Golden Filly Collection Two

by Lauraine Snelling

  Trish felt like clapping. Talk about a good presentation; Diego had it.

  The mayor looked down at her calendar. “Agreed. We will bring this issue to a vote in three weeks. That will give you time to present any reasons for not closing the track.” Diego nodded.

  “But, Mayor, I showed you all we need to know.” Reimer leaned forward. “There’s no need for a continuance. I—”

  The mayor slammed her gavel. “Next order of business.”

  When Trish looked back at Reimer, the daggers in his gaze pinned her to the seat. Chills snaked up her spine and out to her fingertips. The man was furious. But when she glanced to her mother and then back to the front, a mask had fallen in place…just like the daggers had never been there.

  When the mayor announced an intermission, the TBA group gathered in the hall.

  “So what happens now?” Marge asked the question Trish had on the tip of her tongue.

  “Now we hire a lawyer and start preparing affidavits of fiscal and social responsibility.” Bob Diego tapped the papers he carried against his other hand. “We have to convince them that keeping the track open is a sound business plan and good for the city of Portland. Not just for us.”

  “Mr. Diego, you heard Reimer’s accusations about the problems at the track. What do you have to say?” Curt Donovan asked.

  “I hate to hear anyone calling our people transients. They work too hard for that.” A murmur of agreement ran through the group. “And his hinting at mafia or underworld connections, those innuendoes go along with all the racetracks, and it’s just not true. At least not here.”

  “But there have been money problems out there?”

  “They’ve had a hard time finding a good management company.”

  “Excuse me,” Trish muttered to her mother. Without waiting for an answer, she strode after Mr. Reimer. This time her “excuse me” rang more loudly.

  The man stopped and turned. “Yes?”

  Trish hadn’t realized how big he was until she stood toe to toe with him. “What is it you really have against Portland Meadows?” She forced her voice to remain calm.

  “You heard me in the council room.” As if playing to an audience, his voice expanded. “I pledged my support for a cleaner city, one without the riffraff around the track.”

  Trish narrowed her eyes. “I’m at the track a lot. Am I riffraff?”

  “Now see here, young lady.”

  “The name’s Trish Evanston. And without Portland Meadows I wouldn’t have won the Triple Crown this year. I think you need to do some more research. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I hate to take up any more of your valuable time.” Trish spun on her heel and returned to her group.

  “Bravo, Trish.” Curt silently clapped his hands.

  “You shouldn’ta done that.” Patrick shook his head, his eyes sad.

  Trish was sure if she turned around, she’d see the daggers again. With her back to the man, she could feel them. She didn’t dare look at her mother.

  By the time they walked out to the van, Trish felt as if she’d been riding a monster roller coaster—for an hour.

  “But what can we do?” Trish slammed the van door after her.

  “Attend the TBA meeting on Sunday.” Marge turned the ignition. “And keep our mouths shut in public, at least until we know more.”

  Patrick buckled his seat belt. “What kind of business does that Reimer have?”

  “He’s a lawyer,” Brad answered. “I asked one of the other council members.”

  “Figures.” Trish rested her elbows on her knees. “I didn’t like him much.”

  “Now that’s an understatement if I ever heard one.” Marge followed the arrows out to the I-5 freeway.

  “What time is your flight tomorrow?” Brad asked.

  “Seven, why?”

  “I can take you over, if you want. Maybe Rhonda’d like to come too.”

  “I wish one of you would fly down with me so I wouldn’t have to drive home alone.”

  “Sorry, gotta work for my dad tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, and Rhonda has a show tomorrow and Sunday. One of these days I’m going to get to watch her jump again.” Trish hid a yawn behind one hand. “How about you, Patrick? You want a quick trip to sunny California? My treat.”

  “Don’t do me no favors.” Patrick tapped her knee with his hat. “Besides, I’m busy.”

  “You can take some time off, you know. Mother isn’t that bad a slave driver.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Besides, Patrick and I have something to do tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a garden show at Washington Park. We have tickets.”

  “Oh.” That’s all Trish could think to say.

  “And there’s the TBA meeting on Sunday. You do want someone from Runnin’ On there, don’t you?” What could Trish say?

  Getting off the plane the next evening in California was like stepping into another world. Margaret greeted her with open arms.

  “Oh, I’ve missed you so. Adam and I just rattle around in the condo without you there.” She kept an arm about Trish’s shoulders. “And how is your mother?”

  Trish talked nonstop all the way home, bringing her “other” mother up-to-date on their adventures.

  “And Spitfire remembered you?” Margaret asked questions whenever Trish took a breath.

  “Boy, did he. I hated leaving him again.” Trish patted away a yawn. “How’s Adam?”

  “You’ll see in a minute. He said he’d wait up for us.”

  Walking into the condo felt about as comfortable as walking into her home in Vancouver. Trish set down her bag and gave Adam a hug.

  “So, you’re in trouble already, I hear?” Adam kept his hands on her upper arms and studied her face.

  “What?”

  “Trouble—can’t keep you out of it, no matter how hard we all try.”

  Trish looked at Margaret, question marks all over her face.

  “Don’t tease her, dear. Can’t you tell she has no idea what you’re talking about?”

  Trish felt like she’d just come in on a movie halfway through.

  Adam dropped his hands and fished in his shirt pocket. He pulled out a folded paper and handed it to her.

  “Patrick faxed this to me. I thought you’d already seen it.”

  Trish read the article through. “Well, I have to say he did a good job.”

  “You know this Donovan fellow?”

  “Yep. He’s nice. Told him all our suspicions about the track.” She glanced back at the article. Third paragraph from the bottom talked about her confronting Reimer. She shrugged with a grin. “What can I say? The guy bugs me.”

  “He sounds like one of the movers and shakers.”

  “Yeah, the way he talked about the people at The Meadows, I wanted to move and shake him. According to Reimer, everyone out there is either a low-life transient or part of the mafia.”

  “So, from what the article says, TBA has three weeks to prove The Meadows is financially sound and should be supported?”

  “Right.” Trish shook her head. “Big order. ’Cause it’s not, and we don’t know why.”

  Before going to bed, Trish called home to let her mother know she’d arrived safely. Funny, how it seemed she lived in two separate worlds, one in Washington and the other here in California. Was she ready to be a truly professional jockey and travel all over the country, following the racing seasons? Maybe jetting around to ride certain horses? She snorted at her wonderings.

  Not to worry. No one would fly her anywhere to ride with her lousy win record.

  Trish shivered in the predawn chill. Trees and lampposts appeared to float on low-lying fog, the same fog that distorted both human and animal sounds, giving the track a spectral air.

  “This would be fine for Halloween.” Trish tried to bury her head in her jacket collar.

  “Look at you, two weeks off and you’ve turned into a wimp.”

  “It’s supposed to be wa
rm in California, don’t ya know?” When they rounded the corner to approach the Finley stalls, Firefly nickered immediately.

  “See, she missed you.” Adam waved at the bright sorrel filly. In the stall next to her, Gatesby hung his head over the gate and, trailing a mouthful of hay, tossed his head and nickered. “So did he.”

  “All he missed was my shoulder. Cut it out, you goof.” Trish hung on to the gelding’s halter to keep him from landing his famous nonverbal hello. She moved down the line, stroking and greeting each of the horses. Even their new addition, Gimmeyourheart, accepted her caresses.

  When she reached the office, Adam handed her a whip and helmet. “Get up there and go to work and you’ll warm up all right.” Trish tucked the grip of the whip into her back pocket and raised her knee for the mount. “Just loosen him up. You’re in the third with this old boy.” Adam patted the gelding’s neck. “Not been much for the winner’s circle, but he’s usually in the money. You two pushed the winner across the line last time.”

  “Yeah, maybe if we hadn’t pushed so hard, we’da won.” Trish tucked her gloved hands under her knees. “Hey, fella, at least you’re warm.” When Adam shook his head and tsked, Trish took up the reins and headed for the track.

  In spite of her grousing, being back in the saddle felt mighty good. Bay Meadows felt more like home now than Portland Meadows. Fog and chill at both places. She smiled at the thought. But here the sun would be out soon, and the bustle told everyone there was racing ahead. Would that happen in Portland?

  She forced her mind back to concentrate on the horse under her and those moving at paces from walk to breeze to flat-out. Her mount jigged sideways as they trotted counterclockwise around the outer edge of the track.

  “Hey, Trish, welcome back!” One of the women jockeys waved when they met and passed. Another jockey saluted her with a whip to his helmet. When Trish dismounted back at the barn, Juan’s grin stretched across his face and back again.

  Carlos boosted her aboard her next mount. “Good to have you back.” Since he was never one to waste words, his greeting made her feel even more a part of the family.

  “Gatesby been behavin’ himself?” Trish asked.

  “Right.” Since Carlos’s black eyebrows met his equally dark and shiny hair, the one word made up for many.

  “You think he could make it at Golden Gate?”

  “Possibly. If we don’t knock him in the head first.”

  Trish’s grin drew an answering one. “Don’t eat all the bagels before I get done.”

  With works finished, Trish, Adam, and Carlos relaxed in the office around the coffeepot and bagel box. “So, according to that article, something smells rotten in Portland.” Carlos wiped the cream cheese off his mustache.

  “Could be. Curt Donovan—he wrote that article—says he’ll do some snooping. Who knows what good he can do, but let me tell you, that Reimer ticked me off from his first words.”

  “He’s a lawyer, right?” Trish nodded. “Then who’s here presenting?” Adam sipped from his chipped “lucky mug.”

  Trish thought a moment. “He never said. He’s a council member, though.”

  “Could be a conflict of interests there if he’s tied up with anyone.”

  “Meaning?” Trish stopped chewing and stared at him.

  “Well, he’s supposed to look out for the good of the city, not any special interests, like TBA or…”

  “He’s not looking out for TBA, that’s for sure.”

  “I know, that’s just an example. Ya gotta keep an open mind.”

  “My mother wants me to keep my mind out of it, along with any other part of me that might get involved.” Trish swigged her orange juice.

  “She’s right.” Adam got up to pour himself another cup of coffee. “Anything going on here that I need to know about?” This question he directed at Carlos. “Good, then I have a meeting to attend. See you later.”

  Later for Trish was in the saddling paddock, preparing for the third race. “Now you just relax,” Adam reminded her. “You both know what to do so give it your best.”

  Trish followed the pony rider out into bright sunlight. The clamor of the crowd, the blue of the sky, and the snapping flags over the infield combined to put her on top of the world. They paraded around the track and then back past the grandstand with Trish stiff-legged, high above the gelding’s withers. He entered gate three like the pro he was and with no further ado, they were off.

  Trish crouched tight against his mane, singing her song to his twitching ears. When she asked for more coming out of the second turn, he lengthened out and pounded after the two front-runners. Like an out-of-control express train, he bore down on and passed the horse running second. Stride by stride he ate up the length between them and the front-runner.

  Trish could hear the crowd roaring. The two white pillars loomed ahead. Her mount grunted with each stride. Neck out, ears forward, he drew even, neck and neck. Nose to nose. And he was past. One length, two. He charged across the finish line like he won every race.

  “Yahoo!” Trish pumped the air with the whip in her fist. “Thank you, God. What a way to start the day.”

  She tried to smile professionally for the picture but couldn’t suppress the beaming. Winning felt so good.

  “That’s my girl.” Adam and Martha flanked her, with Carlos holding the gelding’s bridle. “See you again in the seventh.”

  Trish hustled back to change silks for her mount in the fourth. The trainer counseled her about keeping the filly back until the stretch because she had a tendency to run herself out too soon. This would be her first time at a mile.

  Trish nodded and stroked the gray neck. Again the crowd greeted the post parade with a roar. The filly acted as if the show was all for her benefit and walked into the gate like a pro.

  A horse two down had to be gated twice, but then they were off. The poles whipped by. The filly decided to let Trish be the boss after the first turn and settled down to run. Which she did. She ran the others right into the dirt and won going away by four lengths.

  Two wins in one day. This felt like old times at The Meadows back up in Portland, where Trish had won nearly half of her races.

  After the ceremonies, Trish stopped her walk back to the jockey room when she heard a voice call her. She looked around to find the reporter who’d dubbed her “The Comeback Kid.”

  “Lookin’ good there, Trish. How does it feel to be back in the winner’s circle?”

  “Good. Awesome good.”

  “Heard you were in Kentucky. You going to ride in the Breeder’s Cup?”

  “Who knows. I’m just glad to be riding today.”

  “You heard any more from Chrysler?”

  “Nope, I think your sources are all wet. They use models in ads like that, not a kid like me.” She waved a thanks at congratulations from someone in the crowd.

  “I’ll be the first to say I told you so. And good luck on the rest of your rides today. Sorry you’re leaving California.”

  Trish looked after his retreating figure. How’d he know so much about her? And who were those sources of his? She shook hands with a young girl who offered her program for an autograph. After signing it, Trish answered what had become a pretty standard question: “No, I don’t get to race Spitfire again. And yes, you can try to be a jockey when you get older. Start by learning all you can about horses and riding right now.”

  By the time she got up to the jockey room, she needed a drink, and water wasn’t enough. She headed for the pop machine, quarters in hand. She could hear a Diet Coke calling her name.

  Her third mount quit running two furlongs from the finish line. It was all she could do to keep him going until the end.

  Adam winked at her from his place by the fence. He met her by the walkway to the jockey rooms. “You think we should’ve put a claimer on that one?” Her snort made him laugh.

  Her agent called to her before she went in. “Hey, Trish, I got a new one for you in the eighth, that oka
y?”

  “Sure. How come?”

  “Jockey came up sick. Think he has the Heidelberg flu.”

  Trish rolled her tongue across her teeth. The Heidelberg flu meant the jockey suffered from a hangover. She felt no sympathy at all for him.

  “Glad to. I’m riding for Adam in the seventh. That makes five mounts today. Super!”

  “Might as well go out with a bang.” He shook her hand. “If I don’t see you again before you leave, have a good trip. And I sure hope they race in Portland this year.”

  “Thanks. Me too.”

  Trish brought Adam’s other horse in for a show. It was the filly’s first stakes race, and Adam thumped her on the knee with joy. “You did good, kid.”

  And Trish agreed. She’d pulled the filly out of a tight spot and felt grateful for the placing.

  She mounted a rangy gelding for her final race. He met her with ears back and shook his head when the trainer secured the blinkers in place.

  “Maybe we should scratch him,” the trainer said in an undertone.

  “Naw, he’ll be fine,” the owner insisted. “He just got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.” When the trainer tried to say something else, the burly owner cut him off.

  Trish felt guilty for eavesdropping. But at this point, she wished the trainer had more guts.

  The horse argued with the pony rider and half reared when the gatekeepers tried to lead him into slot five. Trish felt alarm leap from bone to bone up her spine.

  “Come on, knothead.” She forced the soothing tone into her voice. The horse shook his head. His back arched beneath her.

  “Watch him.” The gate assistant’s warning was lost in the animal’s shrill whinny.

  Chapter

  09

  He’s going over!”

  Trish heard the warning as she felt the animal rise beneath her. As he went up, she pushed herself up and out of the irons. She threw herself at the round iron bars separating each horse. Anything to keep from being crushed against the rear gate by the brute she rode.