Golden Filly Collection One

by Lauraine Snelling

  “You want me to help carry your stuff?” Rhonda asked.

  “You ready, Trish?” Genie Stokes stopped at their door.

  “Sure am.” Trish breathed a sigh that sounded strangely like a swimmer who’d just snagged a lifebuoy. “Thanks anyway, Rhonda. See you guys over there.”

  “I remember what my first race was like,” Genie said as they walked past the stables. “I was absolutely sure I was gonna throw up. And then I was afraid I wouldn’t. Did you eat something this morning?”

  “Yes.” Trish found herself answering in monosyllables.

  “Good. I’d grab a bite with you after the race, but I’m riding three different horses today. Pretty good, if I do say so.”

  Laughter and the pungent odor of liniment hit them as they opened the door to the women’s dressing room. Trish hung her things on a hook and joined Genie in an open area where several women were stretching out. She felt her stomach relax as she touched her head on her knee for hamstring stretches. The familiar routine warmed her body, and the jokes flying around brought first a smile, then a giggle.

  Genie introduced her to the others and helped her begin to form a routine of her own.

  When Trish left the room to go pick up her saddle, she took one last glance in the full-length mirror. No one would know she was a novice from her appearance. She brushed a hand through her dark hair and snapped the helmet in place.

  Brad whistled under his breath as he handed her the saddle.

  “Let’s walk before I weigh in.” Trish checked her watch. “I have extra time. How’s Spitfire?” she asked. “And Dad?”

  “Spitfire’s ready to race and no report on your father. David couldn’t get hold of your mom.”

  “That must mean they’re on their way here.” Trish nodded.

  “You look totally awesome.” Brad stepped back to look her up and down. “Wait till the team sees you.”

  “They’re here?”

  “Right on the other side of the paddock. Can’t you hear them?”

  “Trish to win. Trish to win.” The chanting grew louder as they walked down the tunnel.

  Trish waved as they paused in the entrance to the paddock. The saddling stalls formed a circle like spokes of a wheel. On the other side, spectators could come to watch behind-the-scenes action. Students from Prairie High lined the rails.

  “You better go quiet them down,” she told Brad. “I have to go weigh now.” She waved to her cheering audience one more time. “See you in a bit.”

  “Good luck.” Genie shook Trish’s hand after they’d both been weighed in and lead weights inserted in the slots of their saddle pads.

  “Same to you.” Trish carried her saddle over for David to settle it just behind Spitfire’s withers. As he tightened the girth, she stroked Spitfire’s muzzle one more time. “This is it, fella.” She smoothed his forelock. “So give it all you got.”

  “You can do it.” Rhonda accompanied her assurance with a hug.

  “You’re winners, both of you.”

  “Thanks.” Trish felt like her smile might slide off and get buried in the dirt.

  David boosted her atop her mount and held the stirrup while she settled her feet in place. “Now, you remember all Dad’s instructions?” He patted her knee.

  Trish nodded and took another deep breath before she picked up the reins. She patted Spitfire’s neck again as David untied the lead rope and handed it over to Brad. After snapping her goggles in place, she nodded again.

  Dan’l stepped smartly into the number three place in line when the bugle called the parade to the post. As they cleared the dim tunnel and came out into the sunlight, Trish blinked and checked the box reserved for Runnin’ On Farm. It was still empty. Her father wasn’t standing along the fences leading to the track either.

  Trish had no more time to search. Spitfire danced sideways in his personal ballet. “Easy, boy.” Her continual murmur seemed to entertain him as his ears flicked back and forth at her words. His black hide gleamed, already damp from the excitement.

  As they pulled even with Dan’l, Brad grinned at her. “You’re gonna do it, buddy.” He snugged the lead rope down to keep Spitfire from drawing ahead. “You two look better than anything out here.” He unsnapped the lead shank as they turned and slow-galloped back toward the gates. His thumbs-up signal to Trish meant “to win.”

  God, take care of my dad was Trish’s only thought as she snuck one last glance at the empty box. Spitfire strutted into the gate and only blew when the metal clanged shut behind him. Trish felt him settle for the break. She concentrated on the space between his cocked ears, willing both herself and the horse to victory.

  The shot and the opening clang of the gates sent the field surging from the gates. Spitfire broke at just the right moment, with a mighty thrust that gave them the rail in three strides. Horses one and two disappeared in the melee.

  Trish leaned over the colt’s withers, her face buried in his blowing mane. As they rounded the first turn she sensed a horse on their right, coming up strong. “Let’s go, fella.” She loosed the reins a bit and was rewarded with another lengthening of the colt’s stride.

  She could hear her father’s voice: “Save him for the final stretch, if you can. But he likes to be out in front, so do what feels right.”

  They rounded the far turn with Spitfire running easily, his ears up and twitching between Trish’s running cadence and his observing everything around him. He tugged at the bit but didn’t fight when Trish kept her hands firm. Still she felt him settle a bit deeper as his stride lengthened.

  Coming down the final stretch, Trish became aware of a horse pulling up on the outside. He was flattened out, the jockey using the whip to bring out the last reserves.

  “Go, boy!” Trish shouted to her mount. “Come on.”

  As they flew across the finish line, Trish wasn’t sure who’d won.

  They’d pounded the last yards nose and nose. She stood in her stirrups to bring Spitfire down to a canter and circled back toward the stands.

  “I’m sorry, fella.” She tightened the reins as he tugged on the bit. “I should have let you go when you wanted. Your hearing is better than mine. If we lost, it’s my fault, not yours.”

  “We have a photo finish, ladies and gentlemen,” Trish heard the announcer. “That’s numbers three and five. A photo finish—we’ll have the results for you in just a couple of minutes, so hang on to your tickets.”

  Trish wiped lather from her cheek and let Spitfire trot around in a circle. The other horses, except for number five, had left the track.

  “Trish! Trish! Trish!” The chant gained momentum as the cheering crowd quieted. The block of crimson-and-gold-clad teenagers roared from their seats. “Trish! Trish!”

  Trish smoothed Spitfire’s mane and allowed herself a glance at the stands. The box was still empty. She started to check the fences, but the announcer’s voice cut into her concentration.

  “And the winner of the first race today for maiden colts is number three. Spitfire—bred and owned by Hal Evanston and ridden by Tricia Evanston.”

  Trish’s response to her victory was different than she thought it would be. As she walked Spitfire into the winner’s circle, all she could think of was her father. Her eyes scanned the box one last time. It was empty.

  And then she saw him. Straight ahead, between Spitfire’s twitching ears, her father shuffled forward, braced by David on one side and her mother on the other. Trish’s smile was brighter than the flashing of cameras as she slid to the ground.

  While the steward settled the horseshoe of red roses over Spitfire’s withers, Trish clutched the reins right under her mount’s chin with one hand and reached for her father’s hand with the other.

  “Good job, babe.” He squeezed her hand. “I knew you could do it.” Spitfire snorted and rolled his eyes as the flashbulbs flared. He nosed Hal’s shoulder, then lipped the hair that fell beneath Trish’s helmet. When he tossed his head, a gob of lather landed on Marge’
s cheek.

  “You goof.” Trish rubbed the colt’s soft nose. “You’re a celebrity now, so act cool.” She caught her mother’s eye as she wiped the lather off her face.

  “Good race, Trish,” Marge said as she wiped her hand on her husband’s sleeve. “Thanks a lot, Spitfire. I needed that.”

  Trish, David, and Hal looked first at Marge, then at each other. While they tried to appear professional for the final shots, laughter linked them as securely as the arms that locked them each to the other.

  The Evanstons had won their race.

  To my son Kevin,

  who I just realized

  is my pattern for David.

  Would that every girl

  could have a

  big brother

  like him.

  Chapter

  01

  Tricia Evanston searched the crowd for her mother, a tall woman pushing a wheelchair. Her father had slumped in that chair the moment he sat down again. But he’d been on his feet for the pictures in the winner’s circle. Trish and their two-year-old Thoroughbred colt, Spitfire, had won their first race. But now her father was gone. Panic welled up.

  “Come on, Rhonda.” Trish grabbed her life-long friend’s arm. “Maybe they’re back at the stables.”

  “Tricia Evanston?” A well-dressed man blocked their way.

  “Yes?” She found herself looking up and up.

  “I’m Jason Rodgers, owner of Rodgers Stables.” He extended his hand. “I’ve known your father for a long time. It’s a real pleasure to meet his daughter.”

  Trish shook hands with him, wondering where the meeting was going.

  “I heard about Hal’s illness. It was a relief to see him here today. But let me get right to the point, since I know you have a lot to do. I have an entry in the ninth race tomorrow that I’d like you to ride. Would you be interested?”

  Trish nodded before her mouth had time to answer. A mount for Rodgers Stables. The enormity of it walloped the pit of her stomach. “I’d love to but…but—” she clamped her lips on the brief stammer. After a deep breath, she started again. “That’ll be fine.” She hoped she sounded grown-up—and professional.

  But what about Mom and Dad? The thought hit after he’d left. He had already told her when he’d meet her the next day. I should have asked them first, but then, they never said I couldn’t ride for someone else. And I am riding Gatesby for John Anderson. And that crazy horse tries all kinds of shenanigans. But then, I’ve been training him.

  The thoughts dipped and darted around in her head like bats just out of their cave for the evening.

  She looked at Rhonda. The startled look on her face was a mirror of Trish’s. Their “All right!” burst at the same moment.

  Both girls turned and loped down the dirt path cutting across the nine-hole golf course in the infield. They met the horses being walked to the saddling paddock for the next race.

  “Have you seen Dad?” Trish asked when they reached the stables.

  “Your mom took him back to the hospital right after the race,” Brad Williams said. Tricia’s mother always referred to Trish, her friends Brad and Rhonda, and her brother, David, as the four musketeers. “He looked pretty bad.”

  “Where’s David?”

  “He and Spitfire are still at the testing barn.” Brad glanced at his watch. “Should be back any minute.”

  Trish pulled off her helmet and fluffed her springy dark bangs with the other hand. “I didn’t even get a chance to talk with him.”

  “Yeah, all that crowd from Prairie kind of took over.” Rhonda winked at Trish. “Now you know how the football heroes feel when they get hoisted up on shoulders.”

  Trish could feel the red heat creeping up her neck again. Doug Ramstead, their high school’s star quarterback, had lofted her on his shoulders. All the kids at the track had cheered. It had been pretty exciting. Until she saw her father was gone.

  At that moment nineteen-year-old David trotted up with Spitfire on the lead line. “You told her?” he asked Brad, then turned to Trish. “Mom said we should come to the hospital as soon as we’re done here.”

  Trish felt like the earth gave out beneath her. “But…but you know I can’t go in there. I just…I…” Her gaze darted from Rhonda to David and around the stalls, as if searching for a place to hide. “I can’t…not to the hospital…not now. I’ll…I’ll stay here…and…” She could feel the tears biting behind her eyelids.

  The look David gave her spelled disgust in capital letters. Brad and Rhonda busied themselves on the other side of the cross-tied horse.

  Trish leaned her forehead against Spitfire’s neck. Why’d they have to mess up this day? Everything has been perfect so far. Well, not really. She remembered the empty box in the grandstands. Her father hadn’t arrived at the track before the race began. He’d been rushed to the hospital the night before, hardly able to breathe.

  It wasn’t his first time at the hospital. But she hadn’t been able to make herself go to the hospital when he’d been there for several weeks after the cancer was first diagnosed. No matter how hard she’d tried. Or how angry her mother got.

  The warm, comforting smell of horse intruded on her thoughts. She stepped back so David could finish rinsing and scraping the water off the animal’s blue-black hide. When David unclipped the cross-ties to take Spitfire to the hot walker, Trish took the lead rope. “Let me have him. I’ll walk him out.”

  “You want me to come with you?” Rhonda asked.

  Trish shook her head. She swallowed hard and led the weary colt out the stall door.

  The noises of the stable receded as they ambled past the last stalls. Trish heard the roar of the stands as another field left the starting gates. She and her dad should be hanging over the fence, studying each horse and rider as they surged around the oval track. He should be pointing out strategies for her as he trained her in the art of becoming a jockey. No one knew racing like her father.

  She swiped at a tear that meandered down her cheek. Nothing had been the same since the diagnosis. Her father had lung cancer. And he had talked about the possibility of dying. And I let him down by not visiting him in the hospital, Trish scolded herself.

  “God, why am I such a chicken?” She aimed her question at the heavens. “Why can’t I go see my dad in the hospital?” She kicked a clod of dirt ahead of them.

  Spitfire snorted at the interruption. His flicking ears heard all the sounds around them, but he was too tired to react. Trish rubbed his nose in a reflex action, her mind on her troubles rather than the horse.

  Her mother’s accusation, “You love those horses more than anything,” joined the battle raging in her mind.

  People go to the hospital to die.

  Hogwash! People go there to get well.

  My dad’s not well.

  He’s better than he was.

  Not really. They had to hold him up for the pictures.

  Yes, but he made it to the track.

  God is supposed to heal him.

  Give Him time, you idiot. You want everything right now.

  And her mother’s voice, “You love the horses best.”

  “No! I don’t!” The words burst out of Trish, along with sobs that wrenched her in two.

  She leaned into Spitfire’s neck and let the tears pour. It wasn’t as if she could stop them. All the fear, the anger, the worry, the nagging little doubts that plagued her. All merged with the tears and soaked Spitfire’s now dry hide.

  The voices died.

  Trish hiccupped. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

  Spitfire bobbed his head, a spear of grass dangling from his teeth. He reached around and nuzzled her shoulder.

  When she ignored him, he pushed a bit harder, then blew on her neck.

  Trish sniffed again, followed by a deep, shuddery breath.

  Spitfire rubbed his muzzle in her hair and licked the remaining salty tear away.

  Trish reached up to rub the colt’s favorite spot, right beh
ind his ears.

  He draped his head over her shoulder in contentment.

  A new voice seemed to speak in her ear. If your father could make it to the track for you, weak as he is, we can handle a visit to the hospital for him. No matter what.

  It was as if someone reached over and lifted the killing weights from her shoulders.

  Trish nodded. “Come on, Spitfire. I know you’re hungry. And Dad is waiting.”

  She clucked to the colt and the two of them jogged back to the stables.

  “If anybody’s got any money, we could pick up pizza on the way. I’ve heard hospital food is terrible.” Trish unsnapped the lead line and ducked under Spitfire’s neck. Fetlock-deep straw, full water bucket, grain measured, and hay in the manger; all mute evidence that the others had been busy. “Well?” She bit back the slight wobble in her chin as she faced her brother and two best friends. “Let’s go.”

  David threw home the bolt on the stall door. “I have ten dollars, that’ll buy one.”

  “I’m broke but hungry.” Trish wrapped her arm around Rhonda’s waist.

  “Five from me.” Rhonda hugged her back.

  “I’ve got eleven dollars.” Brad checked his pockets. “And seventy-six cents. Let’s get outta here.”

  The four piled into the pickup when they reached the parking lot. Brad draped his arm along the back of the seat and whispered in Trish’s ear. “I’m proud of you, Tee.”

  Trish felt a warm spot uncurl and blossom into little stars right down in her middle. She swallowed a couple of leftover tears and rolled her lips together.

  Rhonda’s hand on her knee telegraphed the same message. They knew she’d fought a private war—and won.

  “Hal Evanston’s room, please,” David said when they stopped at the information desk at the hospital. The aroma of pepperoni and Canadian bacon wafted from the flat cardboard containers Trish and Rhonda carried. Brad had charge of the soft drinks.

  The woman at the desk tried to hide a grin as she gave them instructions to room 731.

  Shadows hugged the corners of the room where Hal slept in a white- blanketed hospital bed. Marge napped in a chair-bed by his side. Monitors bleeped their rhythm of life, assisted by the slow drip of the IV tube attached to the back of Hal’s hand.