Golden Filly Collection One (35 page)

But maybe they can help,
her nagger offered.

Sure.
She pulled herself back to the meeting.

“And so, I’m hoping you may have some suggestions of ways we can make life—and school—easier for our daughter.”

The group nodded and spoke among themselves.

“Let me offer some ideas.” Mrs. Olson smiled at Trish and her parents. She outlined several things they could do, including tutoring, summer school, and planning ahead for the times when Trish would be absent because of family matters.

“What do you suggest?” Marge asked the counselor.

“I suggest we take Trish out of chemistry,” Mrs. Olson continued. “She can drop up to four credits without damaging her GPA. She’s a good student.” The other teachers nodded. “And I think we should do all we can to help her succeed. None of you”—she smiled at Marge and Hal—“need any extra pressure right now. Trish can make up chemistry this summer at Clark College or choose to take another science. This will give her another study hall until next semester. That should cut her homework even more.”

Trish couldn’t believe her ears.
Drop chemistry! Wow!
She looked at each person around the table. They were all nodding and smiling. Trish peeked at her parents. Her mother wasn’t smiling but looked relieved.

Relief didn’t begin to describe Trish’s feelings. She felt like a helium balloon, let go. Yes, bumping on the ceiling might be a close description. This was almost as good as the winner’s circle.

That evening Trish took time to play with Miss Tee when she brought the mare and foal back into the barn. They spent their days out in the paddock now.

“I don’t have to do chemistry tonight,” she sang to the filly while brushing the mare. “All my homework is done.” She hugged the inquisitive filly and kissed Miss Tee’s soft nose. Trish got a lick on the cheek in return. Soft, tiny lips nibbled her hair. She cupped both hands on the filly’s cheeks and rubbed noses. “Oh, you sweetie. I love you so much.”

“It’s good to see you so happy.” Trish looked up, surprised to see her mother. Miss Tee retreated behind the mare’s haunches. Then braver, she inched her way over to Trish and peeked around her mistress.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Trish laid her arm around the foal’s neck.

“Yes, she is. Dinner’s ready.”

“Okay.” Trish rubbed her baby’s ears one more time and slipped out of the stall. When she leaned back across the half door, the filly nickered, a soft little sound that barely moved her nostrils. “Keep that up and I’ll never leave.” Trish stroked her one more time. “Remember, you’re a winner.” She turned off the lights, and together she and her mother left the barn.

“I’m really proud of you, you know,” Marge said.

“Why, Mom?”

“Oh, lots of things. Your efforts in chemistry, all the hard work you do with the horses…keeping your room so neat and clean now.”

“Thanks. I like my room better now too. I’ve been praying to be better organized. Mom, I feel free tonight. Like a two-ton weight has been lifted off me. No more chemistry!”

“It was that bad, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Matching strides, an arm around each other, they topped the rise to the warmly lit house.

“Tonight, when Spitfire breezed that half mile, he didn’t even look winded at the end.” Hal leaned against the counter as Trish loaded the dishwasher.

“He wasn’t. He’s ready for the mile and a sixteenth, easily. Probably could do the mile and a quarter.” Trish placed the last dish in the rack and shut the door.

“Well, Saturday will tell. How many mounts do you have this weekend?”

“Only four, so far. And Spitfire.” Trish wiped off the counter. “Have you heard any more about the race last Sunday?”

“No, thought I’d check into it tomorrow.” The two of them walked into the living room. “You worried?”

“A little.” Trish crossed her legs and sank to the floor beside the recliner. “Aren’t you?”

“Well if
you’re
not worried, you should be,” Marge joined the conversation. “Otherwise, I’ve got it covered.”

Trish smiled. It was good to hear her mother joke about being worried. There hadn’t been much joking in the family lately—not for the last few months.

“Just think—the Futurity’s only a week and two days away. When he wins that one…”
First Saturday in May. Clear across the country to the Kentucky Derby!

“Take one race at a time, Tee.” Her father stroked her hair. “One day at a time.”

Just before she fell asleep that night, Trish heard her father’s voice,
“One race at a time.”
Did that mean he wasn’t planning on the Derby anymore?

She’d already said her prayers, but she quickly added another.
Please, God, the Derby.

Even though it rained all day Friday, Trish still felt like the helium balloon. Lighter than air, she drifted through her classes—especially the extra study hall. She used it to begin research for her history term paper.

Even though Gatesby did his best to spoil her good mood, Trish laughed at his bad humor…and stayed away from his teeth. A good hard workout took the starch out of him and made Trish feel even better.

Only when she galloped Firefly did the nagging worry creep back in. What if Spitfire was slashed tomorrow? So far, neither she nor her horse had been hurt, but what if their luck was running out?

She remembered what her father had said so many times.
For us, luck doesn’t count. Only God counts. And His care.
“Well, I sure hope He’s got lots of guardian angels around us tomorrow. If I could just get my hands on whoever…”

Trish awoke suddenly from another nightmare. She breathed deeply and wiggled her fingers and toes. She and Spitfire had fallen, with her catapulting over his head. She woke up just before hitting the ground. Dawn cracked the black sky in the east before she fell asleep again.

When her alarm buzzed, Trish dragged herself out of bed. Instead of the usual butterflies, lead weights clanged together in her middle. They wouldn’t have to insert weights in her saddle pad. She already had them.

Trish galloped the horses at the farm, but even the breeze couldn’t blow away her worry.

“Let it go,” her father said when she came back up to the house. “You can’t let Spitfire know you’re scared. Or the other horse that you’ll ride first. No jockey in his right mind would be so foolish to attack again. Not with all the questions the racing commissioners have been asking. Just go out there and ride your best race ever.”

Trish felt better after the pep talk. Her father was good at that.
And he’s right. Nobody would be stupid enough to try something again.
She stuffed the nagging little doubt down—out of sight and mind. The purse was a good one today. And Runnin’ On Farm needed a good purse.

Trish rode high in her stirrups, controlling the dancing Spitfire while scanning the other jockeys. She’d been in the winner’s circle once already. Twice would be better than nice. Spitfire snorted and fought the bit.

Trish switched back to the monologue the colt was used to and put the other entrants out of her mind…again. “Okay, fella, this is our chance. A long one today, and are you ever ready.” Spitfire twitched his ears in cadence with her voice. He shied when a plastic bag flitted past and bonded to the fence. “Now behave yourself. Dad’s got the glasses right on us.”

On the canter back to the gates he shied again, this time at something only he could see. “Easy now, you’re wasting your energy.” Trish guided him into the number-five gate. “Now, we’re going for the outside, you hear me?” As the horses settled for the gun, Trish crouched high on her mount’s withers, ready for the thrust.

At the shot, Spitfire leaped through the opening. Instead of minding Trish’s hands on the reins, he pulled toward the rail, aiming for an open space just to the left. Trish pulled him back, bringing his chin nearly to his chest, her arms straining with the effort. They were boxed in again. Horses in front and on both sides.

Both Trish and Spitfire saw the opening at the same moment. As Trish loosened the reins, the dreaded sound of a whip stung her ears. Spitfire screamed and leaped into the slight opening, knocking hard against the horse on the left.

Like dominos, two horses thrashed to the ground, one rider flying under their feet. Spitfire leaped over the balled-up jockey and landed hard on his right foreleg. At his grunt of pain, Trish knew her horse was in trouble. But Spitfire refused her commands to slow. He leveled out, running free, chasing the three horses running in front.