Golden Filly Collection Two

by Lauraine Snelling

  You haven’t even been giving God the glory like you promised, her nagger whispered in her ear. Let alone counting it joy. What happened to giving thanks for all things?

  Trish nodded. He was right. She finished reading the verse. “For you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you might be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.”

  Now, perfect and complete, that sounded pretty good. She closed the book and put it away. “God, how am I supposed to do all this? And you know, it doesn’t really make a lot of sense.”

  She waited, as if hoping for a mighty voice to explain all these goings-on. Outside, the branches of the tree scraped against the house in the night breeze. Beside her bed, the clock ticked as the number panels fell to the next minute.

  “What am I supposed to do? What’s going to happen?” She sighed. What a mystery. She clutched the blanket under her chin. What was happening was she was changing from girl-super-jockey to girl-sleuth, and she’d never read a mystery in her life.

  She lay in the quiet. So I just give thanks and count it all joy—right? Her song trickled through her mind. She hummed along with it. How easy to picture eagle’s wings and soaring over the earth. She snuggled deeper. And those large, warm hands holding her. She fell asleep with a smile on her face and a matching one in her heart.

  “Curt’s story hit the front page.” Marge handed the paper across the table. “He writes well.”

  Trish studied the story of the TBA meeting and the continuing investigation. “At least he didn’t quote me this time,” she said after finishing the bottom few paragraphs about the students gathering petition signatures. “Mom?”

  “Ummm?”

  “You remember that new man at the meeting last night?”

  “Sure, why?” Marge lowered her paper.

  “He looks so familiar, like I’ve seen him before, but I can’t remember when.” Trish rubbed her forehead with the fingertips of both hands.

  “His name was—ah—Highstreet, Kendal Highstreet. He’s a businessman up from California, thinking of buying a farm up here since land prices are so outrageous in California. He wants to breed and race Thoroughbreds.”

  “That’s it. I saw him at the track kitchen the morning I went over there. He was sitting with…” Trish scrunched her eyes closed, trying to see the picture again. “With a couple of owners and Ward Turner, the track manager.”

  “So?”

  Trish shrugged. “I don’t know. Just seemed important somehow.” She carefully brushed toast crumbs into her palm and dusted them off over the plate. “You doing anything special today?”

  “I’ll let you know more when I do.” Marge disappeared behind her paper again.

  Trish drained the last of her milk and got to her feet. Her mother’s curious response bugged her all the way to Rhonda’s.

  “You thought anything about your birthday yet?” Rhonda asked. “It’s only two days away.”

  “I’m not having a birthday this year.”

  “Trish, why that’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

  Trish rolled her eyes and sniffed. Good thing they were stopped at a stop sign. How could her mood change so fast? Raindrops splattered on the windshield. How fitting. Tears both outside and in. And here she’d promised herself no more crying. Especially after the storms of yesterday.

  “You need to pay better attention, lass,” Patrick reminded her when she brought the bay gelding back to the stables that afternoon. “He nearly dumped you out there.”

  “I know.” Trish patted the deep red neck and jumped to the ground. Sure she knew enough to pay attention. And her inattention nearly cost her. Blowing leaves were enough to spook any horse, but a good rider would have anticipated his reaction—been prepared.

  She was reminded again when they worked each of the horses through the starting gates. Old gray Dan’l acted as instructor and tran-quilizer, pacing through the gate without the flicker of an ear. But one of the fillies didn’t care for the tight squeeze and bolted—or rather tried to. Trish caught her in time.

  “Tomorrow we’ll close the front gate and let them stand there.” Patrick slipped the saddle off the filly. “You two wash this one down and I’ll take care of Dan’l. Oh, Brad, Marge said to remind you about supper tonight.”

  “You mean dinner?” Brad winked at Trish. Patrick still couldn’t get used to calling the evening meal dinner.

  “Whatever. Just get busy, you two, or we’ll eat without you.” Patrick went back to his brushing of the gray gelding.

  Trish and Brad could hear him muttering about “smart aleck kids,” but they knew he was teasing. She wondered sometimes if he didn’t say some things just to get a rise out of them.

  They’d finished dinner before Marge brought up the reason for the family meeting. Trish scraped the plates, stacked them, and carried them in to the sink. On her return, she brought the coffeepot and poured three cups. She only felt like drinking coffee in the morning and then at the track.

  “I was hoping you could go to Kentucky with us,” she was saying to Brad. “With all you’ve done, I thought you might like a trip.”

  “Would I! Old David will be there too?” At Marge’s nod, he said, “Good.”

  “Adam called today and asked if we’d decided yet when or if we were bringing the horses back up. Or if we were bringing others down. Either way, he has to arrange for stalls, so he needs to know. I told him what’s happened here and that we still don’t know if The Meadows will open or not.”

  “When does he have to know?” Patrick pulled on one earlobe, a sure sign that he was thinking.

  “Soon. Also he wants to schedule races for those down there if they are going to stay.”

  Trish could feel the slow burn starting again. “Well, why not leave them there? I haven’t raced for so long, I’ve probably forgotten how.” She shoved her chair back and stood up. “I have homework to do. Whatever you decide is fine with me.”

  Liar! That seemed to be one of her nagger’s favorite names for her. He repeated it as she strode down the hall.

  The argument the next night had been raging for hours. At least it seemed so to Trish. Except she was the only one raging. Her mother sat calmly in her chair, knitting.

  “How about if we go out to dinner, like we always have?”

  “Mother, I don’t want to go out to dinner. It won’t be like it’s always been because Dad and David aren’t here.”

  “Choose something else then.”

  “That’s the point. I am choosing. It’s my choice and I choose to do nothing.”

  “We could get pizza with Brad and Rhonda—invite Patrick. I bet he hasn’t had birthday cake for years. Rent a movie.”

  “You don’t get it, do you? We’re—I’m skipping my birthday this year.” She started to leave the room. “The rest of you can go do whatever you want.”

  It was the worst birthday of her life.

  Chapter

  12

  Trish, you’re going to be late for school.”

  “No, I won’t. I’m not going.” Trish pulled the covers over her aching head and burrowed down into that cocoon of gray where pain didn’t hurt so bad and the crack in her heart didn’t show.

  “Are you running a fever?” Marge sat down on the bed and felt Trish’s forehead. “Sore throat?”

  Trish wished she could lie. “I hurt all over but it’s not a cold.” A tear squeezed from under her clenched eyelid.

  “The old black pit?”

  Trish nodded. “Maybe if I sleep more today, I’ll feel like going tomorrow.”

  “You know you’re letting people down?”

  Trish nodded.

  “Yourself most of all.”

  Who cares? Trish wanted to scream. Who gives a flying fig? Just get off my case! But she didn’t. Screaming was far too much trouble. Took far too much energy. When she sensed her nagger tsking on her shoulder, she snatched a tissue from the box and tried
to blow him away. Her head hurt. Maybe she was coming down with a cold after all.

  “Trish, I know how you feel. When your dad’s and my anniversary rolled around, I felt like crawling in a hole and pulling it in after me too. The grief group helped me through a real rough time. I know the one for teens could help you.”

  “I’ll think about it, okay?” Her tone said Just leave me alone.

  Marge remained sitting silently on the bed for a time, then stood with a sigh. “Hiding out isn’t the best way to handle this, Tee. Trust me, I know.”

  You sure do, Trish thought. You checked out for days.

  And what good did it do? Her nagger chimed in. You know better than this. What happened to all that joy and giving God the glory? Sticking her fingers in her ears didn’t help.

  Trish tried to go back to sleep, but by now she was wide awake. Even deep breathing to relax failed to bring oblivion. Finally she threw back the covers and headed for the shower. So she missed first period. She’d make it on time for second.

  “You look awful,” Rhonda said when they met at the locker before lunch.

  “Thanks.”

  “Your mom said you were hiding out.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s a big help.”

  “Trish, the grief group meets this afternoon. I know things are rough for you right now, but this could help. I’ll go with you.”

  Trish shoved her books in her locker and almost climbed in after them. With her face hidden in the locker, she gave up. “All right, I’ll go.” She jerked upright and glared at Rhonda. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll say anything.” She slammed the metal door. “And then both you and my mother can get off my back!”

  Rhonda didn’t say anything through lunch, and the others at the table saw the scowl on Trish’s face and left her alone.

  When he got up to leave, Doug Ramstead laid a hand on her shoulder. “It’ll get better,” he whispered in her ear.

  Trish pushed to her feet and fled the room.

  The group met at the local Methodist church. Trish parked in the graveled parking lot and ordered her fingers to unclench from around the steering wheel. They were as reluctant as the rest of her. When she finally slammed the van door, Rhonda came around the vehicle, put an arm around her friend’s shoulders, and squeezed. Together they walked up the four stairs to the front of the cedar-sided building. A sign with an arrow pointed to a comfortably furnished room with bookshelves along one wall and a fireplace on another. Extra chairs joined the sofas and easy chairs in a circle. Half of them held teens of varying ages.

  A young woman stood and extended her hand. “Hi, I’m Jessica Walden, the facilitator for this bunch. Welcome.”

  Trish put on her company manners and introduced both herself and Rhonda. “My mom thinks this group will help me and Rhonda—” She didn’t say “dragged me here,” but anyone of sensitivity could hear it.

  “Came along for moral support.” Rhonda beamed as if she’d just won a jumping trophy.

  “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, Trish,” Jessica said. “And you can call me Jessie. I even answer to ‘hey you’ on occasion. We’ll have everyone introduce themselves when we start. If you want something to drink first, there’s sodas in the fridge or ice water.”

  Trish declined even though her mouth felt stuffed with cotton balls. The butterflies trapped in her stomach flipped and flopped, seeking release.

  When the kids started introducing themselves, Trish almost ran again. But when her turn came, she lifted her chin, gave her name, and finished with, “My father died of cancer in June.”

  She listened to the others share their feelings and fears, all the while fighting back her own tears. When someone started to cry, Jessie passed the tissue box, and the two on either side of the girl patted her shoulders or rubbed her back.

  I’m not gonna talk. I’m not gonna talk. Trish repeated the words like a rap song. She went into a state of shock when her mouth said, “I just had a birthday and my father wasn’t here for it.”

  “Your first holiday?” someone asked.

  Trish nodded.

  “That’s always the worst. Christmas will be really rough too,” someone else chimed in.

  “This group helped me get through those first ‘happy’ occasions.” The girl on Trish’s left looked at her with caring deep in her brown eyes. “Happy they weren’t. But I got through, and now the depression doesn’t hit me so hard.”

  “You were depressed?”

  The girl nodded. “We all have been, one time or another or all the time.”

  “Whatever fits,” someone else added.

  “We learn here to take it one day at a time,” Jessie said. “And that there are others who’ve been there who can be there for us now.”

  “Sometimes I get so mad I—” Trish swallowed hard.

  “Yep…yeah…me too…sure…right on.” The voices echoed around the circle.

  Trish leaned back in her chair. “So what do you do?”

  “Talk it out. Run. Cry till it’s over. Pray. Call one of my friends here.” Again the answers came from around the circle.

  “Just don’t stuff it,” Jessie said.

  “Or try to tough it out.” The girl next to Trish patted her arm. “Talk. Call me.” She wrote her phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to Trish. “My name’s Angela.”

  Trish left the room feeling two tons lighter than when she went in. “You don’t have to go with me next week,” she told Rhonda as they walked back to the van. “Thanks for coming today. And making me come.”

  “I didn’t make you.”

  “Wanna bet?” Now she owed just about everyone in her life an apology.

  The next day in government class, Ms. Wainwright made a major announcement. “We did it! You did it. You collected more than five thousand signatures over the necessary number. The county clerk figured that even with all the mistakes and people signing twice, we’re well over our goal.”

  The class broke into cheers.

  “So, Trish, the results will be presented to the city council at their next meeting. Why don’t you come up and tell us what has been happening at Portland Meadows lately?”

  Trish got to her feet, her butterflies suddenly doing their flip-flop routine. When she turned to face the class, she remembered why she’d rather race. There she didn’t have to say anything.

  “All the Thoroughbred and quarter-horse owners and trainers are going ahead with training as if the track will open on time. The program for the season is all planned, so we’ve been paying pre-race fees just like we always do.

  “Some of the trainers are at the track, but we still have our horses at home since we have a half-mile training track there. Four of our best horses are still down in California, where I raced this summer.”

  “Where’s Spitfire?” someone asked.

  “Back in Kentucky at BlueMist Farms, where he will stand at stud this winter. I went back to visit him over Labor Day weekend.”

  “What if our petitions don’t work and the track never opens?” a boy asked from a seat by the windows.

  Trish took a moment to answer. That had been the big question on her mind for forever, it seemed. “Some of the trainers are talking about racing in other parts of the country. Lots of the smaller stable owners will probably sell out or send their horses to trainers elsewhere. That costs a lot, so unless you have a really good horse, you wouldn’t do that.”

  “What happened about your car?”

  “Got me.”

  Mutual groans came from the back. Everyone knew about her bright red convertible, now impounded. When she saw no more hands, Trish started back to her seat. She paused and then said, “All of us at the track want to thank you for what you did. They were pretty impressed that you took the time to collect signatures. Thanks.”

  “Aw, Ms. Wainwright made us do it. No big deal.”

  Trish returned to her seat under cover of the laughter that broke out.

  “You’ll keep
us posted then, Trish?” the teacher asked.

  Trish just wished she had more to tell them. Who was responsible for the troubles at Portland Meadows? What was happening with the police investigation? How come she hadn’t heard from Curt lately? She returned to reality in time to hear the assignment. “Describe your experiences collecting signatures and what you learned.”

  What had she learned? The whole thing wasn’t over yet.

  When she got home a message lay on the counter for her to call Curt. Trish dialed the Portland number and tucked the phone onto her shoulder while she flipped through the stack of mail. A card from Red. This was certainly her day. A picture of Garfield clutching his chest made her smile. The inside read, “I’m dying to hear from you.” Trish giggled. At least she’d written him a letter, so they’d crossed in the mail.

  Curt’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Trish, they indicted Smithson. He’s in jail right now, and from what I heard, singing like a canary.”

  “Yes!” Trish pumped the air with a closed fist. “So now what’s going to happen?”

  “Hopefully they’ll snag whoever’s behind all this and Portland Meadows can get on with business. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear any more.”

  Trish hung up and danced all the way down the hall. Surely now the council would see the truth and reopen the track. She changed clothes and, after grabbing an apple, jogged down to the barns, Caesar barking and leaping beside her.

  “That’s wonderful,” Marge said, never taking her eyes from Miss Tee working on the lunge line. The filly tossed her head and nickered when she saw Trish. Maybe all those carrot pieces were finally paying off. “Okay, girl, we’ll quit for today.” Marge looped the line over her arm and drew the filly in. “Good job, little one. Isn’t she getting prettier all the time?”

  Trish agreed. The young horse was filling out, and she carried her head with the same style Spitfire did. Even though she’d be racing a year late because of her late birth, she had all the earmarks of a winner. Trish rubbed the filly’s ears and the tiny white star set smack in the middle of the broad forehead.