Golden Filly Collection Two

by Lauraine Snelling

  Her mom really did need some time off. Ever since the surgery, her mother had been there every time Trish had opened her eyes—even during the long nights when the pain outlasted the medication. Last night had been the first time Marge had slept somewhere other than in a foldout chair by Trish’s bedside.

  Trish eyed the new box of mail waiting for her against the wall. So far there had been no cards or cutout notes from “The Jerk,” as they all called whoever had been harassing her. The police had taken the threats seriously enough to assign her a bodyguard. Officer Amy Jones had accompanied Trish from Runnin’ On Farm in Vancouver, Washington, and returned to Portland while Trish was still in intensive care.

  Trish ate her ice cream on autopilot, her gaze focused on the box. I should go over and see if there really are any envelopes with no return, a block-printed address, and a Portland cancellation.

  I really should. Instead she poured her drink into the glass and watched it foam. Just the thought of The Jerk brought back the dry throat and pounding heart she felt when she had opened the card that said “I’ll get you.” Letting that thought in was like opening a crate of snakes. Other thoughts slithered out.

  What was happening with Firefly? What was her mother leaving out? Had they caught The Jerk yet? Who could it be? She poked the fears back in the box and slammed the lid. Concentrate on the ice cream, she told herself. That’s safer.

  She ate the remaining bites of ice cream before flipping back the covers and dangling her legs over the side of the bed. Maybe she should study for a while first. She glared at the stack of books on her bed stand. History, english, government. She shook her head. Later.

  Once on her feet she crossed the room to the balloon corral and tapped the shocking pink one in front. That set all the others to bobbing. People she’d never heard of had sent her balloons, just to make her feel better.

  One really pretty arrangement of pink rosebuds had arrived the day before—from Amy and Officer Parks. Trish sniffed the opening buds and reread the card. It didn’t mention if they’d heard from The Jerk either. It just said they were praying for her to get well quick.

  Trish felt a warm glow around her heart. Amy admitted that seeing the Evanstons’ faith in action made her want the same. And now she wrote that she was praying for Trish. Dad, you were right, Trish thought. It’s walkin’ the walk, not just talkin’ the talk, that brings people to Jesus.

  Trish picked up a fluffy white teddy bear and cuddled it in both arms. “Hug this fellow and think of me,” its name tag said, signed “Red.” She rested her chin on top of the bear’s head and eyed the box on the floor. Where had all her guts gone—to be so spooked by a box of cards?

  “Must have left them on the operating table,” she whispered into the bear’s ear. She took in as deep a breath as her ribs would allow without making her flinch, set the bear back down on the end of the bed, and squatted down to pick up the box.

  “What are you doing down there?” Sue crossed the room to stand by Trish’s side.

  “Going to look for ah—any…” Trish swallowed her words and changed directions. She rose to her feet, relief making her grin. “Can we do my hair now?” Why tell Sue about the messages she’d received? Maybe it was all over by now anyway.

  By the time Sue had finished washing and towel-drying her patient’s hair, Trish felt as if she’d run a marathon. Leaning over the sink made her woozy from the pain, but she toughed it out. Clean hair was worth whatever she had to go through to get it.

  “Think you can dry it?” Sue handed Trish the blow-dryer and plugged it into the outlet at the head of the bed.

  “Sure, why not?” Trish turned the machine on and raised her arms to begin the process. “Ow!” She let her arms fall back on the bed.

  “That’s why. An incision and broken ribs make for sore muscles. You just wait a bit. After I take care of the lady next door, I’ll be back.”

  For once Trish didn’t argue. Where would she go? She didn’t dare draw a deep breath either for fear of another pain attack. She leaned her head back and concentrated on relaxing. The pain-caused wobblies left and she opened her eyes, eying the hair dryer as if it might bite her. She hated to admit the doctor might have been right. But if she didn’t get going soon, Firefly could get worse.

  “Father, what am I to do?” She listened for an answer to her whispered prayer, but nothing came. Really, what could she do? She could hear her mother’s voice: “Just behave yourself and do what the doctor says. Bad thoughts can’t help you feel better faster but good thoughts can.” Sometimes her mother sounded just like her father had before he died from cancer a few months before.

  Sue popped her head in the doorway. “Just one more sec.” And popped it back out. Trish could hear the nurse’s heels squeeching away down the hall.

  You could study, you know, her nagger, as she called her resident inner critic, seemed to whisper in her ear. It would make the time go faster.

  “There now,” Sue said after blow drying Trish’s hair, “you look stunning. And about ready for a nap.” She patted Trish on the shoulder. “See you tomorrow unless they let you bust out of here before then.”

  “Thanks.” Trish climbed back in bed. “You’ve been super.”

  Sue gave her patient a gentle hug. “So have you, kid. Take care of yourself.”

  Trish had finished her dinner and was watching television when she heard a familiar voice in the hall. Quickly she smoothed her hair back, tucking the right side behind her ear and fluffing her bangs. She should have put on some lip gloss. She started to raise the lid on her tray table to see the mirror, but it was too late.

  Red’s deep chuckle, the kind no one could resist, preceded him into the room.

  “Don’t make me laugh!” Trish warned him with a raised hand, as if she could stop him like cops halt traffic.

  “Is that any way to greet a beat-up jockey?” Red paused in the door, the same height as Trish at five foot four and slender, but with powerful shoulders. His blue eyes sparkled like sun dancing on the Pacific and matched the blue sling holding his left arm against his body.

  “What happened?”

  “I did a Trish Evanston. You know, take a header and your horse down with you.” He shrugged his shoulders and flinched at the motion. “But I roll better’n you do.”

  “Are you broken anywhere?”

  “Naaa, just popped out the joint. Had to agree to the sling or the old battle-ax wouldn’t let me out of the infirmary.” Red stood by the side of the bed and touched Trish’s cheek with a gentle finger. His voice softened. “You’re looking much better.”

  Trish felt her insides melt and puddle in her middle. She swallowed. Her cheek still flamed from his touch.

  “Ah…” She wanted to say something. Where was her brain? Down in the mush in her middle?

  “Ah…” She cleared her throat. When he bent down to kiss her, words weren’t necessary anyway. Her eyelids drifted shut as his lips feathered over hers. Things were definitely looking up.

  He straightened. His Adam’s apple bobbed. She swallowed a grin.

  From the television set hanging on the wall above him, she caught a line about horse racing. “Just a minute.” She picked up the remote and clicked the volume higher. Red turned to watch with her. A sportscaster’s serious face filled the screen.

  “Here’s a late report on Trish Evanston, the Triple-Crown-winning female jockey who was injured at Churchill Downs on Saturday.

  “While Trish is recovering at Louisville Memorial, her filly Firefly is being cared for at the Garden Grove Veterinary Hospital. According to the reports we have received from Doctor Grant, head of surgery there, they may have to put the horse down.”

  Chapter

  02

  Trish clamped her teeth on her bottom lip to keep from screaming. “No! They can’t put her down. Not Firefly.” Her gaze swung from the screen to Red’s tortured face. “You knew! And you didn’t tell me. Mom didn’t either. If I can’t trust you guys to tell
me the truth, I’ll have to go see for myself.”

  “No, Trish, listen!” Red shook his head, trying to interrupt her. “Your mother doesn’t know any more about this than I do. Unless Firefly’s failed in the last hour, the reporters are exaggerating, as usual. You know what they’re like.”

  “I’m listening.” Trish couldn’t force her voice above a whisper. “So tell me, how is she? Really!”

  Red shifted from one foot to the other. “Well, they have her on massive antibiotics to fight the infection.” He stared into Trish’s eyes, pleading for her to believe him.

  “I know.” Trish wanted to squeeze the words out of him but was afraid to. Next to Spitfire, Firefly was her favorite horse. And also her father’s. Sired by Seattle Slew, the same stallion who sired Spitfire, Firefly would be valuable as a broodmare even if she could never race again. “She’s too fine a horse to be put down. She’s a fighter! I know she can make it.” Trish wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince, Red or herself. She slammed her fists into the bedcovers. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “You couldn’t do any more than they’re already doing.”

  The comment brought her up short. What could she do? “Is she eating?”

  Red shook his head.

  “Drinking?”

  “A little.” He studied the toe of his boots. “They have her on IVs.”

  “I could help. I know I could.” Trish’s runaway thoughts screamed so loud she was sure everyone in the hospital could hear them. “She’s my horse. They can’t put her down without my consent.” Another thought caught her on the jaw. “Or could my mother give the okay?” She wouldn’t do that to me, would she? The thought hurt as much as her ribs.

  Red turned, relief evident in the smile he gave the entering doctor.

  “Good evenin’, y’all. Sorry ah’m so late, but ah have good news for you, Trish. You can be released in the mahnin’, soon’s we remove that drain and finish the paper work.”

  “In the morning? Why not tonight?” Trish knew her tone lacked any trace of gratitude, but she couldn’t help it.

  The doctor shook his head and peered at her over his half glasses. “Child, child, so impatient.” His sparkling blue eyes and easy smile removed any sting from his words. “Now, where is your mother? She’ll have to sign the forms.”

  “She went down for dinner.” Trish grimaced when she crossed her arms over her chest, then tried to cover up the reflex.

  “Those ribs will hurt for some time yet. You have to take it easy for a few weeks, you hear me?” He tapped his pencil on the edge of her chart holder.

  Trish nodded. What did he think she was going to do—go out and ride in tomorrow’s program?

  You probably would if you had a mount. Her nagger seemed to be sitting on the pillow, right beside her ear. And sulking never gets you anywhere. You aren’t very good at it.

  Trish shot a look at Red and caught the glint of laughter in his eyes. What was he, another mind reader? She pulled her manners out from wherever they’d been hiding and graciously thanked the doctor for his good news.

  “Tell your mother I’ll talk with her in the morning. I’ll be here right around eight.” He stopped at the door. “I sure hope to see you racing at Churchill Downs next year, young lady. From all I hear, you have a great future ahead of you.”

  “Funny he should say that,” Trish said after he left.

  “Not really. Everyone in Louisville keeps track of horse racing. It’s our claim to fame. He probably watched you win the Derby last spring.” Red stared around the room at all her gifts. “What are you going to do with all this stuff?”

  “Pack it, I guess.” Trish let her gaze wander from the flowers to the stuffed animals to the balloons bobbing in the corral. An idea exploded in her head. “I could take some of this to the children’s cancer floor. Maybe the toys would make them feel better.”

  “Make who feel better?” Marge paused at the door in time to watch her daughter bail out of bed as fast as her bruised and broken body allowed.

  “The kids who are here for chemotherapy treatments or whatever.” Trish checked the stuffed gorilla in the corner. Sure enough, her organized mother had the card pinned to the animal’s ribbon. The name of whoever had sent it was written on the card. She looked at her mother and shook her head. “You’re something else, Mom.”

  “What did I do now?” Marge wore the familiar confused look that dealing with her daughter in full gallop caused. “You might bring me up to speed here.”

  “I get out of here in the morning, and we’re taking some of this stuff up to the kids on the pediatric ward to cheer them up.” Trish gathered all the balloon strings and tied them together with one string. “How about asking the nurse if we can have a cart or something?”

  Trish moved at half speed. Bending over was not her best move. And lifting anything, even a floppy-eared bunny with blue print overalls, gave her pause. But when she reached up to take down a poster of Garfield scarfing down an entire chocolate cake, she couldn’t stifle the groan.

  “Okay, that’s it.” Marge took Trish’s arm and eased her back to the bed. “You sit. We’ll work.”

  For once in her life Trish didn’t feel like arguing.

  Later that night, Trish let the tears flow. The kids had loved the gifts. They’d laughed and thanked Trish, squeezing the stuffed animals as if someone might snatch them away. And that was the problem. Seeing the children hooked up to IVs—and one little boy barfing because of the chemotherapy—brought back the memories of her father’s illness. Like those kids, he had smiled and made jokes when he could.

  Trish hugged her ribs, stifling her sobs to sniffles and teary eyes.

  “Can I get you anything, Trish?” Silent as a shadow, the evening nurse appeared at the edge of the bed.

  Trish sniffed and wiped her eyes with a tissue. “No, those kids upstairs reminded me of my dad, that’s all.”

  “Watching someone die is really rough, no matter what age they are.” The nurse handed Trish another tissue. “That was something special, what you did. Your dad would be proud of you.”

  “I miss him so bad sometimes, it’s like I have a hard time breathing.” Trish was grateful for the darkness. Talking was easier when you couldn’t see the other person very well. “I get my love of horses from him, you know.”

  “You’re fortunate to have had a father like that. He must have been a pretty special man.”

  “Yep.” Trish swallowed her tears, grateful for the compassionate woman holding her hand. “He was.” When the silence stretched into comforting peace, the nurse squeezed Trish’s hand one last time and left the room.

  In the morning Trish felt as if everyone were deliberately working in slow motion. It was ten o’clock before the nurse wheeled her patient down to the hospital entrance, and she’d been ready since seven. Keeping a rein on her temper had been as hard as keeping Gatesby from nipping.

  “Thanks, Sue. You’ve been a godsend.” Marge hugged the young nurse before opening the car door.

  “Y’all take care now.” Sue set the locks on the wheelchair and flipped the footrests upright. “I don’t want to see your face here again. I’d much rather come to the track and cheer you on.”

  Trish waved good-bye, not regretting her farewells in the least. If she never went to a hospital again, it would be too soon.

  She closed her eyes and sent prayers for Firefly winging upward. Every time she’d awakened through the night, she’d done the same. Red had called back with reassurances after talking with the vet. As he’d said, leave it to the media to hype the situation.

  “We could go to the motel first.”

  “Right.” Trish didn’t bother to open her eyes. Seeing Firefly in person would not be put on hold for anything.

  Marge stopped the car in the space closest to the veterinarian clinic entrance. “You’ve got to take it easy, you know.”

  “Moth-er!” The one word said it all.

  They entered the brick
building and stopped at the receptionist’s desk.

  “We’re here to see Firefly,” Trish answered in response to the woman’s greeting.

  “Have a seat and I’ll get Doctor Grant.” The woman’s smile was wasted on Trish.

  “No, just take me back to see my horse.” Trish started toward the door marked PRIVATE.

  “Trish.” Marge grabbed for her daughter’s arm and missed.

  The door opened just as Trish raised her hand to push against it. The man in a white thigh-length lab coat could have doubled as a pro-football linebacker.

  “You must be Trish Evanston.” He held out his hand. “I’m Doctor Grant.”

  Trish remembered her manners before her mother could deal out a poke-in-the-back reminder. “Glad to meet you.”

  “Come right this way.” He gestured toward an office with chairs arranged in front of a polished teak desk.

  “I want to see Firefly—now.” Trish met him stare for stare, refusing to be intimidated by his size and soft southern drawl. Just get out of my way, she thought. I’ve had about all I can take of interfering doctors.

  Dr. Grant shrugged and shifted his attention to Marge as she raised her eyebrows.

  “Firefly is her horse,” Marge said softly.

  Trish debated pushing past him, but this wasn’t an ordinary vet’s office. This place was huge, with corridors running three ways and voices coming over intercoms—just like a regular hospital for humans. She tapped her foot instead. Besides, he looked big and tough enough to subdue a raging stallion, let alone a slightly damaged seventeen-year-old jockey.

  “You catch more flies with honey than vinegar,” Marge murmured right near Trish’s ear. It was one of her mother’s pet sayings. But right now Trish wasn’t in the mood for flies.

  “Right this way.” Dr. Grant shrugged one shoulder before he turned and guided them through a labyrinth of white walls and tiled floors. The door he finally opened led into a dimly lit room with high ceilings and a rubberized floor. In the center, suspended in a sling from overhead pulleys, hung a terribly sick sorrel Thoroughbred.