grateful for. For a change her nagger tried to be helpful.

  She was still thinking about it when she climbed into bed that night. One thing she was grateful for—no chemistry this year. Another thing, tonight she could say her prayers. Somehow when she was angry, like at her mother, praying didn’t seem to work. Maybe because you don’t pray then. Her nagger honed in like a laser.

  She remembered to ask for forgiveness along with the praises. The “please helps” included Portland Meadows. “Please, God, let the track open again. If there is a mess there, please clean it up. And take care of David. The house sure seems lonesome
without him.” Her last thought was that she should have sent him a card by now too. So much to do.

  She ignored Rhonda’s teasing looks all the next day. But it wasn’t hard. Her friend really had a friend, of the male variety. The tall exchange student sat at their table for lunch and hung out at their locker to walk Rhonda to class when he could.

  “Is it okay?” Rhonda asked in an undertone after Jason invited her to go with him for a milkshake after school.

  “Sure.” Trish shoved the books she’d need into her bag and slammed their locker. “Have fun.” But the drive home seemed long and lonely. Was this to be another change in her life? The thought didn’t help lighten her mood any.

  Patrick had Dan’l saddled when Trish got down to the barn. “What’s happening?” Trish took a last bite from her apple and fed the core to Dan’l. The old gray Thoroughbred crunched the treat, then nosed her pockets in the hopes of more. Trish scratched his favorite spot, right behind his ears, and stroked down his cheek while waiting for an answer.

  “Thought we’d give these two a taste of real racing, even though they haven’t learned the gate yet.” Patrick led out the filly, and Brad brought the gelding. “You take her there and Brad, you on the boy.” Patrick gave the instructions after mounting Dan’l.

  Trish and Brad exchanged grins. “Kinda like old times.” Brad settled his mount down to a flat-footed walk. The gelding obeyed for only an instant before he sidestepped and jigged in place.

  “Think you can handle him?” Trish stroked the docile filly’s neck.

  “Who’d you think’s been working this joker while you were gone?” Brad tightened his reins again.

  Trish massaged the inside of her cheek with her tongue. “Shame you didn’t teach him better manners then.” She heard Patrick’s chuckle just behind her. Dan’l snorted and pranced up alongside her left. “Hey, old man, you’re looking mighty fine.”

  “Thank you.” Patrick tipped his hat with his whip.

  “I meant the horse.” Trish grinned to let him know she was teasing.

  “Sure and ye’ll be hurtin’ an old man’s feelin’s.”

  “Right.” Trish nudged her mount into a trot. “Once around and then let them out at the quarter pole, right, Patrick?” At his grunt, she let the filly extend her trot.

  The sun in her face, the breeze ruffling her bangs even under the helmet, the grunt of good horseflesh, and time with her friends. What more could she ask for, Trish thought. She smashed the lid on the thought of her father riding Dan’l instead of Patrick.

  When they neared the quarter pole, they broke into an easy gallop, lining three abreast and, at Patrick’s signal, let the excited horses out.

  Trish, on the rail, crouched over the filly’s withers, the horse’s mane whipping her chin. “Come on, girl, we gotta do this fast. You can’t let those other two past.”

  The filly lengthened her stride, running flat out and low to the ground. Her heavy grunts rang like music in Trish’s ears.

  Dan’l, in the middle, dropped back so the filly and gelding ran neck and neck. Inch by inch the filly pulled ahead. “We did it!” Trish stood in her stirrups and eased the filly back to a slow gallop. “We won! Good girl.”

  “Just because you weigh so much less.” Brad kept pace with his mount. “This poor fella had to carry too much weight.”

  “excuses, excuses.” Trish flipped her goggles up and after sitting back in the saddle, patted the filly’s dark neck. “Face it, girls are just better than guys, right girl?” The filly snorted and tossed her head.

  Brad snorted too, but the sound carried a different meaning.

  “Isn’t that right, Patrick?” Trish threw a grin at the trainer when he trotted up to join them.

  “Don’t answer,” Brad said. “She’ll get the big head if you agree. Besides, we all know that men are better. That’s why God created Adam first.”

  “Naa, He got it right on the second time. Practice makes perfect, you know.”

  By this time they were back at the barn.

  “Children, children. You’ll never solve that old quibble, so let it be.” Marge stood with her hands on her hips, laughing up at them. “Sorry, Patrick. I tried to teach them correct biblical principles.”

  “You did fine with me, Mrs. E. Just that girl-child you messed up with.” Brad ducked behind his horse when Trish faked a punch at him.

  “How about if we all go out to dinner before the meeting?” Marge held the filly’s reins while Trish stripped the saddle off. “You can eat with us and then go home if you’d rather not go to the council meeting, Brad.”

  “You think I’d miss that? No way.” Brad brought buckets out with him so they could wash the horses down.

  “How about pizza?” Trish heard Patrick’s groan. “All right then, Mexican.” A groan this time from Marge.

  “Patrick likes good old American best.” Brad cross-tied his horse and started sponging him down. “And not hamburgers.”

  “Steak it is.” Marge picked up a sponge and started on the filly. “If we hurry, we’ll get there before the crowd.”

  Between them, they had all three animals washed, scraped, and on the hot-walker in record time.

  “You’re getting pretty good at this horse stuff,” Trish said as she and her mother walked up the rise to the house.

  “Strange, isn’t it? All those years I missed out on.”

  “You been riding yet?”

  “Tee, give me a break. Training, washing, the business end—all that’s in. Riding is definitely out. You can be queen of the saddle.”

  “You might really enjoy it. You know Dan’l could use more exercise.” Trish shoved open the sliding door off the deck.

  “Fine. We’ll put him on the walker more often.”

  It is strange, Trish thought as she changed clothes. Mom used to be almost afraid of the horses, and now look at her. But when the picture of her father riding Dan’l galloped into her mind, she blacked it out immediately. Would she ever be able to think of him without crying?

  Curt Donovan met them on the front steps of the city hall building. “He didn’t win the lottery,” he said after greeting them all and being introduced to Brad.

  “No rich uncle either?” Marge asked.

  “No time to check that, but I’d sure like to see his bank account.”

  “Can you do that?” Trish turned in surprise.

  “Not legally. We’d need a subpoena. But I can find out if he paid cash.”

  “How?” Trish let the others go through the door ahead of her.

  “I have a friend at the dealership where he bought the car.”

  “How’d you know…”

  “Checked the license plate, dummy,” Brad chimed in. At Trish’s questioning look, he shook his head. “You know, they all have their signs on either the plates or the surrounding frame.”

  “Oh.” Trish shrugged. “That must be a guy thing, knowing stuff like that.”

  Brad shook his head again. “We’ve been having this discussion,” he answered in response to Curt’s questioning look.

  “That’s going to stop now. They’ve already started the meeting.” Marge led the way through the door. They joined Bob Diego and several other Thoroughbred breeders and trainers in the back rows.

  After discussion raged on several other issues, the mayor finally announced the agenda item for Portland Meadows.

  The topic had no more been introduced when one of the council members raised his hand. “I move we close the Portland Meadows Racetrack, effective immediately.”

  Trish felt her jaw sag. Surely she hadn’t heard him right!

  Chapter

  08

  Don’t panic. That’s how the process starts,” Curt whispered.

  Trish let her breath out again, unaware she’d been holding it. “Good.”

  “Is there any discussion?” Mayor Bonnie Muldoon asked, then nodded at the presenting council member. “John.”

  The man shuffled some papers in front
of him. “You all know that the track has been a problem for years, both financially and socially.” He continued on with his comments, all in the negative. The five minutes seemed to stretch for an hour.

  Trish felt like jumping to her feet and yelling back. Marge put her hand on her daughter’s arm. Wasn’t anyone going to speak for the track?

  The man droned on. “And so you see, closing the track will not only cease to be a drain on city resources, we will be able to dispense with both a criminal and social problem with the transients out there.”

  Trish shut her mouth with a snap. What in the world was the idiot talking about? She turned to make a comment to her mother but again felt a restraining hand on her arm.

  “We’ll talk later,” Marge whispered.

  A current phrase flashed through Trish’s mind: “Never let ’em see you sweat.” She pasted herself to the back of the seat and forced her face to hide her thoughts, not telegraph them. Only by crossing her arms over her chest could she subdue the shaking.

  Would no one defend horse racing in Portland?

  Another council member raised his hand to talk. “Now I think we are getting the cart before the horse here,” he said. “We race both Thoroughbreds and quarter horses out there at the track, and I think we need to hear from some of those folks.”

  Trish breathed a sigh of relief.

  Before the mayor could recognize Bob Diego, the man who spoke earlier began talking again. Trish read his nameplate: John Reimer.

  “Why doesn’t he be quiet?” Trish muttered under her breath.

  She stared at the man talking. His dark three-piece suit stuck out from the other casual attire like a black sheep in a light flock. As she listened, his arguments made sense if one didn’t know about life at the track and the people there. It made her want to gag.

  Curt sat beside her, taking notes.

  “Thank you, John,” the mayor interrupted. “Mr. Diego, you wanted the floor?”

  “Madam Mayor, I have here a petition from the Thoroughbred Association, asking for a delay in making the decision, called a continuance, I believe.” Tall, dark, and with a commanding air, Diego spoke with a slight Spanish accent, his words carrying the same air of confidence he projected.