Golden Filly Collection One

by Lauraine Snelling

  Trish let out a sigh as she and David entered the hotel. Spitfire hadn’t gotten any worse. Maybe they should go on after all.

  “You did good.” David tapped her on the shoulder.

  His praise flew straight to her heart. “Thanks. I needed that.”

  Hal listened carefully that night when Trish suggested they might all be better off if they flew back to Portland rather than continue on to Belmont.

  “What do you think, David?” Hal asked.

  David paused, his forehead wrinkled in thought. “I’m not the one that’s sick. We won’t know about Spitfire’s leg, but it could be fine in the next couple of days. It’s you we’re worried about.”

  That word again, Trish thought. From now on the W word should be outlawed in our family.

  “Marge, what about you?”

  “You’re awfully close to your dream to quit now.”

  Trish stared at her mother. She could feel her mouth drop open—and stay that way.

  “Patrick?” The trainer had joined them for dinner.

  “I can’t be walkin’ in your shoes. Who but God can know the future?”

  Hal leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin. The light from the lamp slashed deep shadows in his face. Trish shuddered. He’d lost more weight, she was sure of it.

  “One day at a time,” he finally said. “We’re in God’s hands—one day at a time. We’ll make the final decision on Tuesday night.”

  It rained all day Monday. Trish spent the time studying. David and Patrick kept doctoring Spitfire’s leg. Hal slept. Marge stayed busy knitting a sweater.

  Before she went to sleep that night, Trish finished reading War and Peace. Now she just had to write the report and the assignment list was finished. Her prayers remained the same. “Please make my dad better. And Spitfire too.”

  On Tuesday the rain continued. Hal polled them all that evening. After listening to everyone’s comments, he announced, “We leave for Belmont at nine a.m.”

  Trish wasn’t sure if she was happy or sad.

  Both horses loaded without any trouble in the morning. Spitfire wasn’t limping but the leg was still warm to the touch.

  Trish felt that old familiar lump in her throat as she said good-bye to Mel Howell and their limo driver, Hank Benson. “You made me really feel good here,” she said. “You sure you don’t want to come along to Belmont?” After shaking hands, she climbed up in the cab of the horse van. The driver wasn’t friendly like Hank or Fred Robertson.

  Trish turned in the seat to get a last glimpse of Pimlico as they pulled out of the long drive. A new rental car followed right behind them with David driving.

  Trish settled back in the seat. Her father had said they’d be there in about five hours. She rolled her jacket up and propped it against the window. Any time was a good time to catch a few extra Z’s.

  Trish wasn’t sure how long they’d been driving, but she’d awakened as they crossed the river and entered the New Jersey Turnpike. Paying to drive on a freeway was a whole new concept to her. So far they’d stopped several times to pay the toll.

  Up ahead construction warning signs flashed. A lighted sign overhead posted the speed limit and how far the slow-down would last. She settled back against her jacket.

  Then the screech of brakes jerked her fully awake. Lights from the car ahead fishtailed in front of them. The van driver hit his brakes and in the same motion swerved to the left to avoid an accident.

  Another car crashed into the rear of the truck. The screeching and rending of metal pierced the air. Trish felt her body slam against the seat belt, and her head hit the side window.

  Was it David who crashed into us?

  Then she heard Spitfire scream, and everything went silent.

  Chapter

  11

  The blow to Trish’s head left her dizzy. All she could think of was Spitfire. Was he hurt? Or just frightened?

  Trish unsnapped her seat belt as soon as the truck came to a halt, and with a groan she pushed the door open and dropped to the ground. Her shoulder had apparently hit the side window too.

  “Easy, fella,” she called. How do I get the van door open? Everything was tipped at a crazy angle. She could hear the horses shifting and sliding around. Then she thought of the driver and dashed around the front of the truck and pulled the driver’s door open. He was slumped against the steering wheel, but at least he was breathing, and moving slightly. “You okay?” she whispered, not seeing any blood.

  “I think so,” he managed. “Check on the horses.”

  Spitfire! I’ve got to get to him. Trish ran to the back of the van. It was then that she saw the smoking car with the front end pushed in. At least it wasn’t their rental car.

  By this time Trish could hear car doors slamming. Someone was moaning—or crying. She could also hear the horses snorting, their hooves thudding as they scrambled to find footing on the slanted floor. Trish clambered up the side of the van, bracing her feet in the slot that held the ramp. She reached the door handles but gravity sucked the doors shut. No matter how she strained, she couldn’t open them.

  Then Spitfire screamed again.

  Trish wiped moisture from her right eye. When she glanced down she saw blood on her hand. She tried to keep her voice firm but fear made it wobble. She sucked in a deep breath. Where are David and Patrick? Are they hurt too? God, please help us! “Easy, fella, take it easy now,” she spoke through the doors, but her voice broke on a sob. “Come on, Spitfire, just stand still until I can help you.”

  What were only minutes passing seemed like hours to Trish. She tugged again on the door handles. For once in her life, she wished she were taller.

  “It’s okay, Tee.” David pulled himself up beside her. “We’ll get it open.” He grasped the handles firmly. “Now when I lift, you grab the edge. Together, we can do it.” David worked from the ramp slot and Trish dropped to the ground. When he cracked the door, she threw her weight into the effort and pushed it upright. David shifted position and the door fell open.

  Trish scrambled into the van. At the sight of her, Spitfire whinnied and Sarah’s Pride slipped, thudding her knee against the wall of her stall.

  “Easy now, you two,” Trish crooned. Her voice choked when she saw blood flowing down Spitfire’s cheek from a gash above his eye. Wild-eyed, he snorted and lunged against the tie ropes. The acrid smell of smoke drifted in from the smoldering car, and Trish sneezed as she fumbled for the ties.

  “Here, let me help you.” David jerked one lead free. “Let’s turn them both so they face up the slant. Then they should be able to stand without slipping around.”

  Together they backed Spitfire out of the padded stall and faced him toward the door.

  “Where’s Patrick?” Trish asked as she stroked Spitfire’s neck and face. The colt shuddered under her soothing hands.

  “With Dad and Mom. The driver of the car that rear-ended you is hurt pretty badly. Hold on to Spitfire and I’ll go tell Mom and Dad you’re okay. Then I’ll come back for the filly.”

  In what seemed like seconds, David was back in the van. “Okay, girl, let’s get you moved out too.” He eased Sarah’s Pride back and let her gain her footing.

  By the time both horses were calmed down, Trish could hear sirens approaching.

  “How’s your driver?” David nodded toward the front of the van.

  “Pretty groggy, but I didn’t see any blood. He said he thought he was okay.” Trish wiped her face again. This time she flinched.

  “You better leave that alone,” David said. “Looks like it’s quit bleeding.”

  “How’s Dad?”

  “I’m not sure. We told him to stay in the car, but you know Dad. Once I pulled the driver from the crashed car, Mom took over, and I came to help you.”

  “Where’s all the smoke coming from?”

  “The car behind us. I thought it was going to blow up. We used a fire extinguisher he had in the trunk.”

  Trish shudd
ered. “David, how bad was this accident, anyway?”

  “I’m not sure,” David answered. “Three or four cars were involved, at least.”

  Spitfire leaned his head against Trish’s chest, smearing blood on her shirt. Trish rubbed his ears. Where else is he hurt? How about his leg? The questions raced through Trish’s mind like a rabbit evading a hungry wolf.

  A state patrolman appeared at the door. “You kids okay in there? How about the horses?”

  “You’d better check on the van driver. Anything here can wait,” Trish answered.

  “This could have been really bad, Tee.” David rubbed the filly’s ears and neck.

  “Our guardian angels were working overtime again?”

  “For sure.”

  More sirens could be heard in the distance. Spitfire shifted uneasily, but Trish was able to calm him again.

  “It’s like we’re in no-man’s-land. Why doesn’t someone come and tell us what’s happening?” Trish blinked against the pain that thudded by her right eye. She was beginning to feel panicky. “How is Dad?”

  Just then Patrick stuck his head in the door and swung himself up into the van. “The ambulance finally got here.” He looked at Trish. “You’d better let the medics have a look at you too.” He patted both horses. “Looks like Spitfire got clipped good,” he murmured, inspecting the gash. “Anything else?” He turned to Trish again.

  “I don’t know. We haven’t checked under the sheets.”

  Patrick looked at Spitfire’s legs first, then the filly’s. “Okay so far.” He rolled back the crimson sheet. The colt flinched when Patrick touched his right shoulder. He carefully probed the area. “Pretty bad bruise. Maybe a pulled muscle. Has he been favoring this leg?”

  “Not really, at least I don’t think so.” Trish tried to think about when they moved the horses. “No, he was moving pretty freely.”

  Patrick checked over the rest of the colt’s body, then started on the filly. “Her knees are a bit skinned. That’s all I can find now. It’s a miracle, that’s what I say.”

  “How’s my dad?” Trish finally asked.

  “Last I saw, he was directing traffic. He’s the one who found someone with a car phone and called for help. Between your mother and David—well, the man behind you will be thankin’ them for his life.”

  “What was the matter with him? Why’d he follow so close? You’d think he’d know better. Signs had been flashing for—”

  “Now, lass,” Patrick soothed, “let’s just be thankful it wasn’t any worse.”

  “I knew we should have gone home. Spitfire probably won’t even be able to run, and Dad sure didn’t need all this.”

  “Knock it off, Tee,” David ordered. “Let’s just get through this, and then we’ll have time to sort it all out.”

  “Time? We never have enough time for anything.”

  David ignored her.

  Trish leaned against a stall post. Suddenly she was too tired to think or move.

  An emergency medical technician from an ambulance spoke to them at the van doors. “I hear we have a head wound in here.” When he saw Trish, he smiled. “I guess you’re it. How about letting those two guys handle the horses, and you come out here where we can check you over?”

  Trish handed the lead to Patrick. She stroked Spitfire’s nose. “Now, you behave, you hear?” she spoke firmly to him. She almost jumped down, until her pounding head made her think better of it. She sat carefully on the loading edge of the van and let the EMT help her to the ground.

  “Anything hurt besides your head?” the young man asked as he flashed a light in each of her eyes to check for dilation of the pupils.

  “My shoulder’s sore, but that’s all. And I’ve had a concussion before, so I know what one feels like. This isn’t it.” Trish felt limp and drained—like a balloon with the helium gone out.

  “You can sit down.” He unfolded a collapsible stool. “This is going to sting some, but we need to clean the wound. It isn’t deep; head wounds tend to bleed a lot.” He opened gauze packs and antiseptic as he spoke.

  A woman in uniform came up and slapped a blood pressure cuff on Trish’s arm. “Mmmm—you’re gonna have a shiner there. Just missed your eye. What’d you hit, anyway?”

  “The latch on the wind-wing window, I think.”

  “I take it you were wearing your seat belt.”

  Trish nodded.

  “Blood pressure’s fine. How’d you get so much blood on your shirt? You couldn’t have lost that much.”

  Trish winced when she shook her head. “No, my horse got a gash above his eye too. If he wasn’t so black, he’d have a shiner tomorrow like mine.”

  “Aren’t you Tricia Evanston?” A man with a camcorder on his shoulder flashed a press pass. “And your horse, Spitfire—is he injured?”

  “We’re both okay. You can check with Patrick inside the box.” Trish winced again at the sting of the antiseptic.

  “Close your eye,” the EMT ordered.

  Trish followed his instructions. It felt good to be taken care of.

  “There, I’ve butterflied the wound together. You may want to have stitches, but it isn’t an area that takes a lot of stress. Some doctors don’t like to put in facial stitches unless it’s absolutely necessary.” He finished taping a gauze pad in place, then took an ice pack out of his bag and smacked it to start the chemical reaction. “Here, you better ice it.”

  Trish put the ice pack to her face. She could feel it turning cold as the chemicals worked together. “You have one of these for Spitfire too?”

  The young man laughed and smacked another pack. “Sure. Any horse that’s this close to the Triple Crown deserves an ice pack if he needs it.” He handed it up to Patrick.

  Trish looked up to see her parents coming toward the van. “Hi! Are you guys all right?” Smiling hurt the side of her face. “Ouch!”

  The EMT handed Trish a glass of water and two white tablets. “Here, these will help the pain.”

  Trish swallowed the tablets and stood to receive her mother’s embrace. “Some trip, huh?”

  “Are you all right, Trish?” Marge asked.

  “I’ll be fine, Mom. It’s just a scratch.”

  Hal came to Trish’s other side. “Thank God it wasn’t any worse. Looks like you could have a shiner, though, Tee.”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “Take it easy for the next day or two,” the EMT told Trish as he folded his kit away and started to leave. “And I hope you win the Belmont.”

  “Thank you!”

  “And thank you for taking care of her,” Marge added. “All of you have been wonderful.”

  “You take some credit too, ma’am. You and your son did just the right thing. If that car had blown—” He left, shaking his head.

  As the last ambulance drove away, tow trucks arrived, and Trish climbed back up into the van to hold Spitfire while the horse van was pulled back onto the highway. It wasn’t long before another driver arrived to replace the one who’d been taken to the hospital.

  Trish, David, and Patrick settled the horses again.

  “We’ll stop for lunch at the next rest stop,” Hal said before climbing back into the car. “I think we all need a break. Trish, do you want to ride in the car and let Patrick take your place?”

  “No, Dad. I don’t want to leave Spitfire. We’ll be fine.” Trish climbed back into the truck cab. She looked down at the front of her shirt. “Looks like we’ve been through a war or something.”

  The new driver, named Sam, agreed with her. He was an older man with a ready smile.

  They didn’t take a long lunch break, but it was still rush hour as they neared New York City. Trish tried to catch a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty as they crossed the Verrazano Bridge, but it was too hazy. Sam pointed out sights as they drove up the Shore Parkway. Trish saw the signs to Coney Island, then the tops of the amusement rides off to the right. They passed JFK airport, where more construction slowed the already bumper-t
o-bumper crawl.

  After they exited the Cross Island Parkway, it seemed to Trish as if they passed Belmont Park signs for miles of almost country-like road before they turned in at gate 6. Sam stopped at the guard gate and flashed his pass.

  The uniformed guard consulted his clipboard. “Go on down Gallant Fox Road and turn left on Secretariat Avenue. Runnin’ On Farm will be sharing barn 12 with BlueMist Farms. We expected you long before now.”

  “There was an accident on the New Jersey turnpike,” Sam told the man. “It took me some time to get there to replace our other driver.”

  “Everything okay?” The guard peered into the truck.

  Trish felt like sliding to the floor. She knew how bad she must look.

  News traveled faster than the speed of the van, because a crowd gathered around the west end of barn 12. Trish waited until David opened her door.

  “I don’t want any more pictures,” she whispered as she slipped to the ground. “Stay with me, okay?”

  David nodded, but Trish could tell by the look on his face that he thought she was just being a typical girl. Flashbulbs popped when she and Spitfire appeared at the head of the ramp. The colt was limping noticeably.

  Chapter

  12

  How bad do you think it is?” Trish asked as Patrick probed the colt’s shoulder and examined the muscles down his right leg. “Wouldn’t you know it, the same leg got it again.”

  “Better’n two lame legs, though.” Patrick ducked under Spitfire’s neck and checked the other side. “Let’s get ’em settled in and the ice packs in place. I’ll start the ultrasound in the morning.”

  Trish measured grain and carried the buckets to each of the stalls. Her right shoulder ached with the strain, and her head pounded. She felt like hiding somewhere and letting the tears roll. Like that would do any good, she thought.

  David had taken their parents to the Floral Park Hotel, where Hal had made reservations. That left Trish to walk the filly to loosen her up. Once around the sandy aisle of the long green barn was enough.