Golden Filly Collection One

by Lauraine Snelling

  “Now you’re gonna stand here until you can behave.” Trish refused to let up until the filly stood still for an entire minute. Sarah’s Pride got the hint. Trish wasn’t putting up with any more shenanigans.

  When Trish turned the filly at the far turn, she nudged her into a jog. With the release of the reins at the mile-and-a-quarter post, the filly leaped forward. She ran straight and true, ignoring the other horses on the track.

  “Thatta girl,” Trish chanted as she pulled the horse back to a canter after they’d flashed past Patrick and his stopwatch. Trish didn’t need the grin on Patrick’s face to tell her they’d done well.

  The filly snorted and fidgeted in the starting gate. When the gate swung open she reared instead of starting clean. But by the fourth break she settled down. Her twitching ears seemed to focus on Trish’s commands and the break was clean and fast.

  “Good girl. That’s the way,” Trish praised her mount.

  “I’m thinkin’ one more day at this’ll do it.” Patrick held the reins and removed the hood. “There now. See you back at the barn.”

  When she was finished with Sarah’s Pride, Trish led Spitfire clear around the barn and then out to a rail-fenced grassy area by their barn to graze. He walked the distance, head up, eyes bright, without a limp.

  “Enjoy.” Trish loosened the lead so Spitfire could put his head down and graze. The sun sparkled on his blue-black hide. The cicadas chorused in the trees while Spitfire munched grass. Somewhere, someone had been mowing grass; the sweet perfume of it floated on the slight breeze. Trish breathed it in. She enjoyed the sights, sounds, and smells of Belmont in early summer. Five days to go.

  Studying for the rest of the day did not come near the top of Trish’s wish list—but she did it anyway. Finals were scheduled for the week after they got home. She didn’t need her mother to remind her of that.

  Tuesday morning Patrick saddled Spitfire. “Just walk him down past the stands and back. The mile and a half is too far right now.”

  Spitfire walked carefully, a bit stiff-legged. But he didn’t limp. As soon as they returned to the barn, Patrick applied the ice pack again.

  That afternoon Trish and Patrick schooled Sarah’s Pride. They followed the line of horses down through the underpass and up to the saddling paddock.

  Shade and sunlight dappled the white-roofed, open-air stalls. Huge elm and oak trees created a park around the circular walking lane where spectators stood on brick risers to watch the pre-post parade. White metal fences with cutouts of running horses edged the tiers.

  A cast-iron statue of Secretariat in full speed graced the center, surrounded by red geraniums. A white wrought-iron chair gave visitors to the legend of racing a place to rest. Beyond rose the three-story arched windows of the clubhouse.

  Trish was having a falling-jaw attack again. The place was incredible. She could tell Belmont Park cost money—lots of money. Racing in New York was big business.

  She chuckled to herself. It all compared to Portland Meadows like the sun to the moon. Sarah’s Pride nudged her in the back as if to say, “Quit gawking and start walking.”

  That evening David returned from his trip to Vancouver. Trish studied again while her parents went to the airport. When David walked into the suite, he was carrying a thin package under his arm.

  “How was the graduation? Did Brad get his second scholarship? Did you see Rhonda? How’s Miss Tee?” Trish bubbled over with questions. “For me?” she asked as David handed her the package.

  “Open it. Then I’ll answer all your questions.”

  Trish carefully untied the curled crimson and gold ribbon, then removed the brown wrapping paper. Two pieces of posterboard were taped together to make a huge card. It depicted an old, broken-down black nag stumbling across the page. A square bandage covered one haunch; the lower lip hung nearly to the sprung knees. A woman jockey sat on the swayback, her legs clapped to the bony ribs.

  Trish giggled. “Did Rhonda draw this?” The caption read “On to Belmont.” Inside the card, the horse had shaped up considerably. It held a rose in its teeth and the jockey waved a trophy. The inside words read, “Trish did it her way. Congratulations!” The signatures of Prairie students covered every inch of the inside and back of the card. Trish turned it over and back again, sniffling as she read. The teachers had signed it too. In the right lower corner, Rhonda had drawn a red heart and signed her name across it.

  Trish handed the card to her mother while she went to get a tissue.

  “Can you believe it?” she said, sinking into a chair, her legs dangling over the arm. “Wow.” She blew her nose again.

  Hal and Marge chuckled as they looked at the card, then handed it back to Trish. “You’ll need a couple of hours just to read all the messages,” Marge said. “They must have worked on it for days.”

  “I wish Brad and Rhonda were here. Remember when they showed up for our first race? They were whooping and hollering; I was afraid the security guards were going to throw them out. Then I was afraid they wouldn’t.” She shook her head. “Guess I don’t embarrass so easily anymore.” She looked at the inside of the card again. Brad had signed his name on the end of the horse’s nose.

  “So how was everything?” Trish asked again.

  David told her everything he could remember, and then Trish prompted him with more questions. “Seems like we’ve been away from home forever,” he finally said. “Miss Tee and Double Diamond have both grown some. Poor old Caesar thinks we’ve all deserted him. He wouldn’t let me out of his sight.” David stretched both arms above his head. “I’m beat. Talk about a fast trip.” He turned to Trish. “How’s Spitfire doing?”

  “I walked him today.”

  “Do you think you’ll race him?” David looked to his father.

  “Who knows.” Hal leaned back in his chair. “He favors the leg, even though he walked without limping. Patrick is doing all he can, packs and ultrasound. We’ll keep going like we’re in the running, and decide on Friday.”

  Trish huddled in her chair. Friday. Three days away. Was there any chance they could do it?

  On Wednesday morning Trish walked Spitfire again. She trotted the filly to loosen her up. Sarah’s Pride would have her chance in the afternoon.

  In the jockey room, Trish studied while waiting for the race. I must be getting better disciplined, Trish thought. I can study anywhere. She glared at the new list of assignments David had brought her. She’d better be able to study anywhere with all she had to do. She tapped her pencil thoughtfully. Her mother had only mentioned studying. Maybe she’d given up nagging.

  Or maybe you’re doing much better on your own, and she thinks so too, Trish’s little voice reminded her.

  Or she’s so worried about your dad, she doesn’t have time to think about your studies. Her nagger had to get in his two cents’ worth.

  Trish glanced up at the monitor. They were running the third race. She finished dressing, ready to walk out the door when the call came to weigh in.

  Hal, Patrick, and David waited for her in the paddock. Sarah’s Pride pranced her way right into the hearts of the spectators.

  “That’s Tricia Evanston!” someone exclaimed.

  “Hey, Trish, how about an autograph?” A man held out his program and a pen.

  Trish signed her name with a flourish. Two other programs appeared in front of her.

  “Sure hope Spitfire will be ready to run.” One woman shook her head. “Shame to come so far and have to scratch.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Trish agreed. “We need all the prayers we can get.”

  A tiny little lady with snow-white hair reached out and patted Trish’s arm. “I’ve been praying for him, and your father too. God hears us.”

  Trish covered the woman’s hand with her own. “Thank you very much.”

  At the call for riders up, Trish joined the men walking the flame-red filly around the paddock. She shook her head, amazed at the intricate ways God used to get through to her.

>   Patrick gave her a leg up. “Now, lass, keep in mind that ye carry that whip for a reason. Use it if you have to. This girl needs a win bad. And it wouldn’t be a-hurtin’ you either.”

  Trish fingered the whip. She hated to use it. But she nodded down at Patrick. “You know best.”

  Hal nodded. “He does.”

  Sarah’s Pride put on a real show on the parade to post. She danced and snorted. As they cantered back past the grandstand, she kept trying to race her pony rider. But when the gate swung open and the race began, she was content to run with the field. Two horses broke away and lengthened their lead.

  Trish held the filly steady around the turn, keeping her from drifting to the outside. Down the stretch she hollered in the filly’s ear and shifted her weight—anything to get the horse running harder. Finally she went to the whip.

  Sarah’s Pride leaped forward at the crack and drove between the two front-runners. Trish smacked her again. Neck and neck, the three pounded for the wire. One more thwack and the filly surged forward, one long line from nose to streaming tail.

  “Photo finish!” the announcer and tote board declared at once.

  Trish cantered on partway around the track, then turned and trotted back to the winner’s circle. The three contenders walked around in circles while the rest of the field were stripped of their tack and led off to the barns.

  “And that’s number five, Sarah’s Pride. Owned by Hal Evanston and ridden by Tricia Evanston. Ladies and gentlemen, that was the closest race I’ve ever called. Place goes to number three, with number one a show. The three were only separated by whiskers.”

  As the announcer spoke, Trish turned the filly to face the grandstand for the applause. “That’s for you, girl. See how good it feels?” The filly stood, head up, accepting her due. “That’s what this is all about, you know—winning.” The filly nodded.

  Patrick took the reins and led them into the winner’s circle. The aisle led past red and white baskets of flowers, and the circle was decorated with potted trees and plants, also with blooms of red and white.

  “You think she got the idea?” Hal asked as they posed for pictures.

  “We’ll know for sure next race, but I think so.” Trish leaped to the ground and stripped off her saddle so she could weigh in.

  “You and Patrick did a fine job with her,” Hal said to Trish after David had led the filly off to the detention barn for testing.

  “Thanks, but it took a special eye to choose her. You know how to pick ’em, Dad.” She tucked her helmet under her arm and rubbed carefully at the edge of her injured eye. The bruise had faded to an ugly green and yellow. “You know what’s neat? That purse paid for her.”

  Hal pulled both Trish and her mother close. “How about some lunch up in the clubhouse?”

  Trish looked down at her dirty silks. “Like this?”

  Hal stepped back to take a look. “Okay, you get five minutes to change. We’ll go get a table. And tonight we’ll go see the Empire State Building—after dark.”

  Trish trotted off happily. Why couldn’t things just stay like this?

  Chapter

  14

  Spectacular was too small a word to describe the view. Trish leaned on the metal railing around the top floor of the Empire State Building, looking toward upper Manhattan. Central Park lay like an oblong black hole between the lighted streets and tall buildings. Skyscrapers glittered against the night sky. A man next to them knew the city, and Trish listened as he pointed out the various buildings to his companion.

  Walking around the observation deck, the Evanstons looked toward the downtown financial district. The twin World Trade towers dominated the skyline.

  “There are so many buildings, and they’re all so different,” Trish commented, leaning her chin on her hands against the railing. “What do you suppose it’s like up here in a windstorm?”

  “The building sways,” Hal answered.

  “Wow!”

  “It feels like it’s swaying now,” Marge said. “Some of these tiles move when you step on them, and I’m sure the building is moving.”

  “Awww, Mom,” David teased her. “You just need something to worry about.”

  “Well, worriers have very vivid imaginations,” Marge acknowledged. She clung to Hal’s arm. “So I’m entitled. Don’t you think we’ve seen enough now? We’ve been around three times.”

  “In a minute.” Hal laid his hand over hers. “Listen. You can hear the roar of the city clear up here. Just think of all the people crammed on this small island.”

  “Think I’ll stick to the country,” David observed. “I thought Portland was a pretty big city, until now.”

  Trish looked up. White moths danced in the spotlights. Higher up, the spire flashed red lights. A helicopter clattered past, then swung out over the Hudson River. Trish dragged her feet back to the first elevator. The building was so tall it took two elevators to return them to street level.

  On the way out they read the signs and studied displays that told the story of the Empire State Building. For many years it had been the tallest building in the world. Now the Sears Tower in Chicago was the largest. A plaque listed the names of construction workers who had won awards for their skills.

  “What a nice thing to do,” Marge said. “It’s easy to forget the contribution that everyday people make in this world.”

  “Our name is on a trophy or two,” Trish said. “And Spitfire will be famous forever.”

  “That’s true,” Marge agreed. “And your name has gone down in the annals of Thoroughbred racing too. How does it feel to be world-famous at sixteen?”

  Trish tipped her head to the side and rolled her lips together. “I don’t feel any different than I did before the Derby. I’m still the same old me.” She raised her arms and twirled in a circle. “Do I look any different?”

  “Nope. Just as dopey as ever.” David ducked before Trish could punch his shoulder. “I know one thing that’s different.”

  “What’s that?” Hal asked as he guided them all toward the exit.

  “We have a lot more money than we did. Those purses we’ve won take the pressure off, at least for a while.”

  “True,” Hal acknowledged.

  David flagged down a cab. After they’d all climbed inside, Hal continued. “We’ll do things like pay off the mortgage on the farm, make some investments, set money aside for college for each of you…”

  Trish flinched at the mention of college. She wanted to race, not study.

  “Just think, you can go to whatever college you wish.” Marge settled back against the seat. “And not have to worry about money.”

  “What would you like?” Hal took Marge’s hand. “As a sort of reward for all the stress we’ve put you through?”

  Marge thought a moment. “A new car, I guess. The poor old station wagon has seen a lot of miles.”

  “How about a red convertible?” Trish muttered under her breath. David snorted, and Hal swallowed a chuckle.

  A smile tugged at the corners of Marge’s mouth. “Sure. Three red convertibles sitting in our front yard…” She laughed lightly. “The neighbors will think we’ve gone into the car business.” She shook her head. “No, make mine something with a solid top. I don’t want to have to worry about water dripping in during the winter. One of those minivans would be nice.”

  Trish tried to hear the conversation without missing all the sights. They’d just crossed the Brooklyn Bridge.

  “And what would you like, Tee?” Hal asked.

  “More horses,” she answered without a thought. “We could go to the January yearling sale at Santa Anita. And breed all the mares to better stallions.”

  Hal raised his hand. “Okay, okay. We get the picture.”

  “What about you, Davey boy?” Trish asked.

  “I already have what I wanted—thanks to you.” He tapped Trish’s knee. “A decent car. College was my next dream. What can I say?”

  Trish felt a warm glow of pride and
deep happiness surround her family. “What about you, Dad?”

  “Having money has never been a big issue with me.…” He put his arm around Marge. “With us. But knowing that all of you are provided for takes a big load off my mind. I think I’d like to buy something for the church—maybe a bus or a van. David, why don’t you look into that when we get home.”

  Trish rested her head on her father’s shoulder. What we need most can’t be bought. God, please make my dad better.

  Hal leaned on David and Marge for support on the way up to their suite. While he made a joke of it, Trish could tell by the way his steps faltered that he was exhausted. And the post position draw was in the morning.

  Patrick had Trish walk Spitfire around the entire track at morning works.

  “I don’t think he’ll make it,” she heard one railbird say. “He ain’t run all week.”

  Trish leaned forward to rub Spitfire’s neck. “A lot he knows about it,” she whispered in the horse’s ear. She relaxed in the saddle and let her feet dangle below the stirrups. “You just keep getting better. We’ll show ’em.”

  Reporters asked the same question they always asked. “Will he run?” One of the more ambitious ones walked beside Trish on their way back to the barn. “What do you think your father will do?”

  “We’re just taking a day at a time. We have up to the morning of the race to scratch if we have to.” Trish had made the comment so many times she felt like a stuck needle on a record.

  When she walked into the dining room for the post position draw, Trish had a surprise. Adam and Martha Finley stood talking with her mother and father.

  “Hear you brought that filly in by a whisker,” Adam said after he greeted her. “I didn’t think you could do it.”

  “Patrick suggested the blinkers. I think she’ll do all right now. She found out what winning is all about, and she liked the applause.” Trish turned to greet Martha and found herself enveloped in a warm hug.