Golden Filly Collection One

by Lauraine Snelling

  “I knew you could do it,” she whispered in Trish’s ear. “You’ve got that magic touch.”

  “Thanks.” Trish hugged her back. “You always make me feel so good.”

  The crowd quieted as the officials filed to the front of the room. Each person had been given a list of the seven horses entered in the race. By now Trish could pick out the owners, trainers, and jockey for each horse. The groups huddled together, waiting for the program to begin.

  Nomatterwhat drew the post position. A cheer went up from his group. Equinox drew number six. Others were called; number two, number four.

  Spitfire’s name was next to last. “Number seven. Spitfire in gate seven.”

  “Right next to Equinox again,” Trish mumbled. “At least we won’t have to wait in the gate while the rest of them calm down.”

  With the drawing of the last number, the ceremony was over. Before the officials had left the podium, a reporter had his mike in front of Hal’s face.

  “Will Spitfire be well enough to run?”

  His question lacked originality, in Trish’s estimation. She mouthed the words along with her father. “We are taking…”

  “Has the colt been limping? Will you breeze him tomorrow?”

  Hal shook his head to both questions. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. We just don’t know for sure.”

  “Tough break, to come so far and have an accident on the turnpike.”

  The Shipsons joined the group, and the reporter left. “I hear congratulations are in order for you, young lady.” Mr. Shipson extended his hand. “Both for winning with the filly and bringing ours in too. Have you thought about racing in Kentucky next year?”

  Trish looked to see if her mother had heard the comment.

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” Finley put in. “We asked her first. And California is closer to Washington than Kentucky is.”

  Trish caught Patrick’s eye and he winked at her. She glanced at her father. He was slumped in the chair, and looked as though his shoulders were too heavy to hold up.

  When her mother, Martha Finley, and Bernice Shipson suggested a shopping trip, Trish turned it down. Although the idea of shopping in New York City was tempting, Trish had something she had to do and this would give her the opportunity.

  “I need to study, and Patrick may have me walk Spitfire this evening,” she said. “But thanks anyway. Have fun, Mom. Why don’t you buy yourself something nice—like a new dress for the winner’s circle.” She smiled. “You haven’t had a new dress for a long time.”

  Marge studied her daughter suspiciously. “Take care of your dad, then. And study hard. We probably won’t be back until late.” She kissed Hal. “Get some rest now, okay?”

  Hal nodded. “You have a good time, Marge. And take your daughter’s suggestion.”

  Trish drove her father back to the hotel and helped him to his room.

  “Thanks, Tee.” Hal sank down on the bed. “I know I’ll feel better after I sleep awhile.” He reached for his pills and took a couple with a glass of water from the nightstand.

  He lay down, and Trish untied his shoes and slipped them off. “Are you hurting bad?”

  “Just staying on top of it.” He stretched out, and Trish pulled the sheet up. “Right now I could use those eagle’s wings.”

  Trish smiled, but said nothing. Within seconds Hal was asleep.

  He looks like an old man. The thought struck Trish with the force of a mule kick. Where has my real father gone?

  Later that afternoon, when Hal was awake, Trish went out and bought fried chicken and took it back to the hotel.

  When she and her father were seated at the table, she cleared her throat and began. “Remember last night in the taxi when you asked what I wanted to do with some of the money?”

  Hal nodded. “Yes?”

  “Well, what I really want—” She paused and looked her father straight in the eye. “Is there any place—like a hospital—that you could go for some other kind of treatment? Maybe some experimental stuff—something that would work better for you? We can afford it now. Even another country, if necessary.” She finished quickly before the tears choked her up. “Have you thought about that?”

  “No, not really. Since they found the new tumors all I could think of was getting back to you—to the tracks. How about if when we get home we talk to the doctors? They’ve had time now to study my situation, and may have some new recommendations. Actually, they weren’t too happy with me when I walked out on them.”

  “Walked out on them?”

  “That’s right. We had to get back here.”

  Trish nodded. “But you’ll really look into it then?”

  “Yes, Trish, I promise.”

  Trish fell asleep that night with one thought on her mind. Tomorrow they would decide. Would Spitfire race on Saturday or not?

  Friday morning dawned with a drizzle. Trish alternately walked and trotted Spitfire around the track. She could feel a difference in him. He seemed to both walk and trot on his tiptoes. He was ready to run.

  When Trish brought Sarah’s Pride back to the barn after an easy gallop of the entire track, she could feel water dripping off the end of her nose. She sniffed as she leaped to the ground.

  Before she knew what was happening, strong arms circled her waist and whirled her around in a strong hug.

  “Red!” She looked into his face. “You came!” She hugged him again. “What took you so long?”

  “Is that all you can say”—Red nearly squished her hand—“after I drove most of the night to get here?”

  Trish looked at David and Patrick standing nearby. She could feel the heat begin to rise from her toes up. By the time her neck and cheeks were hot, she felt as if she could light up the barn. Somehow the day didn’t seem gray anymore.

  Patrick winked at her, and David rolled his eyes.

  Red broke the tension by asking, “You about ready for some breakfast?”

  “Uh—yeah—maybe—” Trish took a deep breath and looked at David. “I’d better help with the chores first, though.”

  “Aw, go on. We’re almost done. Catch up with you over at the kitchen.”

  Trish couldn’t ignore the fact that Red was still holding her hand. The tingle up her arm made her throat dry. But that didn’t keep her from talking. And laughing—for no reason at all. By the time they walked into the cafeteria they’d caught up on each other’s news, and Trish felt back to normal—sort of.

  After breakfast Hal met them all back at the barn. “Well, what do you think, Patrick? Is it a go—or no?”

  Trish felt as if her heart were in her throat. At least it was pounding about five times faster than normal. She watched Patrick’s face, trying to out-guess him.

  “Well, we haven’t galloped him. I don’t know what that might do to his leg.” He paused, as if studying something on the wall.

  Trish wanted to scream at him to hurry.

  “But there’s been no heat or swelling for the last couple of days. The lad walks like he’s on top o’ the world.”

  Hal studied his hands. “If we run him, we could lame him for life, right?” He raised his head and looked at Patrick.

  Patrick started to shake his head, then frowned. “Not sure I’d go quite that far. Could take him some time to heal though.”

  Trish chewed on the cuticle of her thumb. She felt sick to her stomach. Would they ever make the decision? She glanced at David. He was clipping his fingernails—a sure sign he was worried.

  Looks to me like running in the Belmont is more important to you than Spitfire’s leg, Trish’s little nagger spoke out of nowhere.

  Trish gritted her teeth. I just want to know what we’re going to do. That’s all.

  Right?

  She heard a nicker down the long, sandy aisle. Spitfire stuck his head over the gate and answered.

  “If you want my true, gut opinion,” Patrick broke the silence, “I say go for it. I think he can do it.”

  Hal let out
a sigh that sounded as if he hadn’t breathed for the last five minutes. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

  Thank you, God! Thank you, thank you, thank you! Trish jumped up and down and ran the few steps to stand in front of Spitfire. She placed her hands on both sides of his face and looked him straight in the eye. “We’re gonna run tomorrow, old man. And it’s gonna take all we got.”

  Spitfire blew in Trish’s face, then dropped his head against her chest. Running was tomorrow. Right now he wanted a good scratching. Trish obliged him.

  That night Hal took their extended family, which included Red, Patrick, and the Finleys, out for a steak dinner. “We have lots to celebrate,” he told them as they sat around the table. “Whether we win or lose tomorrow, we’ve given it all we’ve got. What more can anyone do?”

  “To Trish and Spitfire.” Adam raised his glass of iced tea. As the others joined in the toast, Trish raised her glass too. Her butterflies took a flying leap at the same time. A toast of their own, perhaps?

  Tomorrow afternoon the final race for the Triple Crown would take place. Trish stared at her plate when the waitress placed it in front of her. The steak had sounded so good—before the inner aerial display. She picked at her food, moving it around her plate while enjoying the conversation around the table.

  That is, until her father choked. He coughed and gagged and covered his mouth with a napkin. When he was unable to stop coughing, Marge thumped his back. David was on his feet, ready to apply the Heimlich maneuver if necessary.

  “Dad, are you all right?” Panic made Trish’s voice sound shrill.

  Hal shook his head and coughed again. This time he blinked and breathed deeply. “Yes, I got it out.” He coughed again, more softly this time, but couldn’t seem to stop altogether.

  When he finally wiped his mouth with his napkin, Trish saw a smear of blood across his lips and cheek. “Dad!”

  Hal looked at her, then down at his napkin. “Oh, God, no.” He wiped his mouth again and took a sip of water.

  “I think we better get you to a hospital and check this out.” Marge laid her hand on his shoulder. “The rest of you finish your dinner. We’ll probably be back at the hotel before you are.”

  Trish shoved her chair back so hard it crashed to the floor. “I’ll drive.”

  “No, I will.” David took Trish by the arm. “Come on.”

  “Do you want me to call an ambulance?” the maitre d’ asked.

  “No, just tell me where the nearest hospital is.” David listened carefully to the instructions.

  “Right, go three blocks, turn left, go one mile and left again at the sign to Mercy Hospital.”

  David almost shoved Trish ahead of him. “I’ll bring the car around. You help Mom with Dad.”

  Hal seemed better in the car. He breathed carefully, as though afraid a deep breath would start the coughing again.

  “They’ll just check me over and send me back to the hotel,” he grumbled. “All this over a piece of meat caught in my throat.”

  It seemed as if they’d been waiting for hours when a nurse came into the emergency room fifteen minutes later. She led the way to a white-curtained cubicle, and they all trooped in.

  The nurse patted the table and looked at Hal. “Sit right up here and the doctor will be with you in a moment.” Then she picked up a clipboard and started asking questions.

  Now I know what Mom felt like after my accidents, Trish thought. The questions seemed to go on forever.

  A tall man with iron-gray hair parted the curtains. “I’m Dr. Silverstein. The restaurant called and said you’d choked on a piece of meat.” As he spoke, he took out his stethoscope and applied it to Hal’s chest. “And you had blood on your napkin after that.”

  Trish clenched her fists until she could feel the nails digging into her palms. Hurry up!

  “Why don’t you young people step into the waiting room? I’ll let you know as soon as I find anything.”

  Trish shook her head stubbornly, but David took her by the arm.

  “It’s okay, Trish,” Hal said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Trish flipped through a magazine, not seeing the words or pictures. All she could see was the blood on the napkin.

  David slouched in the chair beside her. Then he sat up and leaned forward, dropping his head and clasping his hands. After getting up and walking around the room, he sat down again to repeat the pattern.

  Trish’s nerves couldn’t have been more frazzled if someone had stood at a blackboard and dragged their nails across it.

  Hearing footsteps in the hall, Trish looked up immediately. Marge came to sit in the chair beside her. “They’ve decided to keep your father overnight for observation and some X-rays. Let’s go get him settled.”

  “Overnight? What’s wrong?” Trish blinked to keep the tears back.

  “The doctor thinks there’s fluid in your father’s lungs.” Marge fiddled with her purse. “The X-rays will tell us more.”

  When they arrived at the door to Hal’s room, he was already in bed. Trish flew into his outstretched arms. “It’s okay,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “You and David go on back to the hotel and get some sleep.”

  “No, I want to stay here.” Trish raised her tear-stained face. “I can sleep in that chair.”

  “No, that’s my chair,” Marge said, standing beside the bed. She put her hand on Trish’s shoulder. “We’re not that far away from the hotel. If you need us, just call.”

  “Besides, you have to be at your best tomorrow,” Hal reminded her. “We’ll let them check me out, and I’ll see you before you head for the jockey room.”

  Trish could hear the rattle in her father’s chest. She’d heard it before. Back in September, when all this started.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be better in the morning.” Hal kissed Trish’s forehead. “And remember that I love you.”

  Trish bit her lip and nodded. “Me too. Good night.” She whirled and dashed out of the room.

  David hurried after her without saying a word.

  Worry nagged at Trish all the way back to the hotel. Worry! That’s what got her mother into so much trouble. Why was it so easy to say don’t worry, and so hard not to?

  She went to her father’s room at the hotel and picked up the carved eagle. As she crawled into bed, she pictured the verses on her wall at home. She needed some promises. “Do not be not afraid…” That was a good one for tonight. “I will never leave you…”

  “Please, heavenly Father, take care of my father tonight. I love him so much, and I know you do, too. The race is tomorrow. He needs to be there. I need him to be there. Thank you for being with us.” With Trish’s “amen” she was asleep.

  In the morning she awoke with a start. Her heart leaped. This is the day! She checked the clock. It was just seven. After digging the phone book out of the drawer, she looked up hospitals and ran her finger down the M’s. Mercy Hospital. She dialed the number.

  “Room 736, please.”

  The phone rang. And rang. There was no answer.

  Chapter

  15

  David had awakened instantly. “Call the nurse’s station,” he told her.

  Trish’s teeth chattered. She felt as if she were standing in a deep freeze.

  “M-my father—Hal Evanston,” she stuttered. “There was no answer to the phone in his room.”

  “They’ve taken him down to X-ray,” the nurse’s voice soothed. “Your mother went with him. Should I have her call you when she can?”

  “No.” Trish shook her head methodically. “No, we’ll call later. Just tell them that we called—please.”

  “Of course.”

  Trish put down the receiver, and a band of ice circled her heart.

  When she and David arrived at the track, reporters swarmed the area.

  “I can’t talk to them,” Trish told David pleadingly. “Not right now. You and Patrick handle it.”

  Working the horses brought a measure of peace to Trish’s
mind. Her father had promised to be at the track before she left for the jockey room. He always kept his promises.

  But he didn’t come. Nine o’clock passed. Nine-thirty.

  David called the hospital again, and when he returned to tell Trish their father was down for more tests, she said, “I’m going to the hospital.”

  “You can’t. There’s no time.” David grabbed her by the shoulders. “You heard what Dad said. He’ll be here. You just concentrate on the job you have to do. We’ve come too far to mess up now.”

  “But, David—”

  “He’s right, lass,” Patrick rejoined. “You know what your dad would want you to do.” He set down a can of saddle soap. “I know it’s a long time to wait up there, but we’ll get any message to you that’s necessary.”

  “Come on, Trish.” Red took her hand. “I’ll walk you over.”

  “Me too.” David picked up her schoolbooks. “Wouldn’t want you to be bored.”

  Trish stopped in front of Spitfire. “Sure would rather stay with you, fella.” She rubbed his ears and smoothed his forelock. “You get ready now, you hear? This is the big one.” Spitfire sniffed her pockets, lipped the carrot off her palm, and licked her cheek for good measure. Trish threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his mane. Her shoulders shook but no sound came.

  David and Red waited patiently.

  Trish wiped her eyes and swallowed hard. “Okay, let’s go.” Together they turned and headed down the street to the clubhouse.

  “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything, I promise,” David assured her outside the jockey room.

  Trish nodded. She took her books, squeezed Red’s hand, and stumbled into the jockey room—to wait.

  Her mind was a jumble of prayers, promises, and worry. When she tried to relax with deep breathing, her insides joined the jumble.

  At noon Trish called the hospital herself. Her mother answered the phone on the second ring.

  “Yes, Trish, we’re on our way. The doctors are having a fit but your father refuses to listen. Here, you want to talk to him?”