Golden Filly Collection Two

by Lauraine Snelling

  “Here.” Taylor handed the bucket across the gate.

  Trish set the stainless steel bucket down beside her, took out some string, and tied off the foal’s umbilical cord. Then with scissors that had been dipped in disinfectant, she snipped the cord. “There you go, little fella. You’re on your own now.”

  The mare raised her head, curling her neck around to sniff the foal. With one last contraction, she expelled the afterbirth and heaved herself to her feet. Head down, she nuzzled the foal and began licking him.

  Trish pushed herself back against the wall and glanced up at Taylor. He stood with his chin on his hands, never taking his eyes from the spectacle before him.

  “I’ve never seen anything born before.” His hushed voice would do honor to a cathedral.

  “Something, isn’t it?” Trish crossed her wrists on her bent knees. “Makes me almost cry every time. Sometimes we have trouble, but this old girl has been at it so long, she could write the script.”

  The foal pushed his spindly front legs out in front of him. His head bobbed, but still he tried to stand upright.

  “He’s a strong one, all right.” Trish checked her watch. “Not even half an hour old and he’s already trying to stand.” The mare continued licking her baby, making snuffling noises. “She’s telling him how wonderful he is and that he’s going to be the fastest horse in the world.”

  “Sure. You understand horse talk too?”

  “That’s what my dad used to say. Every baby needs to hear he’s the greatest, and who better to tell him than his mother?”

  “I bet that would be good.”

  Trish looked up at him. “You mean you never heard that?”

  “I doubt it. My mother didn’t think talking to her kids was important. In fact, she didn’t think taking care of them was either, so she split.” The words dropped like rocks into a calm pool, sending waves to shatter the reflection and crash on the shore.

  “I—I’m sorry.”

  “No big deal. I better get going. You need anything else?”

  Trish shook her head. “No, I’ll take care of her. See you.” She got to her feet and watched him stride out of the barn, shoulders stiff but head bowed. What was that all about?

  Chapter

  13

  But why? Why won’t you go out with me?”

  “Taylor, I’m sorry. I just don’t have time. Finals are next week and I wish I could even cancel racing for the weekend.”

  “But you’re going to the state tournament, aren’t you? I could drive you up there.”

  “I told you, there’s a bunch of us going. We’re going to share one motel room.” Trish curled the cord around her finger. Right now she’d like to curl her fingers around his neck—and shake him. He just wouldn’t quit.

  “Look, Trish, if you don’t want to go out with me, just say so. Don’t make up excuses.”

  “All right. I don’t want to go out with you.” The phone clicked in her ear. “He hung up on me.” She stared at the receiver as if it were to blame. “I don’t believe it. He hung up on me.” She dropped the receiver in the cradle and glared at it. “Of all the nerve.”

  When the phone rang later, Trish waited for the voice on the answering machine. As soon as she recognized Taylor’s baritone, she turned to her mother. “Tell him I don’t want to talk to him.” At Marge’s frown, Trish pleaded, “It wouldn’t be a lie.”

  “Just don’t answer. You can return the call later.”

  “Not on your life. He hung up on me.” Trish headed for her bedroom and three more hours of studying—that is, if she got done fast. She ignored three more calls, each one sounding more contrite than the last.

  The next day a bouquet of balloons, anchored by round jingle bells, waited for her just inside the front door. The card said, “Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to be such an idiot. Please answer when I call.” The balloons all bobbed when she socked the one that said “Sorry.”

  Trish picked up the phone when it rang a few minutes later. “Yes, you’re forgiven,” she said after the greetings. “And thanks for the balloons. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I know, but I don’t want bad feelings between my friend and me. See you at the races.”

  Trish breathed a sigh of relief. Those hadn’t been just excuses she’d given him. She felt like a piece of bubble gum blown to the max and about to burst any second.

  Trish and Rhonda didn’t stay overnight in the capital after all for the state basketball tournament. They drove up early in the morning, watched Prairie lose their first and therefore only game, and drove home that night.

  “I didn’t say we’d win state,” Jason shrugged.

  “I know, just that we’d go.” Trish could tell both he and Doug were taking it hard. They’d had such high hopes. “But you drew the toughest team of all. What can you say?”

  “See you tomorrow at Prairie,” Doug grumbled.

  In March the ads she and Red had made for Chrysler hit prime-time television. Trish sat studying on the living room couch when the phone rang.

  “Trish, it’s Rhonda,” Marge called from the kitchen. “Really, right now?”

  Trish could hear the change in her mother’s voice.

  “Tee, turn on the TV, quick!”

  Trish did as she was told and stepped back. Red’s smiling face greeted her, and then the camera zoomed out to show both of them standing behind the hoods of a black and a red LeBaron. Trish had seen the rushes at the end of the shooting, but somehow it was different standing in her own living room watching herself on TV. And not on a sportscast.

  Marge joined her. “Looks pretty good to me.”

  “I guess.”

  The phone rang again—Doug this time. And again, Brad. Trish didn’t get any more studying done that night. The calls came in back to back with some of her friends complaining they’d been dialing for hours, but her line was always busy.

  When Curt Donovan finally got through, he accused her of leaving the phone off the hook.

  “I did not, but right now that sounds like a pretty good idea. I have a paper due tomorrow and I’m not getting it done.”

  “So, when are you going to let me start on your biography?”

  “Curt, that’s a dumb idea. No one would buy a book about me.”

  “Trish, my love, one of the things I like about you is your humility. You are famous, whether you want to believe it nor not.”

  Trish let her snort give him her opinion.

  “You watch—there’s a movie in this yet, whether for TV or the big screen I don’t know.”

  “Curt, are you taking crazy pills or something? Because this is crazy.”

  “I’m going to love saying ‘I told you so.’ Talk to you later.”

  Trish hung up the phone, shaking her head.

  She got lots more phone calls, but only Taylor sent her flowers, this time red and white carnations in an arrangement with a balloon that said “Congratulations.” When she called to thank him, he wasn’t there.

  The next night Red called from Florida, where he was racing at Hia-leah. Trish felt the usual bump of excitement when she heard his voice.

  “Hi, yourself,” she said. “I sent you a card to your mother’s house. You look mighty good on TV.”

  “Look who’s talking. You stole the show. Bet every guy in America goes out to buy a LeBaron hoping you’ll come with it.”

  “Red, that’s crazy. One of my friends said she’d buy one if you came with it.” She could feel her cheeks flaming. “So, how’s the racing in Florida? Bet it beats freezing to death here.”

  “You could come on down.”

  “Maybe next year.” They talked for half an hour, and by the end of the time, Marge was making pointed glances at her watch and the clock. Trish checked their new phone message service and sure enough, there were three calls. David was one of them.

  “So, why didn’t you call and tell me about my television star sister?” David sounded put out again.

 
Marge and Trish were both on the phone. “I left you a message,” Marge answered. “Don’t you ever check your machine?”

  David muttered something about clobbering his roommate.

  By the time they’d finished that conversation, Trish glared at her watch. Burning the midnight oil was getting to be a habit, one her eyes didn’t think too much of.

  “Anybody else calls, tell ’em I’m not home.”

  On Monday the prosecutor for the upcoming Kendall Highstreet trial called with the date. They were set to begin in two weeks if another postponement didn’t happen.

  Trish felt her stomach do a series of flip-flops. “Do I have to be one of the witnesses?”

  “You’re the one he’s accused of shooting at. Attempted bodily harm with a deadly weapon makes this a stronger case than just extortion. We have five counts against him, and that’s just on the criminal side. I’m sure there will be civil lawsuits also.”

  How am I gonna? fit all this in? was the question dogging Trish’s mind whenever she had a free moment to think—usually in the shower or driving her car.

  “Look at this.” Marge handed Trish the paper at breakfast the next morning. Pictures of both a man and a woman graced the middle of the page with the headline, “Developer’s Wife Sues for Divorce.” She was quoted as saying she didn’t want any part of his criminal activities. She was taking their children somewhere safe, away from all the negative publicity.

  Trish finished reading. “Serves him right.”

  “I thought you were praying for him.”

  “I am. Isn’t praying for justice okay too?” Trish folded the newspaper and finished her toast. “I’ll be home late. I have a committee meeting after school.”

  “Patrick’s not feeling well. Brad may have to take care of things at the track, so that’ll leave you and me here. Pray that he gets better or you’ll have to be at the track in the morning.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I think that cold he’s been nursing has gone into his chest. Sounds like he’s coughing up his guts when he starts in.”

  “How come you didn’t tell me earlier?” The thought of coughing flashed her back to the days when her father was so ill. Fear clenched her stomach and dried her throat. “He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?”

  “He’s not as young as he likes to think he is. That’s why I’ve ordered him to bed.”

  By the time Patrick was on his feet again four days later, Trish felt as if her bubble had burst and she was the gum splattered all over a face. Stringy bits and pieces everywhere and no one gathering her back together. When her quarter finals were finished, she hit the sack and slept the clock around.

  “How many mounts this afternoon?” Marge asked when Trish finally staggered out to the kitchen that Saturday morning.

  Trish groaned and looked at the clock. “Only two and they’re late in the program. Otherwise I’da set my alarm.” She sank down on a chair and rested her head in her hands. “I’d give anything to just go back to bed.”

  “So call your agent and have him get someone else to ride.”

  “Because I’m tired?”

  Marge raised a hand to stop Trish before she got going. “Just a thought. You haven’t only been burning the candle at both ends, you’ve had a fire going in the middle.” Marge took Trish’s hot chocolate out of the microwave. “I think we’d better hire some more help.”

  “Well, when you do, hire them to do my homework.”

  Between races, when Taylor pushed her for a date, Trish just shook her head. “Not now. Maybe next weekend. A movie with Rhonda and Brad maybe?” She watched as he switched from pleading to pleased.

  “Really?”

  “We’ll celebrate the end of the quarter and one more to go.”

  “So you finally gave in.” Genie Stokes waited for her.

  “Yep. He’s nice and I like being with him, but I’ve just been too busy. This school year can’t get over too soon for me.”

  “I was like that too.”

  “Some of the kids are already moaning about leaving dear old Prairie. Not me.” Trish held open the door to the jockey room for Genie. “Graduation can’t come soon enough, far as I’m concerned.”

  “So we’re to be your bodyguards,” Brad teased when Trish told him about their coming night out.

  “You know how my mom feels about me dating an older man.”

  “I know, us college men are—”

  Trish interrupted him with a sock on the shoulder. “Not the hot stuff you think you are.” She stroked Gatesby’s nose, all the while keeping the other hand on his halter. “If you don’t behave, I’ll sic my horse on you.”

  Brad rolled his eyes. “Can’t do any worse than he did this morning. When am I gonna learn to watch him at all times?”

  Trish looked at the horse, his eyes drooping in contentment at her scritching his favorite places. “Hard to believe this guy’s the one you’re referring to.”

  “Right.” Brad rubbed his shoulder. “And I’ve got the green and purple marks to prove it.”

  Trish wasn’t quite ready when she heard the Corvette in the driveway the next Friday night. But when Caesar’s tone changed from welcome to cautious, Trish threw her lipstick on the bathroom counter and headed for the door.

  “Caesar, you know he’s a friend. Knock it off.” When the dog didn’t quit barking, Trish ordered, “Caesar, down! Quiet!”

  “Guess he just doesn’t like me.” Taylor came around the front of the car while Caesar glued his haunches to Trish’s foot.

  “I don’t understand it. Usually only his tongue and tail are the dangerous parts. He’ll either lick you to pieces or beat you with his tail.” She kept a hand on the dog’s head. She could feel the tension quivering in the dog’s body. What’s with him lately?

  “How about if we take my car? Your backseat is pretty small.”

  Taylor gave her a look of pure astonishment. “We can all fit if you girls ride in the back. Otherwise, we’ll meet them there.”

  Trish rolled her eyes. This wasn’t starting out well at all. “Fine.” Men!

  No wonder they called it the battle of the sexes. “Brad is over at Rhonda’s. It’s just up the road.”

  “Make sure you kick any mud off your feet before you get in back,” Taylor ordered when they picked up the others.

  Trish and Rhonda swapped “Oh, well” looks. They wouldn’t dare mess up his fancy new car.

  While Brad raved about the beauty, the sound, the smell, the power of the Corvette, Trish and Rhonda swapped scrunched-up looks and mouthed sarcastic words. Two people crunched in the backseat of a Corvette ranked right up near the top on a list of torture techniques. At least they weren’t going far.

  Their dinner arrived late and cold, and the movie had enough blood in it to restock the Red Cross. When it was time to climb back in the Corvette, Trish just prayed for the evening to get over.

  “But the entire mess wasn’t Taylor’s fault,” Rhonda said the next day on the phone. “Other than insisting we take his car—and you know how thrilled Brad was.”

  “Don’t even mention cars. How can anyone be so picky about a bit of mud on the floor?”

  “It’s a guy thing, for sure,” Rhonda giggled.

  There’s something else.” Trish doodled on the pad beside her. “Caesar seems uneasy around him.”

  “So?”

  “So, why? Caesar’s usually so friendly. You know that.”

  “Probably it’s just the car. Too fancy for your farm dog’s taste.”

  “Rhonda, be serious.”

  “Are you going out with him again?”

  “He wants me to. Asked again at the track today, but I don’t have time, so there’s no worry.” Trish hung up the phone and stuck her head in the refrigerator. Where, oh where was a Diet Coke when she wanted it?

  The Highstreet trial happened right on schedule. With all the media hoopla, Trish wondered if the trial was necessary. The man had already been tried, convict
ed, and hung by the press.

  But the morning she was to be a witness for the prosecution, she dressed with care. Breakfast was beyond possibility since her resident troupe of stomach butterflies seemed bent on wearing themselves out before noon.

  As soon as they entered the courtroom, Trish looked for the man who was accused of trying to shoot her down. All she remembered seeing was the barrel of a gun pointing at her. The man behind it had been huge, but other than that, she couldn’t identify him.

  At the table on the left, a man sat hunched over by his attorney. While Trish recognized him from pictures she’d seen in the paper, she could still hardly equate this beaten human being with the arrogant man she remembered.

  When they called her name, Trish started to rise. Marge squeezed her daughter’s hand. “You can do it, honey. I’ll be praying for you.”

  All you need to do is tell the truth. even her nagger was a comfort at this point.

  And that’s what Trish did. She told what she remembered and refused to be swayed by the attorney for the defense. When she stepped down, she again caught the gaze of the man on trial. Was he trying to say he was sorry? A flash of pity ripped through Trish’s mind. Please, God, care for him.

  Amazed at what had just happened to her, Trish pushed open the gate to return to her seat. Sitting in the back row—she looked again to be sure—it was Taylor. What in the world was he doing at the trial of a real estate developer?

  But when she asked him that the next time they talked on the phone, he said he’d gone to watch her “do her stuff.”

  “Why?” Trish shook her head.

  “Maybe I’ll go into law. I thought this was a good chance to see our legal system in action—and you too.” He chuckled. “You looked really good up there.”

  “Thanks, I think.” Trish hung up the phone a bit later with something niggling at her.

  With the Kentucky Derby only three weeks away, Trish caught herself remembering the year before. By this time they were worried if Spitfire would fly all right, if his leg could stand the strain. How she wished to have another horse to take to the Derby!