Golden Filly Collection One

by Lauraine Snelling

  Trish sniffed and wiped her eyes. The smile she gave the most important men in her life rivaled the warmth of the sun. “I love you.” She picked up her reins. “Okay, fella. Let’s do it.”

  David led Spitfire, and Hal walked alongside with his hand on Trish’s knee. As they stepped onto the dirt track, the pony rider met them. Hal gave his daughter one last pat as the bugler raised the shiny brass horn. The notes floated on the air. Parade to post. The Preakness had begun.

  Spitfire took the word parade to heart. Perfectly collected, neck arched, he jogged in step with his leader. The sun glinted blue on his shiny black hide. Muscles rippled, the mane and tail feathered in the breeze. Spitfire was everything a Thoroughbred should be. He snorted at the turn and cantered back past the stands to thunderous applause.

  “You know it, fella. They’re yelling for you.” Trish rode high in her stirrups, in perfect symmetry with her horse. When they approached the starting gate Spitfire waited his turn.

  Equinox refused to enter the gate. It took four gatemen to finally shove him into place.

  Spitfire walked right in and stood perfectly at ease.

  Nomatterwhat also needed encouragement. He’d acted cantankerous ever since the parade began, trying to outrun his pony and refusing to maintain his place in line. The remaining six filed into their assigned places.

  Equinox reared in the stall.

  Trish caught sight of the jockey bailing off rather than being squeezed between horse and gate. Spitfire stood still, listening to Trish’s voice as she continued her soothing song.

  One of the handlers led Equinox around and back into the gate. The jockey swung back aboard.

  Trish breathed a sigh of relief and settled herself for the break. Spitfire tensed, his weight on his haunches, his focus on the track ahead.

  The gates clanged open. “They’re off!”

  Spitfire broke in perfect stride. Equinox hung back. Nomatterwhat came into perfect sync with Spitfire. As they passed the grandstand for the first time, the two ran neck and neck, Spitfire on the inside.

  Going into the first turn, Jones took Nomatterwhat into the lead by half a length. Trish kept a tight rein, letting the other horse set a faster pace. Through the backstretch they thundered stride on stride; Spitfire’s nose seemed glued to Jones’ stirrup. The remaining field spread out behind them.

  Going into the turn, Trish loosed the reins a fraction. Spitfire’s stride lengthened. He gained with each thrust of his haunches.

  Jones went to the whip. Coming out of the turn, Spitfire paced him, stride for stride. But down the final stretch it was Spitfire going away.

  Trish heard the thunder of Spitfire’s hooves, his breath like a freight train. The crowd screamed, waves of sound bashing against their eardrums.

  And it was Spitfire by one length. By two. The winner of the Preakness—Spitfire by three lengths. As they flashed across the finish line, Trish raised her whip in salute.

  Tears streamed down her face. “Thank you, God. We did it. For my dad!” She listened for the announcer.

  “And the winner of the Preakness is Spitfire—owned by Hal Evanston and ridden by his daughter, Tricia Evanston.”

  Trish and Spitfire cantered on around the track accepting the roar of the crowd as their due. At the sixteenth pole, an official opened the railing and waved her in. Trish trotted her horse back around the turf course, stopped Spitfire in front of the stands, and turned to face the crowd.

  Head high, nostrils still flared red and breathing hard, Spitfire surveyed his kingdom. Trish stroked his neck, letting him accept the applause.

  “It’s ours, fella. Middle jewel of the Triple Crown. Your name is history now.” She turned him toward the winner’s circle where her family waited.

  “Congratulations, Tricia.” Mel Howell appeared beside her. He grasped the reins under Spitfire’s chin and led them toward the cupola. White picket fences kept back the crowds and the press in the infield. Manicured shrubs outlined the flower-bordered circle. The huge silver Woodlawn Cup shone in its place of honor.

  Trish smiled and waved till it felt as if her face would crack. She let the tears flow unchecked when she saw her parents, arm in arm in front of the red banner-decked porch of the cupola. Patrick and David met her at the circle.

  David raised two fingers in what looked like a peace sign. Trish nodded. Two down.

  “I knew you could do it, lass. You and the clown here.” Patrick thumped her knee and Spitfire’s shoulder. He took the reins so Mel could help with the blanket of flowers. Yellow chrysanthemums with the brown painted centers, the blanket was draped over the horse’s withers.

  Trish felt the weight across her knees, like a heavy quilt. With one hand she smoothed the blossoms, waving with the other. Flashbulbs popped, video cameras recorded the moment.

  Her father gripped Trish’s hand. No words were necessary. The love and pride in his eyes said it all.

  Trish leaped to the ground, right into her mother’s arms. Marge hugged her hard, then wiped tears from both their cheeks.

  Trish hugged Spitfire one more time before an official from the detention barn led him away to be tested. Mel motioned Trish to the scale, where once she was weighed, the race was declared official. She followed her family up to the railed podium.

  Announcer John McKay, known everywhere as the voice of Thoroughbred horse racing, first greeted them, then led them to the microphones. “And now, I give you the owner of this year’s Preakness winner, Hal Evanston,” his voice boomed over the applause of the crowd.

  Hal stood a moment, surveying the sea of spectators. “I can’t begin to thank you all enough for the way you’ve made us feel welcome here. Winning the Preakness with a colt from our own farm and my daughter riding it—well, it’s beyond what most men dream of. I thank our heavenly Father for the privilege of being here, for keeping everyone safe in this race, and for my family, without whom none of this would be possible.” He raised one hand to wave and clasped Marge to his side with the other.

  “And now, the young woman you’ve all been waiting for—” McKay announced, pausing, “—winning jockey, Tricia Evanston! As you can see, they’re keeping the trophies in the family.”

  Trish looked up at her father, then out at the crowd. She clenched the mike tightly in her hand to keep it from shaking. “Only one person a year gets to stand here for this honor. No one could be more proud than I am right now. Or more thankful. I have a lot to be thankful for. My father is standing here in spite of a killer disease. As he has said so many times, we are in God’s hands.” Trish choked on the last words. “There’s no safer or better place to be. Thank you.”

  The crowd thundered again as she and her father hugged each other. They raised a replica of the Woodlawn Trophy for another photo, but the one that would make most newspapers was the one of father and daughter in each other’s arms.

  “And now—” McKay introduced the Chrysler representative, who in turn presented a set of keys to Trish.

  “These are for that red Chrysler LeBaron convertible waiting right over there. How does it feel to own two cars?”

  Trish took the mike again. “It feels great and I love it. But this one’s for my brother, David.” She grabbed his hand and stuffed the keys into it. “He earned it—the hard way.”

  “Trish, you can’t—” David blurted.

  “Oh, yes I can.” Trish handed the mike back, and the crowd applauded again.

  “I think she’s got you, son,” Hal said with a laugh. “You’ll look good in it. Red seems to suit you both.”

  “Right. Both our kids in red convertibles,” Marge moaned. “In Washington—where it rains all the time.”

  “Mother.” Trish and David echoed the lament of children everywhere.

  Chapter

  10

  And now the most important question—” McKay paused for effect. “Will you be going on to Belmont?”

  “God willing,” Hal replied. “We’ll give Spitfire a bit of a res
t and leave on Wednesday.”

  “And there you have it, folks. Hal Evanston, owner of Spitfire, the winner of the first two legs of the Chrysler Triple Crown Challenge. Will this black colt be the first winner of the five-million-dollar bonus? We’ll know in two weeks.”

  Hal, Trish, David, and Marge waved again then, escorted by Mel Howell and several security people, trekked across the track and up to the Sports Palace for more celebration.

  Trish watched her father closely. Was it exhaustion that made him look weaker or was it her imagination? Maybe they should just leave so he could get some rest. She stood behind him with her hand on his shoulder when he finally sat down.

  Marge stood at his side. “Don’t worry, Tee,” Marge whispered under cover of someone else’s question.

  “Don’t worry?” Trish whispered back, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Worrying is what got you into so much trouble. Must be a family trait. Her thoughts flashed back to her grandmother at the Derby. Now, there was a worrier if ever there was one. When Trish looked back at her mother, she saw a younger form of her grandmother.

  “At least I’m more like Dad’s side of the family,” Trish said in an undertone.

  Marge raised her eyebrows.

  “They don’t worry so much.”

  Marge shook her head and chuckled. “No, I don’t think you inherited the worry gene. I’m glad.”

  Then why do you worry? her little nagger leaped into the act. You know better. It never does any good. Your worrying can’t make your dad any better. In fact, it probably makes him worse.

  “Thanks a bunch,” Trish muttered.

  “What’s that?” Hal turned his head to look up at her. He patted her hand at the same time.

  “Nothing…I…”

  “Well, Trish.” Adam Finley took her hand. “We sure are proud of you. Martha and I…well, we feel you’re part of our family now.”

  “And we couldn’t be more pleased if you were our own daughter,” Martha said as she gave Trish a hug.

  “Thank you. Maybe being part owners in Spitfire makes us all one family in a way.”

  “Family’s better than business partners any day.” Martha’s blue eyes twinkled above a merry smile.

  “You think you’ll have any trouble deciding what to do with that five mil?” Adam teased Trish.

  “We’ve gotta win it first, but it sure would buy a couple of good yearlings.”

  “Well, you certainly don’t need to think about buying a car,” Adam joked.

  Trish laughed and glanced at her mother to catch her reaction. They hadn’t really talked about the convertibles yet. Her mother and father had always said no car until after high school graduation. And now she had two—that is, she and David. What if she won a third?

  Hal patted her hand again. “What do you say we take a break here and head on back to the stakes barn. David and Patrick could maybe use some help.”

  Things had quieted at the barns. Patrick greeted them, then finished talking with a reporter.

  “How’s it going?” Hal asked after sinking into a lawn chair. He tipped his head back and rotated his neck. When he opened his eyes again, Trish could tell it was an effort.

  “The problem’s back.” Patrick sat down beside Hal. “Spitfire’s foreleg is hot and swollen. We’ve got it iced, and tomorrow I’ll start the ultrasound.

  He’s had a nice feed. He earned it.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “We’ll know more in the morning.”

  “And the reporters?”

  “They couldn’t miss the ice pack.”

  Trish left them talking and slipped into the stall where David was refilling the ice pack that stretched from shoulder to hoof. “Want me to do that?”

  “No, we’re about done. How’s Dad?”

  “He looks so tired he scares me. But Mom says not to worry.”

  “Right.” David rolled his eyes and shook his head.

  The morning papers ran banner headlines: “Spitfire, Son of Seattle Slew!” The first line read, “Can he follow in his daddy’s hoofprints?” Another article mentioned the recurring leg problem.

  Trish read them all. The last winner of the Triple Crown was Affirmed in 1978, the year after Seattle Slew took it. There’d been only eleven winners in all the years of racing. Could Spitfire really do it? Could he win at a mile and a half, the length of the Belmont track? Trish’s butterflies took a flying leap.

  On the limo ride back to the track Sunday morning, a thought kept nagging at the back of Trish’s mind. Maybe they should forget the Belmont and just ship home. In the long run it might be better for both her father and Spitfire. Both of them would get the rest they needed.

  She resolved to bring it up when both Patrick and her father were together.

  “How is he?” Trish asked as soon as she saw Patrick.

  “Not good, lass.” The usual twinkle was missing from his eyes. “But I’m not sure it’s real bad either. From what your father says, the lad pulls out of this pretty fast. It’s just that every incident may damage that muscle more.” He stroked Spitfire’s shoulder while he spoke. “I don’t know what to recommend.”

  “Will shipping him make it worse?” Trish stroked Spitfire’s nose that was already draped over her shoulder.

  “Not to my thinkin’. As your dad says—”

  “I know,” Trish interrupted, “we’ll take it one day at a time.”

  Patrick shrugged and nodded.

  Dad looks so terrible. Trish’s thoughts kept pace with the filly’s slow gallop. As if she sensed a problem, Sarah’s Pride settled into the pace and maintained it without her usual fits and shies. As she rode, Trish’s thoughts continued. She should be on top of the world, and instead she felt as if she were under it—holding it up.

  “We sure enjoyed watching you win yesterday,” Hank Benson told her on the ride back to the hotel. “My Genny was screaming, jumping up and down. I thought she’d burst her buttons when you entered the winner’s circle. Says she wants to be just like you someday.”

  “You should have brought her out to the barn afterward.”

  “We knew you’d be busy. All those reporters and important people. I know what it’s like for the winner.” He smiled over his shoulder.

  “Would you like to bring Genny along when you come to take us back to the track later this afternoon? She could meet Spitfire, maybe have her picture taken with him.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Sure. I’d love to meet her too. I remember when I was twelve. I thought Bill Shoemaker was—well, movie stars have never been a big deal to me, but that man was.”

  “Yeah, he was the greatest. Shame about that accident. Just after he retired too.”

  “I know.” The limo stopped in front of the hotel entrance. “Tell Genny I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

  Hal was asleep again.

  “He ate a good breakfast, though,” Marge said. “He wanted to wait for you kids but he was too hungry.”

  “That’s a good sign.” Trish flopped in a chair. “How is he otherwise?”

  “Yesterday wore him out.”

  “Yesterday wore us all out,” David added. “I think I could sleep all afternoon.”

  After they’d finished breakfast, that’s just what they did. Trish was amazed when she opened one eye to check the clock. Four! She stretched and yawned. So much for studying. The limo was due back in half an hour.

  “Your dad says you take riding lessons,” Trish said to Genny after they’d been introduced. “Tell me about them.”

  Genny sat in the seat with her back to the driver. She had long dark hair, held back by a red headband, and she wore jeans and a red turtleneck. She leaned forward as she spoke, her hands on her knees. After telling about her classes, she asked, “How do I get to be a jockey like you?”

  “You keep riding, and when you’re older start asking if you can exercise horses for one of the farms. You may have to clean stalls to get in, but ke
ep asking. One time they’ll need someone, and if you’re good, you’re on your way. There’s one thing though—do you like to get up early in the morning?”

  Genny flinched a bit and wrinkled her nose. “Not really.”

  “Well, morning works start at four-thirty or five, you know.”

  When they arrived at the track, Patrick was measuring the horses’ evening feed. Trish handed Genny a couple of pieces of carrot from the bag in the cooler.

  Spitfire nickered as soon as he heard Trish’s voice. He reached his nose out as far as he could to greet her, a soundless nicker fluttering his nostrils.

  “You old silly.” Trish rubbed his nose and smoothed his forelock. With one hand gripping his halter, Trish motioned Genny closer. “Spitfire, meet Genny.” Spitfire reached out and sniffed Genny’s arm and up her shoulder. He inspected her hair, then down to her palm, where he lipped his carrot and munched.

  “I think he likes you,” Trish said.

  “He likes anyone who brings him carrots.” David leaned on the handle of his pitchfork. With a quick motion, Spitfire sent David’s crimson and gold baseball hat floating to the ground. “Spitfire, you—you!”

  “You should have brought him a carrot,” Genny said innocently, a gleam dancing in her eye.

  “Thanks.” David grinned at her as he bent over to pick up his hat. “Just be glad you’re not wearing a hat.”

  “How about if your dad takes a picture of you and Spitfire?” Trish asked.

  “And you?” Genny wondered.

  Trish nodded. “If you like.” Trish turned her back so Spitfire could drape his head over her shoulder. Genny stood on the other side of the horse. Hank took several shots, reminding them each time to smile.

  Genny’s grin dimmed the lights. “Thank you, Trish. And Spitfire.” She fed him her last bit of carrot. “You’re the neatest.”

  On the way back to the hotel, Genny asked Trish to sign her program from the day before. By the time they parted, Trish felt almost as if she had a little sister. “You write to me now,” Trish said, “and keep up your lessons. Maybe we’ll be riding in the same race someday. You never know.”