Golden Filly Collection Two

by Lauraine Snelling

  One sunny afternoon, she led the mare outside, her foal dancing beside her.

  “He’s just a doll.” Marge stopped to chuckle when the shiny black colt leaped away from a shadow. “He’s about the most curious baby I’ve ever seen.”

  “Dad would say that shows great intelligence. He’s nothing if he’s not gutsy.” Trish led the pair through the open gate and unsnapped the lead strap. The mare immediately found a dirt patch and collapsed to the ground, rolling and scratching her back. The colt charged away, ran in a circle, and came back to watch what he obviously thought was crazy behavior.

  “We need to name him, Mom.” Trish propped her elbows on the fence behind her.

  “I know. Nothing either Patrick or I’ve thought of seems to fit. We tried something with Seattle or Slew in it, but all those seem to be taken. Since he’s Spitfire’s full brother, I thought something along that line might work, but again nothing.”

  “Dad was usually the namer here.” Trish sighed, wishing for about the millionth time that he were with them. “Did you ask David?”

  “Uh-huh. No help.”

  “What about Hal’s Angel?”

  “For a colt? Sounds more like a filly.” Marge rested her chin on her hands on the fence. “If you say it wrong, you get Hell’s Angel. You want people to think he’s a biker?”

  “Well, they have a lot of speed.”

  “Right, of every kind. Hal’s Angel. I don’t know.”

  “I’d like to name him after Dad. Let’s think about it.”

  The last day of racing at Portland Meadows dawned cloudy but turned clear and sunny. The fans came out in force, and with a list of six mounts, Trish felt as up as Gatesby. Only she didn’t try to bite, or rather, nip everyone in sight.

  John Anderson threatened to sell his gelding, even though Gatesby had won his last three times out, including today.

  And when she won five of her six starts, Trish didn’t think she’d come down for a month.

  “Sure wish David had been here for this,” she said to her mother when they stood in the winner’s circle for Sarah’s Pride, the claimer they had bought the year before. “And Dad.”

  “Oh, I think your father knows what’s going on, and he’s busting his buttons with pride.” Marge shook hands with the presenter and they all smiled for the flash.

  “You want to invite a bunch over to celebrate?”

  Trish shook her head. “I just want to crash.”

  “Is this the Trish we all know and love?” Marge stepped back as if to make sure.

  “Mother!”

  “Well, don’t wait up for me, then. Bob Diego and I are going out to dinner.”

  “You’re what!” Trish nearly dropped her saddle.

  “You heard me. He’s invited me out for dinner to celebrate the end of the racing season here, and I accepted.”

  “Maybe I better invite Rhonda over. I’m not so sure I like the idea of my mother and Bob Diego.”

  “Trish, he’s just a friend.”

  “Where have I heard those words before?” Trish tried to put a smile on her face. “Oh, yeah, they were mine.”

  On the way to school the next day, Rhonda was yakking on about Jason when she suddenly asked, “Has Doug invited you to the prom yet?”

  “Well, he mentioned it but not really asked me. Why?”

  “’Cause I think you’ve got a problem.”

  Trish waited for the light to change. “Now what?” She turned to check out Rhonda’s expression. Her friend wore that cat-and-canary look that meant something was cooking.

  “Well, what if Taylor asks you and Doug asks you? Who will you go with?”

  “I think I’ll just stay home.” Trish pulled into the Prairie High parking lot. “Besides, why would Taylor ask me?”

  “’Cause he said he would.” Rhonda raised both her eyebrows and her shoulders. Her silly grin left Trish certain that Rhonda knew more than she was letting on.

  Now what’ll? I do?

  Chapter

  14

  True to Rhonda’s prediction, both guys asked her to the prom.

  “But what am I gonna do?” Trish wailed at her mother as soon as Marge could be found. She sat in her bedroom at Hal’s desk, paying bills.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Go see Spitfire?” Trish perched on the edge of the bed.

  “Be serious.” Marge leaned back in the swivel chair.

  “Well, Doug and I’ve gone to school together since kindergarten. He knows everyone and so do I. While Taylor won’t know anyone and half the girls will love me for making Doug ask someone else. But I hate to hurt Taylor’s feelings.”

  “Would you rather hurt Doug?”

  “No-o.”

  “enough said.”

  “Sometimes growing up isn’t all fun.”

  “You’re right there, honey. Much of the time, it’s downright difficult.” Marge turned back to her bookwork.

  “One more problem—what am I going to wear, and when do I have time to go shopping? Next Saturday is the Kentucky Derby. I fly back there on Wednesday, returning Sunday night. The next Saturday is the prom.”

  “First things first. We’ll find time. We always do.”

  Trish left the room and headed for the kitchen. Much easier to deal with a mess of this magnitude on a full stomach. Finally, sandwich finished, she dialed Taylor’s number. Maybe he wouldn’t be there and she could just leave the message on his answering machine. She could hear her nagger making scolding noises. Not a good idea.

  The answering machine clicked in.

  Rats. She waited and asked him to call her back later in the evening after chores were finished. And Doug was at baseball practice. She’d tell him tomorrow.

  When Taylor called back, Trish wished she were in another country. “So, you’re going to let me take you to the prom, right?”

  “Sorry, but Doug had already asked me…Well he’d sorta mentioned

  it, so I…” She stuttered to a halt and took a deep breath. “But thanks for asking.” Silence filled the receiver and echoed in her ear. “Taylor?”

  “I’m here. This just takes some getting used to.” His voice sounded brittle, harsh—not like the smooth, warm way he usually spoke. He paused. Like a mask falling into place, his normal voice took over. “I was really looking forward to seeing you all dressed up. You’ll be so beautiful.”

  Trish felt shivers chase each other up and down her spine.

  “Well, may the better man win,” Taylor went on. “How about if I get to take you out to dinner the night before? You know, a loser’s consolation?”

  “Okay, but…”

  “We’ll go somewhere really nice and maybe dancing so I’ll get to see you in evening clothes after all.”

  “But…” Now I’m going to have to buy two dresses. “I’ll see you later, then. I gotta get to work here.” When he hung up, she slumped to the floor. What have I gotten myself into?

  “So what’s buggin’ you?” Rhonda asked a few minutes later when Trish called to tell what had happened. “Here you get to go to the prom with the dream of Prairie High and out to some fancy restaurant with the most gorgeous guy on the planet the night before.” Rhonda groaned. “I should have such problems.”

  “Now I have to buy two dresses, and I don’t have time to go shopping for one.”

  “Never fear, your friend is here. I’ll go shopping and bring home some for you to try on. I know your taste better than you do.”

  “Shoes too?”

  “And accessories. You want your diamond drops for the prom, madame?”

  Trish chuckled at Rhonda’s idea of what a maid would sound like. “Thanks, buddy.”

  “No problema. I’ll just get yours when I look for mine.”

  After a red-eye flight east, accompanied by her mother, Trish slipped back into all the ceremony of Kentucky Derby week as if she belonged there. Having been through it all once made the second time around even more fun and exciting. If only s
he were riding one of her own horses rather than a colt for Adam Finley.

  Red was riding for BlueMist.

  With whirlwind speed, the weekend disappeared in a puff. Trish, on a filly for BlueMist, took a place in the Oaks, the filly race on Friday. She won with a mount for Adam earlier in the day.

  “So, you think you can beat me?” Red rode beside her in the early morning mist at Churchill Downs. They were both walking their Derby entries to loosen them up.

  “Of course. I did it once; I can do it again.”

  “Nothing like confidence. Just think, another month and you’ll be graduating.”

  “I’ll be free. I can’t wait.”

  That afternoon they gave each other the thumbs-up sign when their horses were filing into the starting gates. Trish stroked Sunday Delight’s dark neck. While the BlueMist colt was considered the favorite, you never knew what would happen on the track. At least the sun was shining, not a downpour like the year before.

  Trish jerked her thoughts back to the present. The handlers had just gated the last of the fourteen entries. Her position as number three was ideal. Red had drawn number twelve.

  At the shot, the gates flew open.

  Trish held her horse firm when he bobbled in the first steps. Adam had told her to hold him back, a few lengths off the pace, so he could handle the mile and a quarter. Coming out of the first turn, she and two others seemed to have the same idea. Two ran neck and neck about three lengths ahead.

  Sunday ran easily, ears flicking forward and back, listening to Trish sing him around the track. Going into the turn, a rider came up on the inside and bore down on the leaders. The pace quickened. Out of the turn and into the stretch. The tall white posts with golden knobs gleamed ahead.

  Trish loosened her reins. With a surge, Sunday drove for the leaders. On the outside, the horse they’d been pacing, BlueMist’s Rival, kept his place. Past the three who were slowing, having run themselves out too early, and down for the wire.

  The horse beside her lengthened his stride. Trish went to the whip—one crack, as Adam had instructed her. Nose to nose. Whisker to whisker. “Come on, fella.” Trish sang her song. Under the line—a photo finish. Had Red’s horse stretched his nose out farther—been one step ahead—or had hers?

  “Good race.” Red raised his whip and touched the visor of his helmet.

  “You too.” Trish brought her mount back down to a canter and then a trot. Winning the Kentucky Derby two years in a row would be another kind of record, let alone being a woman winning it twice.

  “We have the results.” The announcer’s voice sent a hush over the crowd. “And the winner of this year’s Kentucky Derby is BlueMist’s Rival, ridden by Red Holloran and…”

  Trish could barely hear the rest over the screams of the crowd, but it didn’t matter. She blew Red a kiss and walked the colt over to where Adam and José waited for her.

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” Adam said before she could apologize. “I’ve never had one that close before, so this feels mighty good. Maybe you’ll take him at the Preakness.”

  Trish leaped to the ground. “Thanks for asking me to ride for you. It sure feels good to be here.”

  “There’s lots more to come, lass. Now that you’re finished for the year in Portland, bring your horses south and we’ll keep you busy.”

  Trish watched the award ceremonies with a lump in her throat. That was Red up there, and if it couldn’t be her, he was certainly her next choice. The Shipsons looked like waving royalty.

  By the time Trish said good-bye to Spitfire and Firefly and got on her plane the next morning, having spent the night celebrating with her friends, she was ready for the time-and-space warp back to Portland.

  “You think we should leave Firefly there after all?” Marge asked after they had changed planes in Chicago.

  “She sure looks good—hardly a limp at all—but when I asked about racing her again, Donald shook his head. He thinks she’ll be ready for breeding next winter. Now we have to decide on what stallion.”

  “Patrick’s been mulling that around. So we leave her there?”

  “Guess so.” Trish settled in for a sleep. “Tell them I don’t want any food.”

  Rhonda had found one dress but not the other. “Don’t worry. I said I’d take care of it and I will. Your personal shopper will not fail you.”

  Trish held the bodice of the glimmery gold dress up to her chest and swirled the black bouffant skirt. “Is this really me?”

  “You can’t wear racing silks every day, you know.” Rhonda gathered Trish’s hair on top of her head. “A few curls, some extra makeup, and you’ll be a knockout. Doug Ramstead will positively drool when he sees you.”

  “You sure?” Trish felt a thrill of excitement in her middle. This reminded her of their day shopping in California. Maybe this dance would be fun after all.

  The next day Marge showed Trish an article in the paper. Kendall Highstreet had tried to commit suicide. “Pray for him.” Marge shook her head. “I wondered about him that day we saw him in court. Now that he’s facing prison, he must feel he has nothing left.”

  “I will.”

  On Wednesday, Taylor called. “Hope you’re looking forward to Friday as much as I am. I decided to rent a dinner jacket. How about that?”

  Trish felt her heart ricochet off her ribs. And she didn’t even have a dress yet. Could she wear the prom dress for both dates? Wasn’t it too dressy for dinner? Why had she ever agreed to go out the night before anyway? Falling off a horse was easier any time. At least she’d been trained how to do that.

  Trish heard the Corvette enter the driveway at the same moment Caesar started barking. His welcome woofs deepened to a warning.

  Trish called the dog inside and scolded him, but let him out the sliding-glass door when Taylor knocked on the front door.

  “Wow! Look at you.” Taylor handed Trish a box with three perfect creamy rosebuds in a corsage. “You’re more beautiful than I even imagined you’d be.”

  Trish caught her breath at the sight of his dark good looks set off by the white dinner jacket. A red tie made his smile sparkle even more than usual. “Wow, yourself.” Her voice squeaked. “See you later, Mom.” Trish turned so Taylor could drape her cape around her shoulders. She ran a hand down the side of her black velvet sheath. If this was what a million dollars felt like, she’d dress up more often.

  She slipped her hand in Taylor’s proffered arm on their walk to the car.

  “That blasted dog.” Taylor’s tone said more than his words.

  “What?” Trish followed his gaze. “Taylor, for goodness’ sake, he just peed on your tire. All male dogs do that. It washes right off.”

  Taylor closed the door for her and stomped around the front end of the car. Although he closed his door gently, it felt as if he had slammed it.

  A shiver ran up Trish’s arms, setting the fine hairs on end. What’s his problem? “I’ll wash it off when we get home if you like.”

  Taylor sucked in a deep breath. Trish could see him order his face to smile, and then he turned to her. “That’s okay. I overreacted. Sorry.”

  “Sure.” But Trish still wondered: his hands were shaking.

  The Top of the Towers restaurant lived up to all the rumors Trish had heard. The piano playing through dinner, their table next to the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, Portland in her nighttime finery spread out at their feet, candlelight that deepened the dimple in Taylor’s cheek. He did know how to make her feel special, that’s for sure. Trish wiped her mouth with her napkin and laid the snowy square in her lap.

  She looked up to catch Taylor staring at her, his eyes flat and vacant.

  She looked away, shivering as if an icy draft had kissed the nape of her neck. What was wrong? But when she looked back, Taylor smiled, his eyes lit again with the warm look that thrilled her. Silly, she scolded herself. It must have been the light.

  “May I have this dance?” Taylor took her hand. “Or would you rather hav
e dessert first?”

  Trish looked up to where several couples swayed to the dreamy music.

  Their waiter stopped at the table with a tray of goodies, most of which Trish had never seen before. “Can I tempt you with one of these tonight?” He went on to list them all, half of them made of chocolate in one delicious form or another.

  Trish pointed to one called Chocolate Decadence. “I’ll take that one. Even the name sounds tempting.”

  “What are you going to do this summer?” she asked when the silence seemed to stretch.

  “Oh, probably work for my father again. He and my uncle—”

  The waiter interrupted him by placing their desserts in front of them.

  When Trish looked up after sampling her wedge of sinfully rich dessert, his eyes had that strange look again. She glanced at her watch. Ten-thirty. Where had the time gone?

  “Taylor, I had no idea it was so late. I have to be at the track at five-thirty.” She took another bite of her dessert. It was so rich it made her teeth ache. “I’m so stuffed I can’t eat another bite.”

  Taylor pushed his plate away, his dessert only half-eaten. He waved for their check and, as soon as it came, stuffed some bills into the dark leather folder. “Shall we go, then?”

  “I—I’m sorry.” Trish suddenly felt like a little kid being reprimanded by an adult. It was his voice that did it. They walked out to the parking garage and waited for the valet to bring the Corvette around. Neither spoke a word.

  “Thank you for a wonderful dinner.” Trish leaned back against the cushy seat while Taylor navigated the streets of downtown Portland.

  He didn’t answer.

  Trish looked at his profile, lit by the array of colors from the dash panel. A muscle jumped in his cheek. Was he so mad he was clenching his jaw? What had she done to make this happen?

  They crossed the towering Fremont Bridge over the Willamette River and roared onto I-5. Trish couldn’t see the speedometer, but she knew he was driving way over the speed limit.

  “Taylor, is something wrong?”