Golden Filly Collection One

by Lauraine Snelling

  “David.” Trish put both hands on her hips. “You’re beginning to sound just like Mom. Worry, worry, worry. You know I watch this guy like a…”

  “Right. And how’s your shoulder?”

  Gatesby perked his ears toward the track as Trish loosened the reins. While he never succeeded in a flat-footed walk, at least he skipped any crow-hopping or sudden lunges. Trish reined him down tight any time another horse galloped by. Gatesby wanted to race, not slow-gallop.

  Trish made the mistake of wiping her drippy nose on her sleeve and had to manhandle the bit out of his teeth before he made more than ten strides. “Sneaky, aren’t you? Well sorry, boy, but the boss said an easy lope. You’re working up a lather just fighting me. Now settle down.”

  Gatesby snorted and tossed his head but quit fighting. When they returned to the stables, he blew in her face, as if in gratitude for a good ride. Quickly they clipped Gatesby and Final Command on the hot walker, forked the manure piles out to the wheelbarrow, and filled water buckets. Trish measured grain and tossed hay wedges in the mangers as David returned the animals to their stalls.

  “See you guys later.” Trish blew Spitfire a kiss as she climbed back in the truck. She glanced at her watch. “You better gun it, Davey boy. We used up our breakfast time and showers are out.”

  The creases on Marge’s forehead warned them to hurry when they reached home. One glance at her watch took the place of a thousand words.

  “I know. We’re hurrying.” Trish shucked her jacket and boots. One thing I know, she thought as she changed clothes with the speed of a frantic shopper, I never have time to worry.

  The car seemed empty without her father. And she hadn’t even called him last night. But then she hadn’t done a lot of things last night. She finished the peanut butter toast her mother had handed her on the way out the door and wiped her mouth with the napkin. I’d think that with all the stuff going on, we could miss church one Sunday. Surely— She shut the rebellious thoughts down. Today her attitude had better be perfect. She got out of the discussion last night, but knowing her mother, the war wasn’t over yet. If only she wasn’t such a worrier. And liked racing better. Like Hal and Trish did. Then life would be so simple.

  Trish greeted her friends as they entered the church. One of these days she’d like to go back to youth group too. There just wasn’t enough time for everything. She grinned at Rhonda when Marge led them into the pew just behind the Seabolt family.

  “Can you come to the track?” Trish whispered as they sat down.

  Rhonda shook her head. “My grandmother’s coming for dinner.” Marge’s frown canceled their conversation.

  Trish’s eyes drooped during the Scripture reading. She perked up when the folk group sang a new song. The chorus played in her mind long after the song was finished. “And He will raise you up on eagle’s wings….”

  Trish felt herself jerk. She’d gone to sleep. Her mother’s warning “Trish” came just as David drilled her with his elbow. Trish blinked and squinted. She’d slept right through the sermon.

  One more thing to add to her mother’s list.

  Chapter

  03

  Trish breathed a sigh of relief.

  “We’ll see you at the track.” Marge paused just before going out the door. “Trish, be careful. You know I…” She shook her head, her forehead furrowing again. “David, just make sure she’s safe.”

  “Don’t worry, Mom. You take care of Dad.” David gently pushed her out the door. “We’ll be fine.”

  Marge nodded, obviously not convinced. She dropped a quick kiss on both David’s and Trish’s cheeks and left.

  Trish’s deep breath seemed to give her butterflies a boost instead of calming them. Saved again, she thought. Maybe if we keep postponing, she’ll forget to holler at me. No, if there was one thing her mother did well, it was worry about Trish’s racing.

  She chewed on her lip. “Oh no! My silks. They’re not dry.”

  “Well, you better get a move on,” David shouted from his room, where he’d gone to change clothes.

  “Yes, Mother.” Trish stuck out her tongue. He sounded too much like Mom for comfort. The list of all she needed to take ran through her mind as she hurried to the laundry room. Her silks, shirts, and pants all hung on hangers on the bar above the dryer, ready to take. “Thanks, Mom,” Trish breathed as she grabbed the hangers. A twinge of guilt at the mess on the floor attacked her when she hung the clothes in her closet. Soon, she promised herself. Soon I’ll get all this cleaned up again.

  Her mother’s advice, more like nagging in Trish’s opinion, ran through her mind. Just hang your things up or put them in the hamper when you take them off and your room will stay neat.

  “You ready?” David knocked on his sister’s door. “I’m going down to the barn to check on things, so you have five minutes. Oh, and remember to call Dad.”

  Trish packed the last of her gear in her sports bag and slipped the garment cover over her silks. Her glance fell on the cards tacked to her wall. The verses, written in her father’s square printing, reminded her to pray. “Please, make my dad well.” She picked up her bag. “And take care of us today. Thanks for everything.” She turned off her light. “Oh, and help me win. Amen.”

  She didn’t recognize the voice that answered the phone in her father’s hospital room. Though weak and scratchy, it had to be Hal. No one else shared his room. “Dad?”

  “Good morning, Tee.” He cleared his throat.

  “You sound awful.”

  “I know. I just haven’t talked much yet.” He coughed once, gingerly, as if his chest hurt.

  “Mom’s on her way there. David and I are leaving in a couple of minutes.”

  “Good. We’ve drawn the post for Firefly, so you need to get her out in front and let her go. How was the track?”

  “Dry. It didn’t rain, just mist, and it looks like it may clear off.”

  “That’s great. And, Tee, take some time and go over to see Rodgers’ mount. Get to know him a little. Jason’ll tell you how he wants the race run so you can concentrate on the horse. You’ve a gift there, so use it.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” Trish heard the truck horn honking. “Gotta go. See you at the track.”

  Trish focused on relaxing during the drive to Portland Meadows. She took deep breaths and held them before exhaling. The butterflies delighted in the extra oxygen. She scrunched her shoulders up to her ears. Her fluttering friends did aerial flips.

  Trish shook her head. Might as well watch the sailboats on the Columbia River for all the good her efforts did.

  “Uptight?” David asked as they crossed the I-5 bridge between Vancouver and Portland.

  “Yep. This is the first time I’m racing a horse I haven’t ridden before.”

  “I know. And only your third race.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.”

  “You want a hamburger before we get there?” David pointed at the Golden Arches off to the right.

  Trish gave him her best my-but-you’re-dumb-big-brother look.

  “Okay. Okay. I’ll just get one for me.” David pulled off the freeway.

  “I’ll take a Diet Coke,” Trish added to his order.

  Sipping the drink seemed to help. Maybe butterflies like Diet Coke, Trish thought.

  David flashed their passes as they entered the stable area to the east of the track. “Trish,” he said, slowing for a blanketed horse being led across the drive, “you will be careful.”

  “About what?”

  “When you’re racing, dopey.”

  “Now you sound like Mom. You want to be a worrier too?”

  “Well, just don’t take any unnecessary chances.”

  Trish snorted. “What do you think I am, dumb?”

  “No, you just want to win…a lot.”

  Brad had three of their horses working the hot walker while he cleaned their stalls. Only Gatesby and Spitfire pleaded for release when Trish hung her gear in the tack room. Old Dan’l whi
ckered a greeting from his place on the exerciser.

  “Boy, you’ve been hard at it,” Trish greeted her friend. “How come you left those two inside?”

  “Right. And thanks to you too.” Brad leaned on his pitchfork. “I didn’t want to break his record. Why, Gatesby hasn’t had a bite out of anyone for nearly twenty-four hours.”

  Trish chuckled as she entered Spitfire’s stall. The black colt nuzzled her shoulder and dropped his head against her chest to have his ears rubbed. Trish obliged, enjoying the ritual as much as her horse. She’d cared for him since he was foaled, trained him, and finally they’d raced. She was the only rider he’d ever had. With her he behaved, most of the time. He wasn’t named Spitfire for nothing.

  Trish stroked his coarse black forelock and smiled at his sleepy-eyed contentment. “What a baby you are,” she murmured as she snapped a lead shank to his halter. “How about some time outside?”

  The horse perked up. His ears pricked forward and he snorted in her ear as she led him outside. She clipped him to the hot walker and laughed as he half-reared and shook his head. David finished laying the straw bedding as she led Dan’l back into his stall.

  “Come on, I’ll help you with Gatesby, then you get over to meet Rodgers’ horse while we groom these guys.”

  Trish gave Dan’l a last pat. Guilt over her neglect of her old friend nibbled at her mind. There just wasn’t enough time for all she had to do, let alone the things she wanted to do.

  “Now, you behave!” She snapped the rope on Gatesby’s halter. David copied her motions so they had him cross-tied between them. Gatesby walked out of the stall and over to the hot walker without even a snort. He joined the other horses in their circular path, plodding like an old plowhorse.

  “Is he sick?” Trish flashed back to the infection that had raged through their stables a month ago.

  “Nah-h-h.” David shook his head. “Just disappointed cause we were ready for him.”

  “Okay. Well, I’ll be back in a while.”

  The Rodgers Stables sign creaked a greeting in a puff of breeze. All the stalls and walkways showed the detail to attention of a first-rate stable. Why would he ask you to ride? her inner voice whispered in her ear.

  Any jockey’s anxious to ride for him. Trish shrugged. As her dad always said, never look a gift horse in the mouth. Or in this case, a gift ride.

  “Your mount’s down here,” the trainer said after asking Trish about her father. “We’ve always thought this old boy had more to give, but somehow he’s never come in higher than fourth. He’s a good horse, gentle as can be, and from a good line. His registered name is Prancer’s Dandy but we call him Dandy.”

  Just needs a fire under him, Trish thought as she dug in her pocket for the chunk of carrot she always kept there. The dark bay lipped it off her palm and munched the treat. Trish stood still in front of him, waiting for the horse to finish his inspection of her. When he’d sniffed her hand, up her arm, and then her hair, he tossed his head as if giving a nod of approval. Trish grasped his blue web halter with one hand and rubbed up behind his ear with the other.

  “So we’re gonna race today, Dandy boy.” She knew it wasn’t what she said but the tone of her voice that set the dark ears twitching. She kept up her singsong rhythm as she stroked the wide white blaze between his eyes and down over his muzzle. “You’re a sweetheart. You know that, don’t you?” Dandy nodded, leaning into her magic fingers.

  “I see you’ve made a friend.” Jason Rodgers joined them.

  “Good morning, Mr. Rodgers.” At his greeting Trish felt one or two of her butterfly troupe somersault. “He sure is a friendly horse.”

  “True, but we need some fire from him. I may enter Dandy in a claiming race if he doesn’t do something soon. Make sure you have a whip with you today. I want you to do all you can to make him want to run his best.”

  Trish took a deep breath. “Yes, sir. Well, Dandy,” she scratched him under the throat one more time, “see you in the saddling paddock.”

  Trish missed having Rhonda along as she headed for the dressing room under the grandstand. She, David, and Brad had spent the last hours grooming their horses. Firefly fairly gleamed from all the brushing. While she wasn’t the blue-black of Spitfire, her four white socks sparkled against the dark color of her legs. A small diamond between her eyes left white hairs whenever the filly rubbed against Trish’s shoulder. Today Firefly was ready to run. It was as if she knew her turn was coming, the way the filly looked to the grandstands every time the roar of the crowd announced another start.

  The women’s locker room was a total disaster as Trish entered the door. Towels, bags, boots, and tired women draped everywhere. Liniment and lather from earlier races vied for supreme billing on the moisture-heavy air.

  “Hi, Trish.” Genie Stokes, the jockey who exercised for Runnin’ On Farm in the mornings, waved from a bench in the corner. “There’s room for you over here.” She pushed a bag and jacket out of the way.

  “Thanks.” Trish hung her silks on the hook above the green bench. “Congratulations on that win today. You riding again?”

  “Yeah. Against you in both the seventh and the ninth.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll do fine. Firefly is posted as a favorite.” Genie stretched her arms over her head and twisted from side to side. “How’s your dad?”

  Trish felt the heavy weight settle back on her shoulders. She’d been hoping her father would make it to the stables before she left to dress. But he hadn’t. And their box in the grandstand was still empty too. “He says he’s feeling better again. They plan on being here today.”

  “Your dad’s a good man. You’re lucky he’s trained you, you know.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” Trish slipped to the floor to begin her warm-up routine. Hamstring stretches, curl-ups, push-ups, her body followed the patterns, and the rhythms bottled up the fears trying to crowd her mind.

  Once she was dressed and weighed in, and lead weights had been inserted in the saddle pad slots, she flexed her arms. The silky fabric felt cold against her heated skin. “Thank you, Father,” she prayed as she ambled down the tunnel to the saddling paddock, “for the chance to race again. Help me do my best. And please make my dad better.” Her soft voice disappeared in the noise from the stands. Horse racing was not a quiet sport.

  David and Firefly occupied the first stall since they’d drawn the post position. He buckled the saddle girth and cupped his hands to boost Trish up. “You can do it.” He patted her white-clad knee. “Brad’s waiting for you.”

  Trish took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She gathered her reins and leaned forward to rub Firefly’s shiny neck. “Okay, girl. This is it. Let’s use those eagle’s wings.” The melody of the song trickled through her mind like a calming stream on a summer’s day.

  Firefly liked the crowd. She pranced beside Dan’l like a queen bowing to her subjects. Ears nearly touching, chin tucked to her chest, she danced down the track. At the turn, when Brad loosened the lead shank, Firefly broke into a canter, her body collected, every muscle and sinew primed for the breaking strides.

  She entered the gate, again behaving like the lady she was. Firefly even remained flat-footed when the horse next to her reared and nearly unseated the jockey.

  The hush fell, that moment when all the world seems to wait on tiptoe for the shot.

  Trish crouched forward. The gun, the gate, and Firefly’s burst for freedom seemed to explode at the same moment. Her “GO!” disappeared in the thunder of the race.

  Firefly took the post like a veteran. Each stride lengthened, hurtling her forward. Trish concentrated on her horse, at the same time staying aware of the horses on her right.

  Firefly tugged at the bit. Her ears swept back and forth listening to Trish’s encouraging song. The horse flattened out, reaching for the finish as each furlong post flashed by. As they crossed the wire, Firefly was still begging for more slack. No other horse even came close. They won by
a furlong.

  The stands went wild. Trish heard the roar now that she could relax. “Wow! Oh, baby, you’re awesome.” She patted the steaming neck, then settled back in the saddle so she could snap her goggles up on her helmet. “You not only won, you ran away from the pack.” Firefly jogged sideways on her approach to the winner’s circle, her neck curved, head high, as befits a reigning monarch.

  She posed for the pictures, as if nodding to the flash. Trish and David grinned at each other. But their father’s place in the picture as owner was empty.

  “Mom called,” David said as they led Firefly away. “Dad’s okay but they decided since yesterday wore him out so bad, they’d skip today. They’re waiting for you to call when you’re done. He said good luck on your next race too.”

  Trish hugged Firefly one more time before David led the filly off to the testing barn. “If only Dad could have seen this,” she whispered to her steaming mount. “He’d be so proud of you. And here we thought Spitfire was our big winner.”

  Trish felt strange in blue and green silks. Even her butterflies didn’t like the new colors. She felt like a royal battle waged in her middle. The whip in her hand didn’t help either. But Mr. Rodgers had insisted that she carry—and use it.

  The saddling paddock—round with stalls radiating out like spokes on a wheel—felt different without David and Brad there to cheer her on. She gathered her reins after the boost into the saddle. Dandy pricked his ears at her voice. She leaned forward to stroke his neck and smooth his black mane to one side.

  “Ready?” At Trish’s nod, the trainer untied the slipknotted rope and backed Dandy out of his stall. They joined the parade to the post, in the middle of the pack, position number three.

  “Lord, we really need those eagle’s wings this time,” Trish included the prayer in her monologue. “Sure hope you have more than one pair. Firefly flew on hers.” They broke into a canter at the turn. Dandy seemed alert and raring to go. But he doesn’t have the class of our horses, Trish thought as she guided him into the gate. Guess I’m already spoiled.