Trish wanted to turn and run. Escape down the halls, out the door, and back to the barns where life smelled of horse and hay and grain. Where janglings and whinnies and slamming buckets chattered of evening chores and life in the horse lane. That’s where her dad should be.
Not here. All was silent and gray. The shadows seemed to have slithered over the rails and painted themselves on his hair and face. His chest barely raised the covers as he breathed in through the oxygen prongs at his nose and out through a dry throat that rasped with the effort.
Trish now knew what an animal felt like in a trap. Why they gnawed off a paw to escape. Only her iron will kept her in the room. He’s going to die. He’s going to die. The words marched through her mind.
“It’s not as bad as it looks.” Marge rose from her chair to stand by her daughter. “He’s just exhausted from going to the track.” She put her arm around Trish and hugged her. “You’ll never know how glad I am you’re here. We have good news. An infection caused this setback and he’s responding to the antibiotics.”
Trish nodded. She leaned closer to her mother, as if afraid to touch the hand of the stranger sleeping in the bed.
“Maybe we should just go on home and let him sleep,” David whispered.
“No.” Marge shook her head. “He made me promise to wake him when you got here.” She took the drinks from Brad. “You two find some more chairs. We’ll have our own celebration right here. Go ahead and wake him, Tee.”
“Dad,” Trish whispered. When there was no response, she darted a look at her mother.
Marge nodded.
“Dad.” This time Trish sounded more like herself. The word wasn’t lodged behind the boulder in her throat.
The man in the bed blinked as if his eyelids weighed two pounds each. He frowned in an obvious effort to corral a mind that wandered in exhausted sleep. When he recognized his daughter, a smile crinkled clear to his eyes and sent the shadows skulking back to their corners.
“Congratulations, Tee. You won the race.” While faint and scratchy, her father’s voice unleashed Trish from a prison of fear. She threw herself into his arms.
“It’s okay, babe,” Hal whispered into her ear as one hand stroked her wavy midnight hair. “I’m going to be all right.” His murmur flowed like Trish’s when she calmed a frightened horse, soothing and somehow magical. She had learned the music from years of watching and listening to the father she adored.
As her tears subsided, Hal patted her back again. “Hey now, let’s get me raised up so we can all talk.” He sniffed. “And besides, I smell something good.”
Trish wiped her face with a corner of the sheet. She gulped back the remaining tears and sat up on the edge of the bed. “We brought pizza.” She heaved a deep breath. “Will they let you…I mean…”
“No problem.” Hal settled himself against the angle of the raised bed. “I’m not in prison, you know.”
Trish’s grin wobbled but spread. “Coulda fooled me. What’ll we use for a table?”
“Improvise.” Hal shifted his legs to one side. “We even have a white tablecloth. Hi, Rhonda. Glad you could come.” The boys returned with two chairs each and set them around the foot of the bed where Marge had opened the pizza boxes.
Trish scooped out a piece of Canadian bacon with pineapple and handed it on a napkin to her father. Hal bowed his head. “Thank you, Father, for food, for family, for your continued and most needed presence. Amen.”
At the unanimous “Amen,” they attacked the pizzas. After fingering a stretch of cheese back onto her piece, Trish bit into the gooey concoction as if she hadn’t eaten for a week. She licked her lips and took a long drink from her icy Coke.
“How does it feel to win your first race?” Hal asked.
Trish thought a long moment. “Good, great, awesome…there just aren’t enough words.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Spitfire was fantastic. But I almost blew it. I held him back too long.”
“Well, you were only doing what I told you. You’ll develop a sixth sense about what’s best and what your horse can do.”
“I hope so.” Trish licked her fingers as she finished off her pizza.
“Two men I heard talking were really impressed with Spitfire.” David reached for another slice of pizza. “They thought he had a lot more to give.”
“And did he?” Hal directed his question to Trish.
She nodded around another mouthful of food. Trish continued to eat as the conversation swirled around her. She could feel the tiredness start at her toes and work its way up her body. She snagged her wandering attention back to the group when she heard her name called.
“I entered Firefly in the seventh race for maiden fillies,” Hal said.
Trish nodded.
“Tomorrow.”
She jerked upright. “Great. She’s ready.” And what about your race tomorrow? her inner voice prodded. Trish took a deep swallow from her Coke. “That means I’ll have two mounts tomorrow. Mr. Rodgers asked if I’d ride for him in the ninth.” She grinned, pleased with the honor.
“Good, huh?”
Beeping monitors punctuated the silence.
“But you’ve never ridden that horse before.” Marge rose from her chair. “You don’t know anything about it.”
“But, Mom, that’s what all jockeys do.”
“No, not my daughter. I only agreed to your riding our horses.”
“You should have talked with us before you accepted the mount.” Hal leaned against his pillows, lines deepening around his mouth.
“I know, but there wasn’t any time.” Trish shoved her fingers through her hair. “And besides, you weren’t there to ask.” She paused and chewed her lip. “I thought you’d be proud of me.”
“Oh, Tee, I am.” Hal reached for her hand. “It’s just that…well, things aren’t normal and…”
“You call Mr. Rodgers and tell him no, thank you.” Marge interrupted.
“Dad!” Trish leaped from her chair.
“We’ll talk about it.” Hal coughed on a deep breath.
“We better get home and get the chores done.” David folded the cover on the empty pizza box. “Come on, Brad, let’s put these chairs back.”
Trish glanced at her mother. Marge stood looking out the window, her back to the room. Her hand rubbed her elbow as if to warm it. Or to keep from slamming something or someone, Trish thought. She knew how much her mother hated the thought of Trish racing. This was just the latest in a long line of discussions.
Then her inner nagger leaped into the battle. You just went ahead and accepted, before thinking it through.
Trish had to admit this was true. She’d been so excited at being asked that she hadn’t really considered what her mother would say. Until now.
Trish leaned over the bed to kiss her father good-night. Before he hugged her he slipped a three-by-five card into her hand. “Hang on to this,” he whispered.
Trish hugged him. “See you tomorrow.”
As the others said their good-byes, Trish looked over at her mom.
“We’ll talk more when I get home.” Marge clipped her words.
Trish wasn’t sure if that was a threat or a promise. She left the room, pausing briefly to read the words on the card before she strode down the hall. “Always giving thanks to God the Father for everything, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ” (Ephesians 5:20).
Right, she thought, as she stuffed the card in her pocket. Thank you, God, that my mother is ready to kill me…again?
Chapter
02
I’m in for it again, Trish thought.
Dusk softened the outlines of trees and fences as the pickup turned into the drive of Runnin’ On Farm. Falling dew raised ground mist that puddled in the pasture hollows and lapped up the ridges. Caesar barked a welcome, frisking beside the truck as David braked to a stop.
Trish pulled her frame upright and slid from the cab. “I’ll change and be right down.” She turned toward the house. “Come on, Rhond
a.” Trish bent over to give Caesar his expected strokes, scratching behind his pointed Collie ears and fluffing his white ruff. A flash nose lick thanked her.
“You think you’ll get it bad?” Rhonda asked as they sprinted up the three back steps.
“I could tell Mom’s really mad, but Dad knows how important riding is to me. To the farm. We need the money now that Dad’s so sick.” She pulled off both high boots at the bootjack by the sliding glass door. “I just hate having her mad at me. You know how much I hate fighting…of any kind.”
“Yeah.” Rhonda nodded soberly. “Me too.”
The usual disaster area greeted them as they entered Tee’s bedroom. She ignored the unmade bed and dug a pair of jeans out of the pile of clothes tossed on the chair. A minute’s rummaging located a sweat shirt at the bottom of another pile.
Rhonda stared at the mess. “Maybe you should just stay up here and clean your room.” She shook her head. “That would make her happier than anything.”
“Later.” Trish inspected the spots on her white racing pants. “Gotta remember to throw these in the washing machine. I’ll need them tomorrow.”
Thoughts of her mother and the coming argument flitted away on the evening breeze as Trish trotted down to the stables. A deep breath told her someone was burning leaves. Caesar leaped in front of them and whined for attention. Both girls stopped to stroke the dog’s sable coat.
The stables seemed empty with the racing string at the track. “Miss Tee and her mother need some exercise.” Trish measured grain into a bucket for the mare and handed Rhonda a hunk of hay. As they left the feed room, she stuck a currycomb in her back pocket and dropped a soft brush on top of the grain.
A nicker greeted them when they entered the shadowed barn. Trish flicked on the light switch and the bay mare blinked at the glare. She nickered again at the sight of the grain and hay.
“Hungry, are you?” Trish held out a handful of grain. “You need to get out first, then eat.” The mare lipped the grain, then nudged Trish’s chest, begging for more. Trish took the lead rope down from its hook and clipped it to the mare’s halter. “Hi, Miss Tee, whatcha hiding for?”
Rhonda giggled at the month-old filly who peeked out from behind her bay mother, whose long black tail hairs whisked over Miss Tee’s face. “You should know me by now.” Rhonda’s soft voice set the foal’s ears flicking.
Trish offered the lead shank to Rhonda and opened the stall. She smoothed the mare’s shoulder as she slipped inside. “Come on, baby. You don’t need to play hide-and-seek with me.”
The foal stretched her nose as far as she could, then took two steps. When Trish touched the soft muzzle, Miss Tee leaped back. She shook her head and stamped one tiny forefoot.
“Okay for you.” Trish turned her back. “Hand me that brush, will you?” When Rhonda handed her the brush, Trish stroked it down the mare’s neck. She winked at Rhonda and whistled a little tune, all the while ignoring the foal.
Step by step Miss Tee left her hideout and approached her owner. Finally she rubbed her forehead on Trish’s arm.
“Silly baby,” Trish crooned as she gently rubbed the filly’s ears. “Just have to play out your games, don’t you?”
“What a clown.” Rhonda laughed as she swung the stall open. “Does she always act like that?”
“No, only when I haven’t paid enough attention to her. The last couple of days have been kind of crazy.”
“You’re telling me.” Rhonda rolled her eyes.
“Why don’t you walk them and I’ll muck out this stall.”
“What a deal.” Rhonda took the lead rope. She clucked to the mare and the three trotted out of the barn. Miss Tee stopped at the door and looked back at Trish as if asking why she wasn’t coming too.
“Go on, run a bit. You don’t have all night.” Trish shooed the filly out and reached for the pitchfork.
It was eight o’clock by the time the four of them finished all the chores and Brad drove his blue Mustang out the drive.
“I’m beat.” Trish shrugged her shoulders up to her ears to pull out the kinks.
“Me too.” David scratched Caesar’s head. “I’m going to bed.”
I wish, Trish thought. “You could do my chemistry problems.”
“In your dreams, girl.” David threw her a big-brother’s-pained-with-his-sister look. “That’s not how you learn the stuff.”
“Thanks. I don’t seem to be learning it too well anyway.”
“Tell you what, I’ll help you tomorrow night. If you have any questions, hold ’em.”
Trish nodded. She took another deep breath on the way to her room and rotated both shoulders again. Her feet felt like they each weighed a ton. As did her eyelids. She groaned at the state of her room. With one hand she scooped up her racing silks, both top and pants, then grabbed some other good pants and shirts to add to the wash load. She didn’t dare ask her mother to wash clothes, or even come into the room. It was bad enough arguing about racing, not to mention their ongoing fight over Trish’s housekeeping habits. Or lack of them, as the room attested.
After starting the machine, Trish bit her bottom lip. This once wouldn’t hurt. And besides, studying was more important than a clean room. Wasn’t it?
She opened her closet door and tossed in the pile of clothes off the chair. The two stacks on the floor were quickly shoved under the bed. Maybe a Diet Coke would help her stay awake. Back down the hall. And an apple.
“I thought you had to study,” David growled from the couch where he was stretched out watching TV.
“I am. I mean, I do.” Trish stuck her head in the open refrigerator. “Did you drink all the Diet Coke?” Not waiting for an answer, she located the last one, behind the milk. She polished the apple on the front of her sweat shirt and bit into the shiny red skin. “Thought you were going to bed,” she commented around chewing the apple.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
“Yes, Mother.” Trish ducked the pillow he threw at her and headed back to her room. At least it looked better. She set her Coke down on the desk and pulled out the chair. Papers slid to the floor. With a groan she picked up the pieces of her term paper. That was ready for a rewrite. The card from her father caught her eye as she plunked down on the chair. The hard, uncomfortable, stiff chair. She looked longingly at the bed.
Hard to do, she thought, as she tacked the card up above the desk. “Give thanks in everything.” Sure. Even chemistry?
With a yawn she opened the book.
You’ve been stalling, her little voice scolded.
“I’m just tired,” she caught herself answering aloud. “So shut up.”
The first problem made sense. Now, that was some kind of breakthrough. Trish sipped her Coke, mentally rehearsing the list of chemical symbols. The next problem took a little longer. The fourth problem…
“Trish, wake up.” Marge shook her for the second time.
“Huh-h-h.” Trish blinked her eyes open. She stretched her neck where it crinked from lying on her crossed arms, on top of her chemistry book. “Hi, Mom.”
“Get to bed.” Marge patted her daughter’s shoulder. “You aren’t getting anywhere this way.”
“What time is it?”
“Ten.”
Trish blinked again. Everything seemed furry around the edges. “I need to finish this assignment.”
“Bed.” Marge closed the book.
Trish wanted nothing more than to shut off the alarm what seemed like only minutes after she’d pulled the covers up.
“You’d better hustle.” David knocked on her door.
Trish slept on the way to the track. Even the chill of a drizzly morning failed to wake her. She had reached the truck with her eyes half-closed and promptly fallen back asleep.
“Well, Sleeping Beauty, you better wake up now or Gatesby’ll do it for you.” David pushed her toward the door.
The thought brought her alert—immediately. You didn’t sleep or even blink around Gatesb
y. The least you’d get would be a nip on whatever part of your anatomy the crazy horse took a shine to. The worst…well, so far the worst had taken a week to heal. At least neither one of them had broken anything in that fall on the home track.
Spitfire slammed a hoof against his stall door. His whicker was not a plea but a demand.
“I’ll saddle Firefly while you get him ready,” David nodded at Spitfire.
“Then you can ride Gatesby and I’ll take Final Command. We should be done in an hour that way. Dad said to keep it slow and easy this morning. Just loosen them up. They deserve a day of rest too.”
Some day of rest, Trish thought as she brushed and saddled the restless black. We’re rushing like crazy and I have two races this afternoon. She felt her butterflies stretching their wings…right in her middle.
“You were fantastic, fella.” She rubbed Spitfire’s ears before leading him out of the stall. “Ready, David.”
The workout ran smoothly except for one brief shy at a blowing paper. While the drizzle had stopped, gray clouds and a bone-penetrating wind made Trish think of hot chocolate and warm blankets. At least she’d remembered her gloves. Spitfire showed only slight traces of sweat when she returned to the stables. Trish pulled the saddle off and clipped him to the hot walker.
Gatesby appeared in a good mood. The bright sorrel nickered when he saw her and even kept his ears forward when she stepped into the stall. Trish clipped the cross-ties to his halter and turned around for the saddle she’d left on the stall door.
“Ow-w-w! You ornery idiot! And here I thought you were happy to see me.” She rubbed her left shoulder. It stung even through the windbreaker, down vest, and sweat shirt.
Gatesby flung his head as far up as the shanks allowed and rolled his eyes.
“He’s laughing at you.” David handed her the bridle.
“Yeah, I’m sure he thought it was a love bite,” Trish grumbled as she finished tacking him up.
“Naw, he just loves to bite.” David had his cupped hands ready as she led the dancing horse out of the stall. “Now, you be careful with him.”
Golden Filly Collection One Page 14
