Golden Filly Collection Two

by Lauraine Snelling

  Trish signed the program with a flourish and handed it back to him. “Thanks for coming, in spite of the weather.”

  He took the program back and touched it to his forehead before walking away.

  “You care to put your police powers to work to find out who he is?” Trish stared after the cashmere-jacket-clad back.

  “I thought you liked Red.”

  “I do, but…”

  “I know, he’s dynamite.” The two headed for the locker room, laughing at themselves and each other.

  Since Trish was finished for the day, she showered again and picked up her bag. “You know, I can get used to having a valet. Thanks for packing my stuff.”

  “At your service. Just means we can get home faster and crank up that fireplace. Your mom said she invited company for dinner.”

  “Who?”

  Amy shrugged. “Got me.”

  Company included Brad, Rhonda, and Patrick.

  “I decided we needed a send-off dinner.” Marge set the platter of fried chicken on the table. “After all, it’s not every day my daughter turns from jockey to model and then rides in the Breeder’s Cup. And our Spitfire stars in the same commercial.” She set the mashed potatoes and gravy in place.

  Amy brought the broccoli and cheese and a basket of fluffy biscuits.

  “Mrs. E, you sure know the way to this man’s stomach.” Brad took his place at the end of the table, where David usually sat.

  “Man? What man?” Trish looked around the room and even under the table. “The only man I see here is Patrick.” She turned to Amy. “What about you?”

  Amy shook her head. “I’m staying out of this one.” She took the chair next to Rhonda. “What about you?”

  “Just feed me. I’ve been studying all day.”

  “Poor baby, in a nice warm room, dry, no wind. My heart bleeds for you.”

  “Yeah, and how much did you learn today?”

  “Enough, children. Let’s eat.” Marge raised both hands, traffic-cop style. “Trish, you say the blessing.”

  The teasing continued on through dinner and into an evening in front of the fireplace. When Brad took out the black mesh popcorn popper, Amy flopped back on the floor with a groan.

  “I didn’t know people really did this anymore. In my book, popcorn is a microwave miracle.”

  “Wait till you taste it.” Trish handed Brad a mitten-style hot pad. The fragrance of popping corn floated through the room, teasing nostrils and taste buds. “Shake harder, big B, so you don’t burn it.”

  “You do it, smarty.” He handed her the wooden handle. “I’ll get a bowl.” Bounding to his feet, Brad headed for the kitchen. As he went by, the phone rang, so he reached over and picked it up.

  “No, Brad.” Amy leaped to her feet.

  “Runnin’ On Farm. Hello? Hel—lo.” He held the phone away from his ear. “Funny, I could have sworn someone was listening.” He dropped the receiver back in the cradle just as Amy reached him. “Wrong number, I guess.”

  “Brad, I’m the one who answers all the calls here. Now, did the person say anything?”

  Brad shook his head.

  “Did you hear any background noise?”

  Again, a head shake. “Sorry, Amy. It was just such a habit. Phone rings, whoever’s closest picks it up.”

  “I know. Tell me exactly what you heard.”

  Brad scrunched his brows to think better. He shook his head again. “Nothing, no sound at all. I didn’t wait for a click, so they might have already hung up.”

  Trish wrapped her arms around her raised knees. Maybe this was nothing at all—and then again—maybe not.

  Chapter

  12

  Well, I for one am glad Amy’s going with you.” Rhonda sat cross-legged in the middle of Trish’s bed.

  “I can tell. I mean if Chrysler wants to pay her way that’s fine with me, but me needing a bodyguard, that’s a bit ridiculous.”

  Rhonda’s eyebrows arched right into her flyaway bangs.

  “I mean anywhere but here.” Trish, mirroring Rhonda’s pose, leaned forward and rested her forehead on the pillow she clutched in her somewhat lap. “Rhonda, this whole thing is absolutely insane.” The pillow muffled her voice.

  “I know. Tee, I keep praying all the time that God will keep you safe. You’re my best friend—we’re more like sisters, you know.” Rhonda smoothed a hand down the back of Trish’s head. “And if it takes a body-guard to keep you safe until The Jerk is caught, I’d pay for one myself.”

  Trish could hear the tears hovering just behind Rhonda’s words. She groped for Rhonda’s hand. “Thanks, buddy.” A moment of silence stretched to the end of the clock chiming midnight. Trish sat up straight. “Guess that tells us something.”

  “What?” Rhonda swiped a drop of moisture from one eye.

  “Bedtime.” Trish bonked her friend on the head with the pillow. “I have a plane to catch at seven-fifty, as in a.m.”

  “Tell me about it. I’m the designated driver, remember?”

  “Thanks, buddy,” Trish murmured after they were both snugged under their covers.

  “For what?” Rhonda’s voice said she was already half-asleep.

  “For everything.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Two of Trish’s many praises that night included Rhonda. Just think, by tomorrow evening she would be seeing Spitfire. She wrapped both arms around her pillow and hugged it. I’m comin’, fella, I’m comin’.

  They couldn’t have asked for a better flight. Greeting the Shipsons felt like coming home to Trish. How lucky I am, she thought, waiting by the luggage carousel. I have three homes. Washington, California, and Kentucky. And a mother at each one. She glanced over at Bernice Shipson chatting away with Marge as if they’d been friends forever.

  “Your friend is anxious to see you.” Donald Shipson told her as he swung luggage up onto an airport cart. “Timmy says all he does is mention your name and Spitfire looks around to see where you are. He’s one smart horse, that one.”

  “Have you talked with Adam yet?”

  “Oh, sure. Saw him day before yesterday when I had a horse running at the Downs. He says your Firefly has a good chance if all goes well.”

  “Sounds like Adam all right. I can’t wait to ride there again. There’s just something about Churchill Downs.”

  “I agree. And while the Derby is tops, I’d rather race at Churchill Downs any time of the season, even more than Keeneland. By the way, you’re not excited about the Chrysler deal or anything, are you?”

  “Oh, not a bit. How about you?”

  “Oh, I—we have commercials filmed at BlueMist every other week, didn’t you know?” He winked at her as he beckoned to the women. “Bernice is heading for orbit any time now. And Sarah’s been baking for a week. Red said to tell you he’ll see you first thing in the morning.”

  “He’s been doing real well, hasn’t he?”

  “You’re talkin’ about that fine young jockey who’s been bringing our horses into the money nearly every time?” Bernice locked her arm through Trish’s. “Mr. Shipson’s had you to himself just long enough. Now it’s my turn.” She took Amy’s arm on the other side. “Sarah—that’s our cook—is so happy to have young people to fuss over…and the filming crew.…Why she’s in her glory.”

  “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Amy whispered when she followed Trish into the plush rear seat of the silver Cadillac.

  “Wait till you see BlueMist. Just like Scarlett O’Hara could step out the front door herself.”

  “You a Gone With the Wind fan too?”

  “Read the book even before I saw the movie.”

  Donald Shipson pointed the landmarks out to Amy while they drove around the city of Lexington and out to BlueMist Farms. Amy reminded Trish of herself the first time she’d been taken on this route—all eyes and ears.

  Now with a different season, the views had changed again. All the oaks and maples had left their green dresses and now
danced in hues of rust and gold and vermilion. Horses raced across the paddocks, trying to outrun the breeze and snorting when stopped by the wooden fences.

  “I thought all the board fences were painted white back here, but I see equal numbers of black.”

  “Owners found it cheaper for upkeep, and they still looked mighty fine, so that’s a trend. The purist who can afford it stays with the white, and I have to admit, I like white best.”

  “That’s because he doesn’t have to do the painting.” Bernice turned to look over her shoulder. “You’ve never been to Kentucky before, Amy?” Bernice gave her a wink. “Well, we’ll just have to make sure you see as much as you can. Just so’s you’ll want to come back. Our house is yours any time you can visit again.”

  “She means it too,” Trish whispered near Amy’s ear. “You’ll leave here so spoiled you can’t wait to get back.”

  Trish could hardly sit still any longer, when they finally turned into the long curving drive of BlueMist Farms. All the trees that lined the asphalt road had joined the fall finery parade. Trish sucked in her breath and exhaled pure delight. “Wow. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  Marge sighed with pleasure. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen Midwest fall color I’d almost forgotten how stunning it can be. But then I expect the vistas you have here are beautiful any season.”

  Trish could see the stallion barn over the creek and off to the left. Spit-fire waited for her. She gave a bounce of excitement on the seat. It seemed like years instead of weeks since she’d hugged her big black colt.

  Before the car finished moving, she had her door open and sent her whistle slicing through the air. A trumpet call answered her and then another. Other stallions answered the strident whinny until it sounded like an equestrian chorus in C major.

  Trish started running before her feet touched the ground. Or maybe they never did. She whistled again—high, low, high—and jerked open the Dutch door to the cedar-paneled stallion barn.

  She bit back the tears when she saw Spitfire, his chest tight against the webbing gate, straining to reach her with his muzzle extended to the limit.

  “Hey, fella, looks like you missed me about as much as I did you.” She threw her arms around his neck with a hug to end all hugs, then rubbed his ears and under the heavy mane. “I think you get more beautiful all the time. You look like a grown-up horse now, not just a colt.” Spitfire snuffled her hair and lipped her cheek, all the while his nostrils quivering in a soundless nicker.

  “Trish, he’s incredible.” Amy stopped a few feet back and shook her head. “I mean, I knew he was something from his pictures, but what a horse!”

  “He is kinda special, isn’t he?” Trish turned and Spitfire draped his head over her shoulder, just as if she’d never been away.

  “He knew you were coming.” Timmy O’Ryan, Spitfire’s personal groom, joined the group. “All I have to do is mention your name and he looks all around for you.”

  “He’s my buddy.” Trish smoothed the long black forelock and down Spitfire’s nose. “Aren’tcha, fella?” Spitfire closed his eyes and sighed, bliss evident in every muscle and bone of his body.

  “Going to be interesting to see what kind of colts he throws. If they’re anything like him, there’ll be some mighty happy owners.”

  “Yeah, wish I had more mares to send to him.” Trish motioned to Amy. “Come on over here and meet my friend. He likes blondes.”

  “Just be glad you aren’t wearing a hat.” Timmy touched the brim of his tan porkpie cap.

  “Why, what would happen?” Amy stepped up beside Trish. “Gosh, he’s huge.”

  “Yeah, they’re letting you get fat, aren’t they, fella? You couldn’t race now if your life depended on it.”

  “There’s a difference between breeding fitness and racing, all right. But his stamina’s still right up there. He’ll come back from galloping a couple of times around the track without even blowing.” Timmy stopped just out of Spitfire’s reach. “I warned all those photographer folks. I think they think I’m kidding.”

  Trish laid her cheek against Spitfire’s. “You’ll show them, won’t you?” He nodded without lifting his head.

  Amy stroked the opposite side of his neck. “So he not only understands english, he talks too?”

  “Sarah has supper ready.” Bernice returned from making a call at the wall phone by the door. “Think you can pull yourself away long enough to eat?”

  “She’d bring him with her if you let her,” Marge teased.

  “I’ll be back.” Trish dropped a kiss on the black’s nose and eased away. Immediately his whinny echoed and reechoed in the high-ceilinged room. “You be good.” He leaned forward as if to go right through the gate.

  “I’ll stay with him.” Timmy stepped forward and, with a hand on Spitfire’s muzzle, eased him backward before the gate came off its hinges.

  Trish followed the others out the door with a last long look over her shoulder. “I’ll be back, I promise.” She could hear his pleading whinnies long after the car pulled away, for when they faded from her ears she could still hear them with her heart.

  “Oh my.” Amy clutched Trish’s arm. “Y’all weren’t just a whistlin’ Dixie were you, sugar?” Amy whispered her southern drawl in Trish’s ear. She’d just had her first glimpse of the big house at BlueMist.

  “Wait till Bernice takes you around. I learned more history in an hour with her than in a year at school.” Trish slid out of the car. “And it was a whole lot more fun too.” She tried to hide her giggles when Amy followed the Shipsons up the wide steps to the fan-lit front door. Three tall white pillars graced the edge of the veranda on either side of them. Three wicker rocking chairs with floral cushions visited in front of the parlor French doors.

  Amy wore the same star-struck expression Trish knew she’d adopted the first time she visited. BlueMist did that to guests.

  “Aren’t you glad you got voted to be my bodyguard?” Trish asked.

  They’d dropped Amy’s bags off in her room and now stood in front of the tall casement windows of Trish’s room, looking out over the rose garden.

  “I know I was meant to have a lifestyle like this, but that bloomin’ stork who delivered me went to the wrong address.” Amy turned and looked around the room with its rose-patterned rugs and canopied four-poster bed. “I feel so young with all these old, old pieces being used like everyday furniture. This could all be in a museum.”

  “We better get downstairs. Sarah likes everyone there when she brings the food in. I’m warning you, she’ll try to make sure you gain ten pounds. Says we’re all too skinny.”

  Together they descended the walnut staircase. “And you know what?” Trish went on. “The Shipsons are such real people.”

  When they left the table they were all groaning, just as Trish had warned. After a jog down to the barn to say good-night to Spitfire, they joined the rest of the group in the parlor.

  “Trish, Amy, I’d like you to meet Joseph Silverstein, Artistic Director for Merritt Advertising Agency. He’ll be producing the commercials. You can say he runs the show.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you.” Trish felt a quiver down in her middle, maybe because a whip-lean man who looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of Gentleman’s Quarterly, a high-class fashion magazine, was studying her as if she were a bug under a microscope.

  “Likewise.” His concentration never wavered. “Unbraid your hair please.”

  “What?”

  “Your hair. Let it loose.” Trish raised trembling fingers and did as he asked. “There, that’s better. Hair with riches like yours shouldn’t be bound. We’ll shoot you with it down.”

  “But I don’t wear it that way when I have my helmet on.”

  “So, no helmet.”

  Trish felt the quiver turn to flame. Who did this guy think he was? Hadn’t he done any research on horse racing?

  “But when I’m riding I have to wear the helmet.”

  “
We’ll see.” He walked around her, one finger tapping his chin.

  The bug under the microscope began to squirm. Trish shot Donald a look of pleading, but all she got back was a shrug. She straightened her spine and returned look for look. Shape up, she ordered herself when she felt her teeth start to bite her bottom lip. She raised her chin a mite farther.

  When he finally smiled, she caught herself just before letting out a whoosh of air. She smiled back, a right eyebrow slightly raised, in a barely-uncovering-her-teeth smile.

  “That’s it. Give me that look on camera tomorrow and we’ll wind this up way ahead of schedule.” A blow to the solar plexus wouldn’t have winded Trish more.

  It was as if no one else in the room had breathed before then either. A community whoosh made everyone smile, and when the conversation picked up, they all talked just a bit louder and brighter.

  What kind of power does this guy have? Trish let herself study him now that he was talking with Donald. I may be only seventeen, but even I recognize power when I see it. Is the whole shoot going to be this nerve-wracking? But while she could come up with plenty of questions, she didn’t dare ask them. Who wanted to be that bug under the scope anyway?

  As they’d announced, Sarah started serving breakfast at five-thirty. The hubbub from the dining room made Trish hurry to get showered and dressed. She met Amy in the hall and they descended the stairs together.

  “You’ll keep them from eating me, won’t you?” Trish asked halfway down.

  “You made it through the inquisition last night. You don’t need me.” Amy, one step behind, laid a hand on Trish’s shoulder. “But I’ll be there. Count on it. Besides, I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

  The hand on Trish’s shoulder spread comfort through her entire body.

  “Okay, folks, we’ve got a bad weather report, so we’ll get the running shots while it’s still nice out. That early morning haze’ll be in about an hour, so hustle.”

  A young woman with her straight hair pulled back in two clips stopped at Trish’s chair. “Hi, I’m Meg. Here’s your script for today’s shoot.” She checked her watch. “You need to be down at wardrobe in forty-five minutes.”