Golden Filly Collection Two

by Lauraine Snelling

  “You’re kidding. He predicted the endorsement with Chrysler long before it happened too.” She raised one eyebrow. “You think he’s serious?”

  “I’d bet on it. He seems to have better sources than I do.” Curt waved to the guard at the gate, who gave Trish a thumbs-up sign. “You got a quote for me?”

  “Sure. I’m glad to be home, will be riding Saturday, and don’t believe everything you read in the newspapers.” Trish slid into her car and grinned up at him. “And if anyone knows who’s harassing me, they can call Officer Parks. He’d love to hear from them and so would I. See ya.” She watched him walk back across the road to the back entrance to Portland Meadows. Rhonda was right. Curt Donovan was one good-looking guy.

  Trish spent the morning researching her term paper at the Fort Vancouver Library, then after grabbing a burger, she headed back for Portland Meadows. Since—wonder of wonders—the sky had cleared, she pushed the button to lower the top of her convertible. What a treat, to enjoy the sun, feel the wind in her hair—except her teeth clacked together like drummer’s sticks by the time she drove into the parking lot. Sun and blue sky or not, November in Oregon definitely wasn’t convertible weather.

  “Bet David doesn’t have to worry about freezing to death down in Tucson,” she muttered as she punched the button to raise the top. “Bet he’s wearing shorts instead of long johns too.” With the other hand she shoved the heater to high. She clamped both hands over her frozen ears and waited for the temperature to get somewhere near warm in the car. Her face and hands felt the blast of hot air long before her feet did.

  “Well, my girl, you learned a good lesson there. No convertible tops down until summer, no matter how cool you want to look.” She snapped down the sun visor to look in the mirror while applying lipstick. Her hair stood out all over, in spite of the braid, her cheeks looked as if someone had painted them red—bright red—and her mouth wouldn’t stop jiggling long enough to put on the proper “paint,” as her father had called it.

  She flipped the visor back up. “And if cool was what you wanted, you sure did get that.” She shoved the heater controls off and climbed from the car.

  “Welcome back,” called the woman at the side gate.

  “Thanks. Good to be back.” And it was. The sun still shone, and without the draft from a moving vehicle, Trish even thought about taking off her red jacket. The tan down vest and green wool turtleneck sweater would be warm enough.

  You’ve been known to lose jackets that way. Sometimes her nagger could be real helpful.

  So instead of veering into the women’s jockey room, she headed for the track side fence where most of the trainers and many of the owners watched the races. Since it was her father’s favorite place, she liked it best too.

  “Hi, guys.” She slipped into place between Bob Diego and his trainer. “You got one running soon?”

  “Couldn’t stay away, huh?” Bob moved down a bit for her to have more room. “I have one in the third. Wish you were up on her.”

  “Me too. But I promised Mom another week off. She gets the worries, you know.”

  “How is your mother?”

  Trish liked the way he said his s softer than American-born people. “Fine, I guess.” She looked up at the tall, broad-shouldered Hispanic gentleman. “Gentle man” was a good way to describe Bob Diego. And honorable. She felt proud to be his friend. “Why?”

  “I just think about her sometimes. She has been through much.”

  “You too, my friend.” The sound of the bugle floated across the track and rose above the snapping flags in the infield. The sound of it caught in her throat, as usual. That was one of the things she remembered from the day they buried her father, the bugle singing the parade to post. She lifted her chin and rubbed her lips together.

  The roar of the crowd at the sight of the horses dancing onto the track drove back the pending tears.

  Bob Diego laid a hand on her shoulder. “You so rarely see from this angle anymore. It is different, no?”

  Trish smiled up at him. “Sure is.” She glanced down at her program to see who was running and who was riding. Genie Stokes had the number one slot. Trish waved as they trotted past. “Go for it, Genie.” The jockey in black-and-white silks touched her whip to her helmet.

  A voice calling her name behind her caught Trish’s attention. She turned around to drown in the most gorgeous hot fudge eyes she’d ever seen. The smiling mouth below them wasn’t so bad either. “H-hi.”

  “Hi, yourself. Welcome back to Portland.” His voice made her think of warm maple syrup.

  “Do I know you?” Trish left off staring into his eyes long enough to catch a fleeting glimpse of jacket, sweater, and shirt with the look of Italy, probably by way of Nordstrom’s.

  “You’ve signed my programs a couple of times.” His smile showed teeth an orthodontist would hire for an advertisement. That same smile crinkled a dimple to the left side. Wait till Rhonda heard about this fan. “My name is Taylor Winthrop.”

  “Good.” Trish tried to think of something clever to say. Where was her brain when she needed it?

  “I’m glad you’re better.”

  “Thanks.” Her brain finally kicked in. “Do you come to the track often?” Wow, some conversationalist!

  “Usually on the weekends. My classes take up too much time during the week.”

  Classes? You’re too old-for-high school. Trish could feel her mind working, so why didn’t it give her something clever, cute, or funny to say?

  “I’m a junior at the University of Portland.”

  College, not high school, you idiot. “That’s nice.” She felt like smacking herself in the forehead like they did in the movies.

  “And they’re off.” The announcer took over and the shouting crowd made conversation impossible. Trish wished for her father’s binoculars. She never needed them when she was riding and so never thought to bring them.

  “Come on, Genie!”

  “And it’s number one by one length coming out of the turn, followed by three on the outside.…”

  Trish gripped the top rail of the fence as if she could transfer her strength to Genie. Down the backstretch and into the turn, Genie still held the lead. Out of the turn, two horses challenged her. “Go, Stokes. What’re you waiting for?”

  Three abreast, but Genie went to the whip and her horse stretched out, taking the lead again, stride by stride. She won by two lengths.

  “She almost waited too long on that one.” Bob Diego let his binoculars fall back on their cord. “You think so, Trish?”

  “Yep.”

  “She’s a friend of yours?” Taylor asked from her other side.

  Trish had forgotten all about him during the excitement of the race. “Yeah, good friend. She rides for us when I can’t.”

  “I know.” He rolled his program and stuffed it into his pocket. “Would you care to go for a drink or something? We could talk better in the clubhouse.”

  “Um—I—thanks anyway, but I don’t think so. I—umm.”

  “I know. You don’t know me and your mother told you never to talk to strangers. Right?” His smile crinkled his eyes. “But how can we get beyond being strangers if we don’t talk?”

  “He has you there.” Diego turned and gave Adam an assessing look. “I need to head for the barn. See you later?”

  “No, I’m going with you. Thanks for the invitation, Taylor. See you around.” Trish walked off between Bob and his trainer.

  “Another time, then?” Taylor called after them.

  Trish turned to answer. “Maybe.”

  “He seems like a very nice young man. Much wealth too, I suspect.” Diego held the gate open for her.

  “I guess.”

  “Why didn’t you go with him?”

  Trish shrugged. “I don’t know. Rhonda’ll kill me for not.” She thought a moment. “Guess I just don’t need another man in my life about now.”

  Bob Diego laughed and tugged on the end of her braid. “You
have much wisdom for one so young.”

  When Trish drove into the yard at home later that afternoon, a plain white car waited in the drive. The E on the license plate told Trish it was a county car even if she hadn’t known Officer Parks drove one like it.

  “Now what?” She grabbed her book bag and, after greeting Caesar, headed for the house.

  Parks stood up when she entered. Amy occupied the other end of the sofa. Trish stared from face to face.

  “All right, what’s going on?”

  They both looked at a vase filled with a dozen creamy peach rosebuds in the middle of the coffee table.

  “Awesome. Those are beautiful.” Trish crossed the room and bent over to sniff for a fragrance. “They even smell good.” She stood up again. “What’s the catch?”

  Amy handed her the card.

  Trish opened the envelope. “I’ll be seeing you—soon!”

  “Well, you gotta admit he has good taste.” Her comment fell as flat as the silence in the room—and as her stomach felt.

  Chapter

  09

  So the phantom strikes again.” Trish collapsed on the hearth.

  “Regrettably so.” Parks removed his notebook from his side pocket and flipped the pages. “We called the florist. A woman ordered the flowers, paid—”

  “Wait a minute,” Trish interrupted, “you said a woman?”

  Amy and Parks both nodded. Parks continued. “I know, it doesn’t make sense. She had on a stocking hat, dark glasses, and a tan wool coat. Paid cash. At least that’s what the girl at the florist shop thought she remembered. It had been busy about then.”

  Trish looked up at her mother leaning against the corner of the wall.

  “The flowers were delivered about one o’clock,” Marge answered the unspoken question.

  Trish stared at the arrangement. How could something so lovely bear such a cruel message? She got up and sniffed the buds again. “Well, I can throw them out or enjoy them. It’s not the flowers’ fault for all this, so guess I’ll just love the fragrance and appreciate how beautiful they are.” She rubbed her chin with her forefinger. “Shame I can’t tell whoever sent them what great taste he has.”

  She could feel the tension lighten up by about a hundred pounds or so. “You guys need me for anything else?” At the shaking of all three heads, she grinned. “Good, ’cause I got a date to get ready for.” She stopped and turned at the hall entrance. “I’m not gonna let this creep mess up my life. He can send me flowers any time he wants.” She thought she heard a “Let’s hope that’s all he sends” as she turned into the bathroom, but she chose to ignore it.

  Trish reminded herself later that going to dinner and a movie with Doug Ramstead was not to be confused with a real date. He had said they were “just friends,” and she believed him—almost. But when he held her hand during the movie, the warm tingles swam right up her arm. And his shoulder next to hers felt good and solid and kinda—well, nice would do until a better word came along. When he turned his head to whisper something in her ear, the warm air set up tingles up her spine too. Maybe Rhonda was right after all.

  She shut off the thoughts and concentrated on the action on the screen. Could one be “in like” with two guys at once? She really shut that one down. Doug was her friend and Red was—Red was—clear across the country in Kentucky, even though she liked him a whole lot.

  She was just about asleep that night, in the totally relaxed state where good ideas come from, when she heard her nagger clear his throat. You could try praying for The Jerk like you did for the developer Kendall Highstreet.

  Trish startled instantly awake and sat totally upright in bed. “No way.” She flopped back down. What an idea. One of her verses floated through her mind: “Pray for those who spitefully use you.…” This was spiteful all right. Her teeth snapped together as if her body didn’t want to say these prayers any more than her mind did.

  Pray for The Jerk. “Yuk!”

  Your father would have. “Double yuk!” Trish crossed her arms over her chest. God sure didn’t ask for easy things. She flipped over on her left side. Then her right. Looked at the clock. Nearly one.

  She shut her eyes and took deep breaths. Nothing. She felt the urge and headed for the bathroom. But that didn’t help either. When she crawled back in bed, she was really awake. Eyes wide and mind running like Thoroughbreds driving for the finish line.

  “All right.” She threw back the covers and thumped her feet on the floor. By the time she was on her knees, hands clasped and eyes closed, she could only grumble. “Father, please bless the idiot who’s sending me stuff, whoever he is.” Her voice softened. “I can tell he needs you, and I know that you’ll take care of him.” She rested her forehead on her hands. “Please help me not hate him, and keep us all safe. Amen.”

  She climbed back in bed and pulled up the covers. Was it her nagger she heard clapping?

  Thursday in government class they were discussing—again—how ordinary people could make a difference.

  “What are some things you’ve heard about that other people are doing?” Ms. Wainwright asked from her perch on the tall stool in front of the chalkboard.

  “Our church does things like give out food baskets and stuff.”

  “The Salvation Army always has people ringing the bells for money. I did it once.”

  “People can get food at FISH, the food bank in town. I helped collect canned goods for them one time.”

  “The football team cleaned up an old lady’s yard one year.” Doug Ramstead’s voice came from right behind Trish.

  “And we collected petitions for the racetrack.” The answers kept coming from different parts of the room. “Helped keep it open too.”

  Trish nodded. Thanks to all their efforts, the Portland City Council had voted not to close Portland Meadows.

  “The cub sprouts had a food drive not too long ago.” Chuckles floated around the room at that.

  “Now that it’s cold outside again, I think about the homeless people who don’t have warm coats or blankets.” The speaker, a girl two rows over from Trish, tucked her hair back around her ear.

  “Aw, they can go to shelters,” a male voice answered. “They want to live on the streets.”

  “Right!” Trish could feel her anger starting to bubble. “What if there aren’t enough shelters? You slept out in the cold and rain lately without stuff to keep you warm?”

  “Naa, he doesn’t even like going camping with a tent.” Snickers rippled over the group.

  “We could bring in food or something. If all of Prairie got together we could do a lot.”

  Ms. Wainwright nodded her approval.

  “What if we had a coat and blanket drive?” The suggestion came from right behind Trish. Good old Doug.

  “We could hand them out ourselves so we would know who got them.”

  “Call it ‘B and C’—you know, like Blanket and Coat. If everyone in the school brought just one, we’d have…”

  Trish heard a buzz going on—“How many kids go here?” “Would everyone bring something?” “Who cares?”

  She and Rhonda grinned at each other. “This could be fun,” Trish whispered. Just then the bell rang.

  “To be continued tomorrow. Please come with ideas to contribute to make this work.” Ms. Wainwright got to her feet. “Class dismissed. Trish, can I see you for a moment?”

  Trish waited beside the teacher’s desk while the woman fumbled through a stack of papers.

  “Here’s your test. Good job, and I’m sure glad you’re back safe and sound.”

  “Thanks.” Trish looked at her grade. A bright red A decorated the top of the paper. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. You earned it.”

  Trish had a hard time keeping her feet on the floor. It looked as if she might have between a B and an A average in spite of being gone. Now to just get ready for finals.

  By Friday afternoon the entire school was buzzing about the new project of fifth-period Amer
ican government. The B&C drive was underway with students painting signs, calling social agencies to see if their contributions were needed, and printing handouts to get the community involved.

  Rhonda stayed overnight at Trish’s that Friday since she didn’t have a jumping event until Sunday. After devouring two large, thick-crust supreme pizzas with the help of Brad, Marge, and Patrick, the two girls lay across Trish’s bed.

  “I think I’m going to explode,” Rhonda groaned.

  “I was fine until we made hot fudge sundaes. Somehow pepperoni and hot fudge don’t mix too well.” Trish propped one hand under the side of her face. “We’re supposed to like, you know, study?”

  Rhonda groaned again—louder.

  Trish reached down and snagged Rhonda’s blue book bag off the floor. “Here.” She dumped it on Rhonda’s stomach. “Go to it. I have to work on my term paper.” The rustle of papers and the scratch of pencils were the only sounds for a while, except for the occasional groan.

  “I’ve had it.” Rhonda stuffed her notebook back in her bag an hour and a half later. “You want something to drink?” Trish shook her head. “Care if I get one?” Trish shook her head again. She nibbled on the end of her pencil, trying to think of just the right word.

  When Rhonda ambled back, Diet Coke in hand, Trish looked up from her scribblings. “Where’s mine?”

  Rhonda stopped in midstride and gave her a you-gotta-be-kidding look. “You said you didn’t want one.”

  Trish flipped her pencil at her friend. “You know me better than that. Would I ever turn down a Diet Coke?” Rhonda started to hand her the can. Trish pushed herself to her feet. “No, I wouldn’t want to deprive my best friend of the drink she’s been dying for. I’ll get my own.” In the best tradition of old-time actress Sarah Bernhardt, Trish laid the back of her hand to her forehead and limped out of the room.

  The pillow Rhonda threw just missed Trish’s back.

  In bed a bit later, the room dark except for the reflection of the mercury yard light, the two lay talking.