Golden Filly Collection One

by Lauraine Snelling

  It was raining.

  Trish stood at the window looking out over the rooftops of the grandstand. The rain looked like sheets of gauze blowing in the wind. She’d watched race number two on the monitor. It had finished just before the rain veil hit.

  She heard the click of pool balls from the table behind her.

  “What’s a five-letter word for dog?” asked a jockey who was working a crossword puzzle at one of the tables.

  “Hound.”

  “Thanks.”

  Trish didn’t turn around until Red handed her a Diet Coke. Then she leaned her hips against the windowsill and looked up at the monitor. Another previous race was running.

  “I watch those all the time.” Red gestured toward the screen. “Helps to understand each jockey’s style.”

  “Where do you watch, here?”

  “Over in the museum. It’s a big screen too, so you can see more. Plus the track has a video library.”

  “Wish I could be down at the barn. At least there’s something to do there.”

  “Pretty quiet yet. Spitfire’s probably sleeping. With the all-night partying on the streets around the area, the horses need some extra sleep too.”

  “I suppose.” She rotated her neck. “Usually I have at least a couple of mounts, more like three or four. That keeps me hustling. Or I help David on the backside.”

  “Trish.” He paused. “How long you gonna be around after the race?”

  She shrugged. “Depends on how we do. Dad just says wait till after the Derby, then he’ll decide.”

  “But you’re entered in all three races of the Triple Crown?” She nodded. “Why?”

  It was his turn to shrug. “I’d like to spend some time with you. Maybe a drive or a movie. Something.”

  “Oh.” Trish took a long swallow of her Coke. She looked up to find those blue-blue eyes studying her. “I’ll ask my dad.”

  “Good. See you later. Gotta get ready for my next ride.” His grin made her feel good.

  “Good luck.”

  Trish returned to the women’s room to find Frances swapping tales with one of the jockeys. They broke off to watch the fourth race. Red brought his mount up on the outside, hanging back with another horse until the stretch.

  “Now!” Trish joined in the hollering, cheering him on.

  Red went to the whip and bore down on the leader. He won by a length. When the camera showed the winner, you could hardly recognize horse or rider for the mud. But Red’s grin was contagious even over the television.

  The rain had quit but the track was now officially listed as muddy. From the looks of the last riders, muddy was an understatement.

  Maybe the rain lulled them to sleep. Trish suddenly realized her stomach was butterfly-free. She sprayed furniture polish on her five pairs of goggles and wiped them off, stacking them together, ready to snap over her helmet. Then she buffed her boots. When did the butterflies disappear? She didn’t know, but didn’t really care either. The peace she’d prayed for had crept right in. She felt good. It wouldn’t be long now.

  She was all stretched and ready when the call came.

  “Give it all you’ve got,” Frances told her. “It’s about time we had a woman in that red horseshoe.”

  “Thanks.” A couple of butterflies tried to break out, but Trish swallowed them down. On the scale, her total weight with saddle and lead registered 126 pounds, like every other Derby jockey. She followed the others down the stairs and through the lines of waving and shouting spectators to the paddock. It wasn’t raining.

  Trish breathed in deeply of the fresh-washed air and rotated her shoulders. Her parents and grandparents were dressed in their best. David and Patrick waited with Spitfire. The colt nickered when he saw Trish.

  “You ready?” Hal asked.

  At Trish’s nod, David punched her lightly on the shoulder. “You can do it.”

  Trish kissed Spitfire on his nose. He wuffled in her ear as she hugged him. “This is it, fella. You ready to show them what we can do?”

  “Riders up.” The official call was clear.

  Trish felt a lump grow in her throat when she looked into her father’s eyes. “I love you,” she whispered in his ear as she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. She hugged her mother next. “Thanks for being here.”

  Marge nodded. Her sniff told of tears hovering.

  Then Trish hugged her grandparents. “I can’t tell you how glad I am you came.”

  “We wouldn’t have missed it,” her grandfather said.

  Trish took a moment, looking deep into David’s eyes. “I’m glad you’re my brother. We couldn’t have made it without you.”

  David gave her a quick hug, the kind that brothers give when they’re more used to swats and jabs. “Just win for us.”

  Patrick touched her hand. “We’ll all be praying, lass.”

  Hal gave her a leg up and squeezed her knee. “You know what to do. God bless.”

  Patrick led them out to join the line in position number six. There was no turning back now.

  Trish’s pony rider picked her up at the tunnel. The gray horse wore roses in his braided tail and mane. As Spitfire cleared the tunnel, Trish heard the bands playing and everyone singing “My Old Kentucky Home.” She reached forward to pat her horse’s black neck. Head high, ears forward, Spitfire waltzed to the music. The way he floated over the ground couldn’t be described any other way. They turned and trotted back before the grandstand again. Trish saw lightning fork from the dark sky to the west. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  Equinox trotted in front of them, giving his handler a bad time. Sweat already darkened his shoulders.

  As they cantered toward the backside, Trish could feel Spitfire relax even more. The only thing bothering her was the dense black cloud that blanketed the sky above the barns. If only it would hold off until after the race.

  The wind picked up even as the parade of horses began entering the starting gate. Number one, Who Sez, refused to go in. Four green-jacketed gatemen got behind and shoved the horse into the gate. The next four walked right in. Equinox reared when the lead was transferred from pony rider to handler. The jockey clung like the professional he was, but Trish knew he must feel shaky about it.

  Spitfire danced to the side but obeyed when Trish ordered him forward. He stood quietly in the gate. Dun Rovin’ on their right acted spooky, tossing his head and rocking back and forth.

  “Watch him,” his handler said from his place up on the side of the gate by the horse’s head.

  Trish kept her eyes straight ahead, focused on the spot between Spitfire’s ears. He was balanced, ready.

  As Spanish Dancer, number twelve, stepped into the gate, the entire area turned blue-white. Thunder crashed right on top of them. The gates sprang open.

  Spitfire threw up his head. Off balance, he slipped at the bound from the gate. Equinox bumped hard against him.

  Trish fought to hold his head up. Spitfire gained his footing, but by the time they were running true, the field had left them behind.

  “Okay, fella, bad start, so now we gotta make up for it.” Trish’s steady voice cheered him on. They were two lengths off the pace as they passed the stands for the first time.

  It looked like a wall of haunches ahead of them as the last four horses ran shoulder to shoulder. Trish waited patiently until one drifted to the outer rail and she had a hole to drive through. She took it without a flinch.

  They came out of the clubhouse turn running neck and neck with number eight in the middle of the field. Trish eased Spitfire to the right until they ran on the outside.

  Two lengths in front of them, the horse on the inside was bumped and crashed into the rail.

  The jockey flying over the horse’s head barely registered, it happened so fast. “Come on, fella,” Trish crooned around the clench in her gut. Only three horses pounded on ahead of them. Trish could tell the going was slow, but Spitfire didn’t mind.

  She had pulled down three goggl
es already. The horse in front seemed to stop, he slowed so much. Spitfire was running easily in third. At the mile marker, Trish made her move.

  “Okay, Spitfire, this is it.” She crouched tight over his neck, feeling herself part of her colt—as if they were one body, one mind. And that mind was on the two horses leading.

  Spitfire stretched out. He picked up the pace, running as if the track were dry and fast.

  “Come on, Spitfire!” Trish hollered in his twitching ears.

  The second-place horse fell back in a couple of strides. Only Nomatterwhat was left.

  One furlong, an eighth of a mile, to go. Trish willed her black colt to give it all he had. She could see the white posts ahead.

  “Now, boy, now!” They drew even.

  Jones went to the whip. Neck and neck, they thundered toward the finish line.

  Spitfire stretched his nose past the sorrel. Then his neck. His shoulders. He won by three-quarters of a length.

  “Yowee!” Trish yelled at the top of her lungs. She straightened her legs, standing in the stirrups to slow Spitfire down. “You did it, you gorgeous hunk of horseflesh, you did it!”

  Tears streamed down her face, creating furrows in the mud.

  “Thank you, Father, thank you. The Derby. We won the Derby!” She turned and cantered back to the finish line. Past the screaming and cheering crowd, past the cameras lining the inside rail, to that grassy horseshoe outlined in red tulips.

  Trish stopped in the center of the track and turned Spitfire to face the crowds, to receive his applause, his just due. “You did it, fella. See how good it feels?” She raised a mud-crusted arm and waved. As her arm came down, she leaned forward and hugged her horse’s neck. The applause thundered louder.

  David and Patrick reached them first. David slapped her on the knee and pumped Trish’s hand. “I didn’t think you two would pull it off after a start like that.”

  “My old heart nearly stopped.” Patrick patted his chest. “As I said, you two are really something.”

  “I told you he doesn’t like thunder.” Trish looked across the crowd for her father. He had Marge by the arm, helping her negotiate the rutted and muddy track. Behind them, two men in business suits assisted her grandparents. Trish could see Marge had been crying, in fact, still was. The radiant smile she lifted for her daughter said the tears were those of joy.

  “All I can say is thank you, God,” Hal said as he clenched Trish’s hand.

  “You’re safe,” Marge said around her tears.

  “And we won.” Trish swallowed hard.

  “Come on.” Hal grasped the reins and led them through the mob and into the horseshoe.

  Spitfire stood, head high as the officials draped a blanket of red roses across his withers. Cameras clicked while a sheaf of roses was handed to Trish. More cameras flashed in the dimming light. Trish leaped lightly to the ground. She reached up and pulled Spitfire’s head down for a quick scratch and a hug.

  At that moment, Spitfire noticed David’s hat. He flipped the brim with his nose and sent it flying.

  David looked at Trish and shook his head. “Can’t you teach this clown any manners?” People around them laughed and applauded again.

  “Come on, old son.” Patrick slipped a halter over Spitfire’s head. “Let’s get you to the testing barn.” As he led the colt away, Trish and her parents were escorted up the white ramp of the horseshoe to stand behind the row of four silver trophies. The large fancy one was given each year to the winner, then returned to the museum with the winner’s name engraved on it.

  “This is unusual,” the master of ceremonies announced. “This time all these trophies go to the same family. Owner and trainer, Hal Evanston. Jockey, his daughter, sixteen-year-old Tricia Evanston. This bunch keeps things in the family.”

  Trish, Hal, and Marge waved again. Trish couldn’t look at her mother, for she knew she’d cry in earnest then.

  Hal stepped up to the microphone. “I can’t begin to tell you how I feel. I thank all of you, and our heavenly Father for making this day happen.” He waved again. “And yes, we’ll be going on to the Preakness, God willing.”

  Trish felt a leap of excitement. Could anything top this?

  “And now, the first female jockey in history to win the Kentucky Derby, Tricia Evanston.”

  Trish cleared her throat. She looked across the sea of people filling the stands. Reporters with cameras and camcorders crowded the infield in front of her.

  “Every jockey dreams of being up here one day. I don’t think the feeling would be any different, whether you’re a man or a woman. This is my dream come true, helping my father make his dream come true. Thank you.”

  “Stay right here,” the master of ceremonies said, and he introduced the representative of the Chrysler Corporation.

  “It is my great pleasure to present you, Tricia Evanston, with the keys to that Le Baron convertible over there.” He placed them in her hand. “Is this your first car?”

  Trish nodded. “Thank you,” she stammered. She’d forgotten about the car. What would her mother say about this?

  After answering more questions, shaking all the hands that reached for them, smiling for the cameras, and answering more questions, the security officers opened a pathway through the crowds and escorted the Evanston family across the track and into the tunnel.

  “Way to go, Trish,” a familiar voice called from the stands above her head. Trish looked up to wave at Red.

  The escort took them upstairs to the director’s office, where more congratulations were extended. Trish wished David were able to be with them. Instead, he had joined Patrick and Spitfire back at the testing barn.

  “Trish, I’m Bill Williams from Sports Illustrated.”

  Trish shook his hand. “I’m glad to meet you.”

  “Before you change, could we go out to the backside and get some more pictures of you and Spitfire? I’d like a headshot of the two of you for the cover of our next issue.”

  Trish looked around for her father. He was talking with someone across the room. “I—I guess.” The cover of Sports Illustrated. What’s Rhonda gonna say about this? She almost giggled at the thought. And what’s Mom gonna say?

  What could she say?

  “You better wash your face first,” Marge whispered in Trish’s ear. Trish excused herself and did just that.

  They all trekked across to the backside to barn 41. Patrick had Spitfire all washed and dried, but quickly slipped the white bridle back in place. Spitfire draped his head over Trish’s shoulder, as he loved to do, and pricked his ears when someone snapped their fingers behind the photographer’s head.

  “Thank you,” Williams said. “And I can call you at the Inn for an interview time?”

  Trish nodded. “That would be fine.”

  “We have another reception.” Hal laid his hand on Trish’s shoulder. “You better go change.”

  Marge reached to hug her daughter before she left. “I was so scared and so proud at the same time, I didn’t know what to do but pray. I thank God for taking care of you, and for prayer. I couldn’t have gotten through this otherwise.”

  “Mom, I’m so proud of you.” Trish hugged her mother back. “No matter how afraid you were, you came through. You came and watched me race. Dad and I really needed you.”

  Hal wrapped his arms around both of them. “That’s right. We’re in this together. And now it’s on to Pimlico.”

  Spitfire shoved his head between them and blew in Trish’s ear. He was ready too, for another carrot and more scratching.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks to Emergency Medical Technician Ted Bingham, who told me procedures for emergency vehicles. My favorite medical expert is Karen Chafin, whose nursing experience is invaluable when I need a quick medical question answered. She’s also my sister—I’m blessed.

  Several hours listening to jockey Patty (P. J.) Cooksey, trainer Glinny Dunlop Bartram, and jockey room mother Frances Brown swap horse stories in the w
omen’s jockey room at Churchill Downs was worth the entire trip to Kentucky, even if I hadn’t been able to see the Derby. Thanks to all of you for enriching my stories by increasing my knowledge.

  Linda Wood introduced us to Churchill Downs, the site and the people. Thanks for sharing your time and knowledge.

  So many people answer so many questions for me. Thank you all.

  To Ruby MacDonald and Pat Rushford,

  my first dedicated critique group

  and lasting friends.

  We owe each other our successes.

  Chapter

  01

  This was turning out to be a year of firsts. First race, first win, first trip to California, and now the first female to win the Kentucky Derby. Sixteen-year-old Tricia Evanston hugged the tall, black colt she and her father had raised and trained. Spitfire lived up to his name.

  Back at Churchill Downs on Sunday morning, Trish still rode the high from yesterday’s win. Their dream had come true. She and Spitfire had won the Kentucky Derby!

  “Spitfire, you crazy horse, stop it now.” Trish tried to insert at least a hint of command in her tone but failed miserably. Serious just didn’t seem to fit into her vocabulary this morning. The laughter kept bubbling, joined by giggles.

  Spitfire might be the newly crowned winner of the Kentucky Derby, but he loved hats—as in flipping them off favored people’s heads. This morning, the flying hat of fedora vintage belonged to assistant trainer Patrick O’Hern.

  “You should see the look on your face,” Trish said, smiling at the more than slightly rounded ex-jockey. A halo of white hair fringed his shiny bald head.

  “I’ll put me a look on ’is face!” Patrick leaned over to grab his hat, but a playful breeze joined in the prank, bowling the grungy hat a step or three across the gravel.

  Trish leaned against the wall of barn 41, her legs feeling like cooked spaghetti from all the laughing.

  David kept a wary eye on the black colt and a hand on his favorite Seattle Mariner’s baseball cap as he reached for Patrick’s dust-covered hat.

  “You know, if you two were wearing Runnin’ On Farm hats, he’d leave you alone,” Trish said. “He knows those hats are in his honor.”