Golden Filly Collection One

by Lauraine Snelling

  Trish felt better after the pep talk. Her father was good at that. And he’s right. Nobody would be stupid enough to try something again. She stuffed the nagging little doubt down—out of sight and mind. The purse was a good one today. And Runnin’ On Farm needed a good purse.

  Trish rode high in her stirrups, controlling the dancing Spitfire while scanning the other jockeys. She’d been in the winner’s circle once already. Twice would be better than nice. Spitfire snorted and fought the bit.

  Trish switched back to the monologue the colt was used to and put the other entrants out of her mind…again. “Okay, fella, this is our chance. A long one today, and are you ever ready.” Spitfire twitched his ears in cadence with her voice. He shied when a plastic bag flitted past and bonded to the fence. “Now behave yourself. Dad’s got the glasses right on us.”

  On the canter back to the gates he shied again, this time at something only he could see. “Easy now, you’re wasting your energy.” Trish guided him into the number-five gate. “Now, we’re going for the outside, you hear me?” As the horses settled for the gun, Trish crouched high on her mount’s withers, ready for the thrust.

  At the shot, Spitfire leaped through the opening. Instead of minding Trish’s hands on the reins, he pulled toward the rail, aiming for an open space just to the left. Trish pulled him back, bringing his chin nearly to his chest, her arms straining with the effort. They were boxed in again. Horses in front and on both sides.

  Both Trish and Spitfire saw the opening at the same moment. As Trish loosened the reins, the dreaded sound of a whip stung her ears. Spitfire screamed and leaped into the slight opening, knocking hard against the horse on the left.

  Like dominos, two horses thrashed to the ground, one rider flying under their feet. Spitfire leaped over the balled-up jockey and landed hard on his right foreleg. At his grunt of pain, Trish knew her horse was in trouble. But Spitfire refused her commands to slow. He leveled out, running free, chasing the three horses running in front.

  While it seemed to Trish they’d been held back forever, they were only a furlong behind the leaders. Spitfire lengthened his stride, his belly low to the ground. Trish rode high over his withers, no longer fighting but assisting him all she could.

  They drove past the third-place runner, then the second. At the mile post they caught the straining leader. Even with the saddle, neck and neck, each stride brought the black colt closer to victory.

  The whip did the other horse no good. Spitfire ran him right into the ground to win by half a length. When Trish pulled him down to a trot, he began to limp. His heaving sides told her the effort he’d put forth to take the race. By the time they got to the winner’s circle, Spitfire could harldy touch his right front hoof to the ground. Trish slid off him and ran her hand down his leg. The swelling popped up as she stroked.

  “Dad, they did it again!”

  Chapter

  14

  Did you see anything? Could you tell who did it?”

  Hal shook his head. “I must have moved the glasses off you just that second. The next thing I knew both horses were going down. It happened so quickly.”

  Trish smiled for the photographer, then turned her attention back to

  Spitfire. “Easy, fella.” She smoothed his forelock and rubbed behind his ear. Spitfire leaned his head against her, all the while keeping his weight off the injured leg.

  Hal stood after his inspection of the injury. “I’m pretty sure it’s not broken, but we’ll get an X-ray to be on the safe side. Let’s get him back to the barn. Trish, you have another mount, right?”

  “Yeah, I’ll come down to the stalls as soon as I’m done.” She shook her head as Spitfire limped slowly away. There goes the Futurity.

  Scenes flashed in her mind as she trotted over to the dressing room. If only I’d pulled back harder. I should not have let us get caught in that box. A good jockey keeps her mount out of trouble. What’s the matter with me? She jerked open the door. The familiar aroma of liniment-steam, shampoo, and perfume greeted her. Today she smelled of mud and horse.

  Trish quickly changed to the black-and-white silks, snapped the helmet piece in place, and picked up her whip. The thought of using it on some well-deserving jockey brought a grim smile to her face. If only they could find out who hates my performance so much they’d whip my horse.

  “You okay?” one of the women asked.

  “Yeah. How’s the jockey that fell?”

  “Broken arm. He must’ve gotten kicked by one of the other horses.”

  Trish gritted her teeth. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Now a jockey’s been injured too. Does a jockey or a horse have to get killed before this stops? She was sure she felt a coolness from the other jockeys. Do they think I’m at fault? The new thought brought a lump to her throat. She left for the scales.

  “Now, you be careful, hear?” Bob Diego gave her a leg up. “Something funny is going on out there.”

  Trish nodded. “You don’t think I…um-mm…that is…”

  “No. Once—maybe an accident. Three times?” He shook his head. “Just bring this old lady up from behind. She doesn’t mind mud in her face and she likes to chase the leaders, wear ’em down.” He patted his mare’s shoulder.

  Trish did exactly as she was told. She held the mare back so she was slow coming out of the gate. Reins tight, Trish let the field pull ahead. When the runners strung out along the fence, she let the mare have her head on the outside. Every stride brought them closer to the trailing horse, past him, and working on the next. Trish grinned. This old lady sure knows her stuff. Trish felt like she was only along for the ride.

  When they passed the second-place runner, the rider went for his whip. Trish closed out her instinctive flinch and shouted her own encouragement. The mare stretched out even more and caught the furiously lunging lead. The number-one animal dropped back, spent before the finish line. The mare crossed a length ahead.

  “Thanks.” She slid to the ground in the winner’s circle and handed the reins to Diego’s trainer.

  “Thank you.” Bob Diego smiled for the flash and turned to Trish. “You did a good job. She was due for a win.”

  Trish trotted across the infield to the stables. She met horses on their way to the next race. “Please, God” kept time with her feet, but this time it was for her horse.

  Hal and David already had the leg wrapped in medicated mud bandage strips. Spitfire rested the tip of a hoof on the ground, taking all his weight on the remaining three good legs. He nickered when he saw Trish.

  “No, it’s not broken,” Hal said before she could ask. “Let’s get him home so we can work with him.” Hal leaned against the wall. “David, you get the truck, and Trish, you lead him out.”

  Hal rested his head on the back of the seat as David drove out the back gate. By the time they reached Highway 205, the weary man snored softly.

  Now, alone with her thoughts, Trish’s anger came rolling back, threatening to drown her. She clenched her fists and jaw. How could anyone deliberately hurt someone else—man or horse? When her mind played with what might have been, she shuddered. “I didn’t file a complaint!” She kept her voice low so her father wouldn’t wake up.

  “Dad did,” David whispered.

  “Good.”

  As soon as they arrived home, Hal went straight to bed and slept through the evening. Trish and David took turns applying ice packs to Spitfire’s leg.

  “What’d Dad say about his chances for the Futurity?” Trish asked as they turned off the lights for the night.

  “Said not to give up hope, but chances are slim.”

  “It’s just so unfair, so…so…”

  “Bet the jock with the broken arm is ticked too.”

  “And Mom?”

  “What do you think?”

  Trish chewed on her bottom lip. She could imagine what her mother was thinking.

  Marge gave her daughter a quick hug, I-told-you-so written in her expression.

  The next mor
ning Trish wanted to stay with Spitfire, but wisely dressed for church, and was ready on time.

  God, you’re supposed to be taking care of us. That’s what Dad always says. When she simmered down a bit, her nagger whispered almost imperceptibly, You weren’t hurt, were you? It could have been a lot worse.

  Trish couldn’t think of a good answer. And with so much on her mind, she didn’t hear much of the service.

  With the extra study hall, Trish didn’t have to bring books home, but it also gave her extra time to brood. Who, and why? And why hasn’t the racing commissioner reported it yet? What is going on?

  Rhonda, Brad, and Trish worried over the situation like dogs with a bone. They dug up every memory and fact they could, discussed every jockey, and then repeated the process again. Nothing. They just didn’t have all the pieces to the puzzle.

  Trish spent every evening with the horses—packing Spitfire’s leg and galloping the others. Every time she saw the colt flinch or limp, she wanted to grind the culprit who caused the injury into the dirt.

  “Trish, you’ve got to let this thing go,” Hal told her one evening. “It’s not your place to solve this. And you aren’t the one to mete out justice or punishment.” He smiled at her troubled expression.

  “How can you be so calm? Don’t you want to…to…”

  “Get even?”

  Trish nodded.

  Hal shook his head. “Then I’d be just as guilty as they are. No, Tee, it’s not worth it. Just let it go. And do your best.”

  By Wednesday the swelling was gone, and on Thursday Spitfire’s leg was cool to the touch. When they clipped him to the hot walker, he still favored the leg but he was walking straight. Within half an hour, the leg heated up again. It was back to the barn for packs.

  Friday morning Trish found a new card on her desk. “Vengeance is Mine, I will repay” (Hebrews 10:30). Her father had added a line of his own. “He’s better at it than we are.”

  Trish smiled grimly. Then why doesn’t He get on it?

  Friday the leg stayed cool after an hour on the walker.

  “I think we’re okay.” Hal carefully felt every muscle and tendon. “But not working at all this week, I don’t know, Tee.” He shook his head. “I just don’t know.”

  “You think we should scratch him?”

  “He seems sound, but racing could injure it again.” He patted Spitfire’s neck. “Well, old boy, I guess we’ll make the decision in the morning.”

  Trish had been praying all week, but her prayers that night included a note of panic. She’d been so sure God would heal her horse in time.

  Saturday morning Spitfire trotted around the hot walker, snorting and playing with the ring and lead shank. Hal rubbed his chin once. “Let’s do it.” He turned and headed up to the house for breakfast. Trish danced beside him, much like Spitfire, in her exuberance. At one point she jogged backward, arms raised in a victory clench.

  “So you’re going to do it.” Marge shook her head, a frown creasing her forehead.

  Trish knew her mother had been hoping they would give up the idea. But if they won the Portland Futurity…the next step would be the Santa Anita in California. And after that, the first Saturday in May.

  Trish won on both mounts that afternoon. And while she watched carefully, no one bothered her. No whips, no screams of pain. No falling horses or jockeys. On the ride home, she voiced something that had been lurking at the back of her mind. “The attacks come only when I’m riding our horses.”

  “Naw,” David disagreed. “The first time you were up on Anderson’s gelding.”

  “I know. But he’s from our stables. Maybe the dummy didn’t know any differently.”

  “You may have something there,” Hal agreed that evening when they were doing their post-race hash-over.

  Trish went to bed with a solid weight in her middle. Tomorrow she would be back up on Spitfire—their own horse. She tried to swallow with a parched throat. What if… She shut her eyes tight against the “what if’s” and tried to picture Jesus hugging the children. I bet He loved horses too!

  It was Sunday morning. “Clearing by noon,” David’s clock radio announced as Trish padded down the hall to the shower. That’s one good thing, she mused. It had been dry for three days. At least the track wouldn’t be muddy. She let the hot water beat on her tight shoulders. Even her butterflies felt dormant. No aerial flips today, just heavy weights.

  Halfway through the church service, the pastor announced that Hal Evanston would like to share a few words. Trish scrunched her legs against the pew so he could get by. At the same moment, she shot him a questioning look. What was going on?

  Her father scanned the members of the congregation and smiled at his family. “I want to publicly thank all of you for your continuing support and prayers. I’m here today because our loving Father listens and cares for His children. The doctors were sure I would go fast, but they shot all their weapons at the cancer anyway. You, we all, prayed. That’s an unbeatable combination—and Friday, the X-rays showed the proof. The tumors are receding.”

  The congregation broke out in spontaneous applause.

  Hal waited. “We always know God is at work in us and for us even when we can’t see what He is doing. This time He’s allowed us to see the results. Again, thank you for your faithfulness to me and my family, and thank you, Father, for the gift of life.” He bowed his head. “Amen.”

  Marge gripped Trish’s hand. “He wanted to surprise you,” she whispered.

  Trish let the tears roll down her cheeks. They caught in the corners of her smile.

  There wasn’t a dry eye to be seen after the service. By the time everyone had hugged her father and mother, Trish felt full, to the point of spilling over.

  Rhonda danced in place. She grabbed Trish’s hands, then dropped them to hug her. “I am so happy.”

  “Me too.” The words didn’t begin to say what Trish was feeling. No words could.

  The glow stayed with her all the way to the track.

  Spitfire was in good spirits. When David lifted the colt’s front hoof, Spitfire nudged him and sent him sprawling in the straw.

  “Knock it off!” David picked up the hoof again.

  Brad rubbed down the colt’s opposite shoulder with a soft cloth. Spitfire reached around, nipped off Brad’s crimson and gold baseball hat, and tossed it in the corner.

  Trish caught the giggles. She doubled over laughing at the looks on the guys’ faces. Then Spitfire gave her a shove that toppled her on her rear in the straw.

  This time David and Brad joined in the laughter. Spitfire pricked his ears and blew, reaching down to shower Trish with his warm, misty breath.

  When Trish was back on her feet, the horse nudged against her chest, then rubbed one eye against her shoulder. She rubbed all his favorite places, all the while telling him how wonderful he was. He nodded in contentment.

  “That horse is almost human.” Rhonda leaned on the stall door. “Sorry I’m late, but it looks like you managed without me.”

  “You missed the clown act.” Trish let herself out of the stall. “Come on, I’ve got another race before the Futurity. See you guys at the paddock.” She picked up her bag in the tack room.

  By the time she’d changed after the first race, Trish’s butterflies were frisking full force. Until she saw her father in the saddling paddock.

  “Just let God handle the race,” he said as he boosted her up.

  “Reading my mind again?”

  “No, your face.” He patted her knee. “And I know how you think and feel. Just go out there and do your best. That’s all you can do. Let God take care of the rest.”

  Trish leaned forward to give Spitfire a big hug. She smoothed his mane to one side and gathered up her reins.

  She tried to keep the black to a flat walk to conserve his energy, but Spitfire would have none of it. He jigged sideways, pulling against the lead rope in Brad’s hands and against the reins.

  “He sure is ready,”
Brad said from his perch on Dan’l’s back.

  “I hope so,” Trish answered. “But he’s never raced this far before.” And he’s been penned up all week.

  A slow canter brought them to the gates. Trish took a deep breath and released it along with her plea, “Please, God.” The two words said it all.

  Spitfire broke clean at the shot and drove straight down the middle of the track. He ran easily, as if nothing had happened. His twitching ears kept track of Trish’s song, sung from high on his withers, and the horses around him. The field spread out going into the first stretch, and when Spitfire eased over to the rail, Trish let him. By the three-quarters mark, Spitfire was running stride for stride with another horse. A sorrel and a gray ran two lengths in front, also side by side.

  At the mile post, their running mate fell back and Spitfire gained on the two ahead, now running head to tail. Stride by stride the colt eased past the second place and gained on the front runner. The leading jockey went to his whip.

  Trish could feel Spitfire waver. His breath came in thundering gasps. “Come on, fella,” she shouted. “This is it. We’re almost there. Come on.”

  Spitfire reached out one more time and hurtled over the finish line.

  “And the winner by a nose is—number three, Spitfire. Owner, Hal Evanston, and ridden by Tricia Evanston.”

  “You did it. You did it!” Trish pulled Spitfire down to a canter. Lather covered his shoulders and flew back when he shook his head. He slowed to a walk, still gasping for air. His sides heaved. Trish patted his neck, comforting him. As his breathing slowed, his head came up again. By the time they entered the winner’s circle, he pricked his ears and rubbed his itchy forehead against Hal’s arm.

  Trish slid to the ground. Her knees wobbled so bad she hardly had the energy to unbuckle her saddle girth. David grinned at her. Hal hugged her and they all posed for the pictures. Trish plucked a rose from the wreath and handed it to her mother.

  “Save this one for me, will you?”

  Marge nodded, relief evident in the smile that fought the tears for first place.