Golden Filly Collection Two

by Lauraine Snelling

  She pushed herself to her feet and headed back for her room. One thing she could do—close all the drapes. If he was out there, at least he couldn’t see in and she didn’t have to feel as if eyes were staring in at her. When the drapes were closed, she crossed the room to the door. The soft light from the lamp on her desk shone like a laser on the three-by-five cards tacked to her wall. Bible verses, mostly handwritten by her father, lined the area. One in particular seemed to be lit by a flashing strobe: “Do not be afraid—I am with you!”

  “Thanks, Dad, for the verses and thank our heavenly Father for me too. You seem to be a bit closer to Him right now than I am.”

  She chewed on her lip on the way down the hall. Was her father really closer? Physically maybe, but Jesus had promised to live right in her heart. “Huh! Can’t get much closer than that.” Without drawing the living room drapes, she went to the back door.

  “Hey, fella,” she said to the dog lying on his rug by the window. “You want to come in?”

  Caesar never needed a second invitation. He leaped through the opening in one bound, his tail wagging his entire body. Caesar glued to her side, Trish crossed the kitchen to the phone and dialed Officer Parks’ number. He picked it up on the first ring.

  “What’s wrong, Trish?” he interrupted her greeting.

  “He—he called again.”

  “When?”

  “Just a few minutes ago.” Trish looked at the clock. “Maybe ten or so.”

  “Who’s with you?”

  “Caesar. Mom’s at church and Patrick went somewhere. Rhonda’s on her way over.”

  “Did you call Amy?”

  “She—she had her answering machine on.” Trish could see headlights coming up the drive. “Rhonda’s here.”

  “I’ll be right out. I’m bringing one of those new phones, the ones that show the number that last called on a screen. We may get him this way. Don’t answer the phone again. Let your machine pick it up and then you can hear who’s calling. That way you can screen your calls. I’m on my way.”

  She met Rhonda at the door. “Trish, you didn’t even have the door locked.”

  “I—we never lock the doors. You know that. You don’t either.”

  “Yeah, but no one’s threatening me.” She dumped her book bag on the sofa. “I got a paper to write by tomorrow. Is Amy coming out?”

  “No, Parks, for whatever good it does.” Trish left for the kitchen and returned with two cans of Diet Coke. “I don’t think they have anything on this dude yet, and let me tell you…” She handed a can to Rhonda, who had flopped on the sofa. “I’m getting sick of it all. Real sick.” She could feel that she was getting mad. It always started in her gut. But at least mad felt better than scared to death.

  “What do you think he wants?”

  “Got me. Make me crazy, I guess.” Trish stopped her pacing to drop down on the raised hearth. Caesar sat down beside her and put one snowy front paw up on her knee. She rubbed behind his ears with one hand, leaving the other free to hold her Coke.

  “They questioned all of us while you were gone.” Rhonda dug in her backpack and pulled out a spiral notebook. “I just can’t believe it’s someone from Prairie. We’ve known each other all our lives.”

  “Me neither. I bet I don’t even know this—this person, if you could give him such a compliment.” Caesar got to his feet and crossed to the door, a low rumble in his throat. At the same time, they could see light beams from an approaching car. Caesar set up a crescendo of barks.

  “Must be Parks. Caesar doesn’t bark more than once for Mom or Patrick.” Trish crossed the room and let him out. The collie bounded down the walk, barking all the while. He stopped. His tail began wagging as soon as Parks stepped from his car and greeted him.

  Trish held open the door.

  “Trish, for crying out loud, get out of the doorway,” Parks said after only a perfunctory greeting. “You make a perfect target that way.”

  “But—but I knew it was you.” She stepped back to let the tall, tired-looking detective in.

  “No you didn’t. Not at first. You should have let Caesar out the back door so no one would see you in the light like that. The creep knows you’re home. He just called.”

  “Oh.” Trish felt like a little kid who’d just been scolded for playing in the street. She hugged herself with both arms.

  Parks turned toward the kitchen and placed a caller ID phone on the counter. He plugged it in and showed her how to use it. “Now, tell me everything that happened.” He took his worn black notebook out of his inside jacket pocket.

  While Trish detailed the call, Parks sat on the hearth, long legs bent to form a desk. He tapped the end of his pen against his teeth when she was finished. “Did you hear any background noises, music, loud voices, some such?”

  Trish shook her head. “He always sounds raspy, like he’s trying to disguise his voice.”

  “Are you sure it’s a male voice?”

  Trish shook her head again. “But I think so. Besides, girls don’t do this kind of thing.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. They do, but it’s not as common.” He wrote himself another note. “Now remember, screen your calls and call me with the number if he calls again. Maybe this time we’ll get lucky.”

  By Friday Trish felt as if she’d been to the moon and back—on foot. She dragged herself into the house after making up her last midterm exam and collapsed on the sofa.

  “Bad, huh?” Marge hung up the phone and joined her daughter in the living room.

  “Worse than that.” Trish closed her eyes. “And to think that quarter finals are only two weeks away. I have a term paper to write and another short paper, besides one Haiku. You ever write poetry?”

  “Sure, but not since college.” Marge leaned a shoulder against the edge of the wall. “You want something to eat? I baked brownies.”

  “Do horses whinny?”

  “I think that’s ‘Do ducks have lips?’ but I’ve never understood that particular phrase. Brad’s down at the barn. I just came up to make some calls. You want to call him? I’m sure he could use a goody break.”

  “Have you ever heard of Brad turning down brownies?” Trish shook her head at the absurdity of the idea. “Or any other cookie for that matter?” She shoved herself vertical. “We should send David another goody box.”

  “I know. I thought maybe Sunday afternoon Rhonda would help us. Go call Brad now.”

  “Let’s send one to Red too. He’s always giving me presents and I never get one for him.” Trish could feel her energy coming back. She stepped out the front door and yelled, “Brad!”

  She heard her mother from inside. “I could have done that. Go down to the barn and get him. They got in a load of hay today.”

  Well, at least four days since Jerk Face called. She’d made up a new name for him during the wait. Each day Marge had shaken her head at Trish’s question and each night she’d gone to bed using “no call” as one of her thank-you’s during her prayers.

  She whistled once just to set the lineup to whinnying. “Hey, Brad. Brownies are ready.”

  “Back here.” She found him in the hayloft, moving hay that had been stacked on the straw side of the barn. When she stuck her head up through the entrance, she watched him dump the last bale in place. “You’d think they could figure out what went where, wouldn’t you?” He wiped the sweat from his brow and stuck his leather gloves in a rear pocket. “We’re about due for a load of straw too. Patrick said we should start keeping the broodmares inside at night pretty soon.”

  “We’ll have to keep Firefly in too as soon as she arrives.” Trish backed down the ladder so he could come down. “Sorry I can’t help.”

  “Yeah, right.” He snagged his jacket off the gate of a stall. “I know how much you love tossing bales, even when you’re all in one piece.” He patted her on the head, then jerked her braid. “There are advantages in staying small, not having to sling hay being one of them.”

  Arm in arm
they sauntered out of the barn and up the rise. “I seem to remember Rhonda and me moving our share, even though we did it as a team.”

  “You’re right.” Brad ushered her in the door in front of him. “And as the football team knows, there’s no better way to get in shape than tossing those suckers around.”

  Trish felt a tide of confusion wash over her. Since when had Brad started treating her like a girl? They’d always raced to see who hit the door and then the cookie plate first. She shrugged. Maybe this growing up wasn’t so bad after all.

  The phone rang while they sat around the big oak kitchen table. Trish rose to get it but slowed at her mother’s reminding look. First they had to wait to see who it was.

  A familiar voice came on. She clapped her hands over her ears so she couldn’t hear—but then let them drift down to her side in morbid fascination. She felt the cold begin at her toes and work its way up.

  “I’m sorry you can’t come to the phone right now, Trish, but I’ll call back later. You can count on it.”

  Trish dashed to the phone. Sure enough, there was a number right across the screen. Beginning with the 503 area code made it Oregon.

  Trish grabbed a pencil out of the cup. She dropped it. Got another. Her hand was shaking so badly she broke the lead. After a deep breath, she picked up a pen and wrote the number down, then dialed Officer Parks. A ripple ran from her head to her fingertips. Would this be the breakthrough they needed? It had to be.

  Chapter

  08

  Trish waited by the phone for Parks to call back.

  Brad hovered beside her, nibbling on the brownie clenched in his hand. “It’ll probably take a while.” He too jumped when the phone rang.

  Trish left it until she heard the detective’s voice on the machine, then picked up the receiver. “What’d you find out?”

  “Bad news, or rather no news, Trish. He called from a pay phone located over by Lloyd’s Center. We had a squad car out in that sector so they swung by. No one around.”

  Trish felt as if someone had just let out all her air, leaving her flat and wobbly, a balloon lying inert on the floor. “Oh.” She’d had such high hopes. Now they were back to square one. When would they catch him?

  “What is it?” Marge cupped her coffee mug in her hands.

  Trish shook her head and covered the mouthpiece. “Pay phone.” She took up her conversation with Parks again. “So we just keep on like before?”

  “Don’t panic, Trish. We’re going to find him. He’ll get cocky and make a mistake. I know he will.”

  As Trish hung up she wondered if Parks had been trying to convince her—or himself.

  The next morning at the track, Trish was greeted like returning royalty by everyone, from the bug boys and the jockeys giving their morning charges a good workout to the kids cleaning stalls. Trainers shouted greetings, and every time she returned to the barn, more people came by to shake hands and welcome her back.

  “Can’t get nothin’ done this way.” Patrick went about checking the horses, all the while grumbling around the half-smile on his rounded face.

  Trish figured that today he looked more like a leprechaun than ever. “Would you rather I stayed home?” she asked, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth no matter how hard she tried to sound serious. “Maybe Genie Stokes is a better rider.”

  “Leastways she don’t have half the track hanging around, swapping lies and such.” He gave her a boost up on her waiting mount.

  Trish grinned down at the old trainer her father had hired after he’d become so sick he couldn’t do it himself. “Patrick O’Hern, if someone didn’t know you and heard you talking like that, they’d think you’re an old grouch.”

  “I heard him and I know he’s an old grouch.” Genie Stokes, who always rode for Runnin’ On Farm when Trish wasn’t available, came striding up the walkway, sidestepping buckets and blankets as she came. “Welcome home, Trish. You’re looking good for scaring us all half to death.”

  Trish leaned over and grabbed her friend’s hand. “Feeling plenty better, let me tell you. But then you know what busted ribs are like.”

  “At least I didn’t try dying on the doctors while they patched me up.” She patted the horse’s shoulder and looked up at Trish with a wobbly smile. “I’ll tell you, there were a lot of prayers sent up from around here.” She squeezed Trish’s hand another time. “You take good care of my horses, you hear?” She turned to Patrick. “See she stays out of trouble now.”

  Patrick shook his head. “Takes the Almighty himself to do that, or leastways He bails her out again.”

  “Well, while you two figure out my life for me, think I’ll take this old boy out on the track.” Trish touched a finger to her helmet. “See ya.”

  Trish huddled into her down jacket, grateful she’d worn her long johns. Even when it wasn’t raining, the wind blowing off the Columbia River managed to penetrate down to the bones. The gray overcast hung low enough to blur the top of the glass-enclosed grandstands. The thought of winter racing in Florida was sounding better and better.

  During the change of mounts she took a moment to blow her dripping nose and drink half a cup of hot chocolate. Feeling somewhat warmer, she left the office to find Patrick holding Gatesby’s head while Brad finished the saddling.

  “I see you haven’t broken him of his favorite habit.” Trish stayed just out of mouth range.

  Brad glared at her from under the bill of his baseball hat. “Anytime you want to try.…”

  Trish copied Patrick’s hold on the steel D-ring bit and rubbed Gates-by’s black ears. “Stubborn old boy, aren’tcha?” The gelding leaned into her ministering fingers. “Who’s his latest victim?”

  Brad cupped his hands to give her a knee up. “Need you ask?”

  Trish buckled the chin strap of her helmet and gathered her reins. One never took a chance with Gatesby. He’d dumped her more than once. “Okay, joker, let’s go see what we can do.” As usual, he wanted to go at his own pace—fast. However, Patrick had scheduled him for a slow gallop—two times around the track, after a warming-up half-lap. By the time they returned to the barn, Trish’s side had set up a complaint department.

  “I’m ready for breakfast any time you are—and since this is my first day back, I’ll even buy.” Trish stripped her saddle off the now-docile gelding and walked past him to put it away, but Gatesby got a nip in anyway. “Owww.” She dumped her saddle on the trunk in the office and rubbed her shoulder. “You let him do that on purpose.” She glared at Brad, who wore the same sheepish “gotcha” expression as Gatesby. “See if I buy your breakfast.” She grabbed Gatesby’s halter. “And you know there’s always the glue factory for horses like you.” Gatesby rubbed his head against her chest. “No, I know you’re not sorry, not one bit.”

  While she scolded the horse, Brad started washing the gelding down. Within a few minutes they had him washed, blanketed, and snapped to the hot walker, where Gatesby followed the other three horses around the circle.

  Trish hardly found time to eat with so many people coming by. Bob Diego, head of the Thoroughbred Breeders Association and one for whom Trish frequently rode, slung an arm about her shoulders.

  “Welcome home, mi amiga.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Good to see your shining face.” He took the chair across the table from her. “What a scare you gave us! Have they found the man who has been troubling you yet?”

  “You coulda gone all year without bringing that up.” Trish’s heart took a sudden belly flop. “The answer is no. He called again on Friday.”

  Diego mumbled a few unmentionable names for the stalker.

  “I call him The Jerk.” Trish forked the last bit of ham into her mouth and gathered up her dishes. “Gotta run or I won’t get back in time for the afternoon program. I’ve a term paper to research first.”

  “Will you be riding soon?” Diego rose to his feet when she did.

  “Saturday.” She glanced at Patrick. “We have one then,
right?” Patrick nodded around a mouthful of pancake.

  “For your amigo too?”

  “Sure’nough. See you guys.” Trish crossed the noisy room, shaking hands and answering greetings as she tried to get to the door. She’d just reached for the door handle when emanuel Ortega stepped to her side.

  “excuse me, please,” the young jockey asked, his dark eyes flashing, “but could we talk for a moment?”

  “Of course, what is it?” Trish stepped out of the doorway and next to the wall.

  “You know for when I hit your horses last year, I was very sorry.…”

  “I know.”

  “Well, the police have been questioning me about the person who is, what they say, horsing.…”

  “Harassing?”

  “Yes, that is the word. I do not do that. I tell them but I think they do not believe me.” He stepped closer, waving a hand to make the point. “I do not call you and send you bad letters. I want to be great jockey here in America.”

  Trish nodded. “I understand, but, emanuel, the police are talking to everyone, not just you. Don’t worry about it. But if you have any idea who it might be, please tell them.”

  “I know nothing.” He shook his head again. “All I know is I do not do such a thing.” He turned to leave but swung back, a smile now lighting his thin face. “Gracias, señorita. Buenos días.”

  “You too, hombre.” She watched him cut his way across the crowded room without looking back. Had he talked with her because he really wasn’t guilty or because he was? She shook her head once to clear it. You can’t think things like that! she ordered herself. It’ll drive you nutsy.

  Curt Donovan, the sports reporter from the Portland Oregonian, met her at the door. “Trish, I was hoping you’d be here today, or else I was coming out to see you.” He gave her a hug that left no doubt about his concern. “Did you see that article by the reporter in San Mateo?”

  Trish shook her head. “The one who dubbed me the Comeback Kid?”

  “That’s the one.” Curt kept pace with her. “He says there’s some company thinking of making a movie about you. Called it a ‘real heartwarming story.’”