Golden Filly Collection One

by Lauraine Snelling

  “Guess so.”

  Hal wrapped both arms around Trish. As he hugged her close, he absently rubbed the early morning stubble on his chin against her forehead.

  Tricia felt a little more secure. Her father had always made everything all right. When she was little, he fixed the broken rope on her swing. He kissed her and put her back up on the pony when she fell off. All her life she’d tagged after him and David as they farmed and slowly built a business training Thoroughbreds for the racetrack.

  Most of those years Hal had trained horses for other breeders. It was only since Trish had turned ten that he’d had horses of his own to race. They still had horses in the stalls that belonged to other owners, but Tricia liked to work their own animals best. Since Dan’l was getting too old to race, they had Spitfire and his half-sister Firefly for this season and some real promising young stock for next year.

  With her head against her father’s chest, Tricia could hear the air rattling through his lungs. He wheezed, then gently pushed her aside so he could cough again.

  “Short and sweet this time,” he tried to joke as he took a deep breath.

  “See, Ma, no cough.”

  Tricia wanted to join in their old joke from her bikeriding days. “See, Ma, no hands” had been her password. Now all she could see was her father’s pale face with sweat beading on his upper lip. While the horrid red bubbles had been wiped away, a dried-brown smear marked where they’d been.

  “Oh no.” Hal checked his watch. “It’s seven o’clock. I’ll get the tack off these boys and you feed them. Then you’ve gotta get to school.”

  “I’ll be late anyway, so why don’t I stay home today? I can catch up on some stuff around here while you and Mom go to the doctor.”

  “David can do the chores. You’re going to school.”

  “But, Dad—”

  “Tricia.” Hal gripped her forearms with calloused hands. “I’m going to be fine. Your staying home won’t change anything but your grades.”

  Tricia stared into his eyes, seeking an answer to the fear that gnawed like a beaver at the back of her mind.

  “Really.” He turned her and lovingly swatted her on the seat. “Now get going. These horses are hungry.”

  Sunlight turned the straw to gold as she shuffled toward the open door. Dan’l snorted. Spitfire whickered. Soft nickers passed down the row of white stalls as the horses begged for their feed. Tricia turned and looked at her father one more time. His tuneless whistle accompanied his hands as he uncinched the saddle. Suddenly, the morning was the same as any other, the telltale dab on his cheek the only sign of trouble.

  Sucking in a deep breath, then letting it all out, Tricia stepped into the sunshine. “Be right back, fella,” she promised Spitfire as she picked up the buckets and headed for the feed room.

  After loading half a bale of alfalfa and the filled grain buckets into the wheelbarrow, Tricia hurried from stall to stall. She measured each animal’s allotted grain into their feedboxes and threw a wedge of hay in each manger. After checking to see that all the animals but Spitfire and Dan’l had water, she stepped into the tack room as Hal finished hanging up the saddles and bridles.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “Yep, but I don’t think we’ll race this time.”

  Tricia nodded. “That’s okay. I’ve beaten you the last three mornings.”

  “I gave you a head start.”

  “Sure. Sure.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Nope.” Trish shook her head.

  “What do you think I am?” Her father bent at the waist and with his right hand on his hip limped for several steps. “A rickety old man?”

  “Yup,” Tricia responded, trying not to laugh. “Just a worn-out, fallingapart, ancient old man.” The two paced each other up the rise toward the house.

  “See if I give you the fastest horse tomorrow morning,” he growled, laughter showing in his hazel eyes. “Lady, from now on, you work old Dan’l.”

  “Nope. The old horse suits the old man.”

  Arm in arm, they mounted the three concrete steps to the deck off the back of the house. Vertical cedar siding on the walls set off the blossomcovered fuchsias hanging from the beams. Below the baskets, tubs of ruby begonias raced for first place in the blooming contest.

  Tricia paused to look for the hummingbirds that dined every day on the drooping pink, purple, and white blossoms.

  “Hustle, Tee,” Marge called. “You’re late again.”

  “Dad.” Tricia clutched her father’s arm. “You’ll go to the doctor today?”

  “Umm-m-m. See…there’s a hummingbird. On the other side of the pink basket.”

  “Don’t play games with me.” Tension tightened Tricia’s jaw. “If you don’t tell Mom, I will.”

  “Now, Trish.”

  “I will.”

  “Okay. Okay.” He raised his hands in surrender.

  “What are you two so serious about?” Marge met them at the sliding glass door. “In case you haven’t noticed, my girl, you’re late.”

  Trish glanced at her mother, then stared into her father’s eyes. Silence.

  Why doesn’t he tell her? Tricia thought. I’m not going to back down, not this time. I know there’s something really wrong. Unbidden, a prayer surfaced in her mind. Make him well, God. He’s the best father a girl could ever have.

  Hal took a breath, like he was preparing for a deep dive. He patted Trish on the shoulder, then put his arm around Marge and walked into the family room with her.

  Trish slid onto the stool by the door.

  “It’s about this cough I’ve had.” He drew out a chair. “Sit down, honey.”

  “That bad?” Marge laughed up at him as she sat.

  “Ummm-mm, I think so. Ah-h.” He rubbed her shoulders. “This morning I coughed up a bit of blood. The pain was so bad I nearly fainted.”

  “But, Hal, you’ve always said—”

  “I know what I’ve been saying. But there has been pain. Not much but…” He walked to the window and stood looking out. “I think it’s getting worse.”

  “Why haven’t you—?”

  “I don’t know.” He ran work-worn fingers through his hair. “I was so sure it would go away. I quit smoking. Thought that would do it.”

  “But it hasn’t.”

  “No.”

  Trish felt each word beat against her. His flat “no” rattled in the room.

  After a long moment, Marge asked, “What exactly happened down at the barn?”

  Hal told her the entire story and ended with, “And there was just enough blood on my handkerchief to scare the living daylights out of me.”

  “And me,” Trish whispered from her perch by the door.

  Marge slumped in her chair, one arm over the back.

  In the corner, the fish tank bubbled on, as though nothing unusual had happened. As if Trish’s world hadn’t just had a major hole punched in it. She could hear David singing in the shower. Off key. As usual.

  “Guess I’ll go wash,” she said.

  “Yes,” her mother acknowledged, not taking her eyes off her husband’s back. “I’ll call the doctor as soon as the office is open. We’ll go right in.”

  “Don’t I need an appointment?”

  “I’m sure they’ll want to see you right away—” Her mother’s voice was cut off by Trish’s rap on the bathroom door.

  “You about done in there?” she raised her voice to be heard above the warbler.

  “In a minute,” David interrupted his favorite song to answer.

  That means more like five, Trish thought as she leaned her head against the door. “Time for me to eat first?”

  “Yeah. Probably.”

  “Well, take your time. I’m late already.” The sarcasm in her voice finally penetrated to the songbird in the shower.

  “Hey, what’s with you?” David shut off the faucets. “You always eat first. Why should this morning be any different?”

  �
��David.” Trish heard the shower door slam. She knew she should head for the kitchen but couldn’t force herself to listen to her parents again. Instead she tapped the door again. “David, Dad coughed up blood this morning.”

  “He what!” Her brother jerked the door open.

  “There was blood on his handkerchief and the side of his mouth after a coughing attack. His face was all gray—and sweaty.”

  With one towel tucked in around his waist, David leaned against the door jamb. Without taking his eyes from Trish’s, he reached for another towel and began drying his curly hair. “Does he know what’s wrong?”

  “No. They’re talking about going to the doctor.”

  “He never goes to a doctor. He must be worried.”

  “Yeah. Just says he’ll wait for the Great Physician to do His job.”

  “He’s always been right. So far.”

  “Yeah. So far. But…”

  David draped the towel around his neck. “Hurry up, kid. I’ll drive you to school as soon as you’re ready. And, Tee…” he added as she closed the door behind her, “we better start praying.”

  “I have been.”

  A quick shower later, Tricia grabbed beige pants and a matching striped T-shirt from her closet and threw them on the bed. A moment’s rummage in the bottom of the closet proved that her shoes were missing—as usual. Still kneeling, she glared around her room. It was in its normal state of disaster. Piles of clothing were strewn on the floor and hid the chair. Finding the mirror would take an act of Congress. So what if she never combed her hair again?

  “Trish?” Her mother’s voice broke through her concentration.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m coming.” She glared around the room one more time. “Have you seen my rope sandals?”

  “They’re in the living room, right where you left them,” her mother answered. “You know, if you’d pick things up…”

  “I know. I know,” Trish muttered to herself as she slammed the bathroom door shut. “Don’t start in on me right now. I don’t have time.”

  Ten minutes later, dressed and with mascara applied to her long dark lashes, Trish brushed her hair back and tossed the brush on the counter.

  No time to try anything different today. But then, when did she have time?

  The racing schedule would make her life even more hectic. Good thing she had second-year Spanish first thing in the morning. It was an easy class. Her junior year. Well, big deal. Racing was more important.

  Trish stopped long enough to slather peanut butter on a piece of whole wheat toast and pour a glass of milk to finish in the car.

  “Here’s a banana too,” Marge said as David honked the horn.

  Pushing the sliding door closed with her elbow, Tricia heard her father coughing again. It sounded as though he couldn’t get his breath, then he gagged. Trish turned to see him collapse into a chair.

  David’s honking urged her to hurry.

  Torn in both directions, Trish slammed the glass door open again.

  “Dad?”

  “Come on, Trish,” David hollered. “You’ll be late for second period at this rate.”

  “Get going, Tee.” Her father waved. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

  “I’ll be all right.”

  Trish turned and ran down the steps. The little red bubbles around his mouth filled her mind.

  Chapter

  03

  The morning dragged like a limping turtle.

  All Trish could hear in her mind was her father’s choking cough. His white face was all she could see when she closed her eyes.

  “Hey, Trish, you all right?” Rhonda Seabolt asked on the way to lunch.

  Trish and Rhonda had been best friends since kindergarten.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” Trish tried to smile.

  “You sure don’t look it.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “No. I mean…well—”

  “Rhonda?”

  “What?”

  “What would you do if you saw your dad coughing up blood?”

  Rhonda stared at Trish’s sober face. Hurrying students jostled them as they stopped in the middle of the hall. “I don’t know. Are you sure?

  About the blood, I mean.”

  Trish nodded. “We were out in the stable after this morning’s workout.

  It happened again just as David and I left for school—”

  “Hey, you two,” a familiar baritone voice interrupted them. “You’re blocking the hall.”

  Trish glanced up at Brad Williams, their tall, lanky cohort in innumerable escapades. He wrapped an arm around each of the girls and herded them over to the wall. “Now, if your conversation is so all-fired serious, at least you won’t get run over.”

  “Thanks, friend.” Trish tried to smile but the corners of her mouth felt stiff. She felt herself gathering to run. What she needed right now was to huddle in the big chair in the living room at home and wait for her parents to return. Maybe, just maybe, the problem wasn’t too serious. Maybe some kind of medicine would make her dad well again. Maybe Jesus would make him well right away. She groaned to herself. She hadn’t even thought to pray again. Some Christian she was.

  “Trish?”

  “Ummm-mm.”

  “What can I do to help?” Rhonda shifted her books so she had a free hand to grab Trish’s.

  “What’s going on here?” Brad looked from one stricken face to the other. “Trish, you look like you lost your first race.” He lifted her chin with a calloused finger.

  Trish glanced from Rhonda to Brad, then stared at her typing book. The more she talked about it, the worse it seemed.

  Taking the hint, Rhonda said, “It’s her dad. He was coughing blood this morning.”

  Brad stared at the wall above Trish’s head. He shook his head, took a shuddering breath, and looked deep into her eyes, searching out the pain that lurked behind her self-control. “When did this start?” he whispered.

  “Well,” Trish tried to think back, “he’s been coughing for a long time. Just kept referring to it as ‘his smoker’s hack.’ You know how he is.”

  Brad nodded.

  “Then this morning in the barn…” Trish stared at the hurrying mob of students with unseeing eyes. “They’re at the doctor’s now.”

  “Would you like me to take you home?”

  “I don’t know.” She pushed her hair off her forehead. “I wanted to go home a minute ago, but here I have something to keep my mind sort of busy.”

  “Do you need help at the stables?”

  “I don’t think so. David’s there.”

  “Well, if you need anything…”

  “Sure, thanks.” What I need, you can’t give, she thought. No one can.

  “Starving won’t help.” Brad took both girls’ arms. “Let’s go eat before the food’s all gone.”

  Trish attempted a smile. She knew Brad was trying to make things easier for her. He’d been that kind of friend for years. Her mother often laughed about having four kids instead of two. David was the oldest, Brad next, and finally the Siamese twins, Rhonda and Trish. All four had dreamed of being jockeys when they grew up, but the boys had grown so big they made jockeys look like midgets. Rhonda had switched her concentration to showing gaited horses, so that left Trish to carry the farm silks to glory. Together they had voted on stable colors, crimson and gold. Hal teased them about being in a rut since those were their school colors, but they had stuck by their decision. Trish would wear crimson and gold all the way to the winner’s circle.

  Trish and Rhonda made their way to the salad bar. Like a robot, Trish greeted the serving attendant and filled her plate. Her shoulders slumped when she saw other students sitting at their table in the back of the room. There’d be no time for real talking, no privacy.

  She felt like hiding. The walk across the room suddenly seemed too far, too difficult. Why, just this morning everything had been fine, and now her favorite person in all the world was…She refused to finish the thought.


  She juggled her purse and tray to free one hand. With it, she brushed back her wayward bangs. We’re winners, she thought. Dad always says “Quitters never win and winners never quit.” She marched across the room.

  “You want to sit somewhere else?” Rhonda asked from behind her.

  “No. That’s okay.” Trish set her tray down. “Besides, everything else is full.”

  A chorus of “hi’s” greeted the two as they pulled out their chairs.

  The familiar din of the lunchroom made talking below a shout difficult, so Trish concentrated on her salad.

  “Still watching your weight?” Doug Ramstead, quarterback on the varsity football squad, pulled his chair close so he could shout in her ear.

  Trish nodded. “Good thing I love salads.”

  “How long till you race?” He leaned nearer and lowered his voice. A lazy lock of blond hair fell over his forehead.

  “The season starts October first, but we won’t be in the first races. Dad has us scheduled for the Meadow’s Maiden. That’s a race for untried colts.”

  “Bet you can’t wait.”

  “We’re not ready yet. Spitfire still has more conditioning.”

  “Ugh. Don’t even use that word.” Doug shoved back his tray and leaned on his elbows.

  “Workout was rough, huh?”

  “Worse. Thought I was gonna heave my guts out.” He rubbed his biceps. “And my arms…I’ve been haying most of the summer, then weight training since the beginning of August. Coach Sey, the new man, makes old Smith look like a kindergarten teacher.”

  “How’s the team look?” Trish chewed on her straw.

  “Pretty good. This just might be our year.” He turned partway so he could look at her. “What about you? Doing any lifting? I haven’t seen you in the weight room.”

  “Yeah. I’ve been using David’s old set at home. I just can’t fit in the time to work out here.”

  “Could you fit in the party after the game on Friday?” He spoke right in her ear.

  Trish felt a tiny shiver as his breath tickled her earlobe. She drew back at the unfamiliar sensation. “Can I tell you later? I’m not sure what my dad has planned.”