Golden Filly Collection One (52 page)

There was a knock on the front door just as she headed for the table. It was Brad and Rhonda.

“We had to see you off.” Rhonda threw her arms around Trish. “Oh, I wish I were going too.”

“Pull up your chairs,” Hal said from his place at the head of the table. “You’re just in time.”

Marge flipped more bacon in the pan. “You can start with your juice. Two eggs for you, Brad? Rhonda?”

“We didn’t come for breakfast.” Rhonda hesitated for just a moment.

“Have you eaten yet?” Hal asked. At the shake of her head, he added, “Then sit down. You know you’re always welcome here.”

An hour later they were loaded and ready to roll. Spitfire, blanketed and legs wrapped, walked up into the van like a pro. Trish hugged her mom, then David, Rhonda, and Brad. “You guys are something else. Thanks for coming. And, Mom, I’ll call you tonight as soon as we stop.” Trish’s send-off was her mother blowing kisses in spite of her tears, and the other three with their fists raised for victory.

“Eight-thirty, not bad,” Hal said as he wheeled the van out onto the county road. “Once we get on the freeway, how about pouring me a cup of coffee?”

The sky was overcast but the rain held off while they drove down the Willamette Valley to Eugene. Trish and her father talked about all kinds of things: her school, gossip at the track, raising and training Thoroughbreds. But by noon, Trish could tell her father didn’t feel well. His cough became more frequent and he rubbed his forehead repeatedly.

They stopped in Roseburg for lunch and gas.

“You’re looking a bit gray around the edges,” Trish said when she sat opposite him in the booth at the restaurant.

“Feeling a bit gray too.” Hal rubbed his head again. “All I need is a bug now. Well, I’ve taken some stuff that should help. What do you want for lunch?”

Trish watched him carefully while she ate her BLT. After he paid the check, she asked, “Do you want me to drive?”

“No, I’ll be okay. The break helped.”

They opened the rear door of the van to check on Spitfire. He stood drowsing in the deep straw.

“You sure look peaceful,” Trish said. “See you later.”

By the time they reached Grant’s Pass, Hal admitted to needing a break. They stopped at a rest area beside the freeway, and after a visit to the rest rooms and a walk around to loosen up, Trish took over the driving. Hal propped a pillow behind his head and immediately fell asleep.

Trish hummed to herself as she drove along about sixty. She felt herself part of the parade of semis carrying their cargo toward the southland. When she left Ashland, she glanced at her watch. They should make Yreka easily by six o’clock.

She joined the semi-rigs as they shifted down on the snaking four-lane highway up toward the California border and the Siskiyou Pass. Wisps of fog obscured the forest-clad peaks and filled the valleys. As they climbed, the fog closed in on the highway and she had to turn on the lights.

Trish glanced over at her father.
Should I wake him up and let him know what’s happening?
She shook her head.
No, he needs to rest so we can keep going.

A few miles later, just after the check station south of the California border, a fog curtain dropped across the highway. All she could see were the red taillights of the rig in front of her.

Chapter

14

W
hat do I do now?” Trish whispered.

Possibilities chased each other through her mind. She could pull over and wake her father up.
No, he needs to sleep. If he hasn’t wakened by now, he must be sicker than he said.

She could give in to the tears of fear and frustration that pricked at her eyelids.
No, if I’m having a hard time seeing now, what would it be like through tears?

She could pray.
I’m already doing that!

She could do just what she was doing—follow the taillights in front of her. When it came right down to it, that was the only avenue as far as she could see—she smiled grimly to herself—which wasn’t very far.

Father, I sure need your help now. Please take care of us.

As the miles slowly passed, Trish had no idea where they were. She was concentrating so hard on the road that she missed seeing the signs, shrouded as they were in the soupy fog. She blinked repeatedly because squinting to see made her eyelids tired—and ache.

Fear slipped in the window and pinched her shoulders. It snaked down and stirred up the butterflies roosting in her stomach. Fear wrapped around her hands and bonded them to the steering wheel.

Trish swallowed hard. Her throat felt dry. She needed a drink of water, but she didn’t dare take her eyes from the road to reach for the water bottle.

God, help me!

Singing helps.
For a change her nagger was being helpful.

Trish began with “Eagle’s Wings” and followed it with every song she’d learned in Sunday school, Bible camp, and youth group. She sang “Jesus Loves Me” and all the verses to “Michael, Row the Boat Ashore.”

As her mind tried to remember the words to all the songs, her hands kept the truck on the road, still following those wonderful taillights.

She sang Bible verses, and when she ran out of ones she knew, she sang her favorites over again.

When fear raised its ugly head, she shoved it down again with the name of Jesus. Just repeating His name kept her chin from quivering.

Trish wanted to check the time but couldn’t take her hands from the wheel to turn on the light.
How much farther, God? Shouldn’t we have been there long ago?

But there was no place to turn off, and she didn’t dare lose those taillights.

If the truck pulls off, I’ll stop and ask him where we are.
Having a plan of action helped. She picked up where she’d left off on “Jacob’s Ladder.”

The trucker flashed his turn signal for a right exit. Trish did the same. She glanced up just in time to see Yreka on a sign and missed the rest. They stopped at a stop sign and she could vaguely see the word Motel outlined in large letters up ahead. When she pulled up in front of it, she read the sign: Traveler’s Rest.

“Where are we?” Hal raised himself upright and peered out the window. “Good, Tee. You found the right place. Did you have any trouble?” He stared out the side window. “How long has the fog been this bad?”

“Forever.” Trish leaned her forehead on her hands still clutching the top of the steering wheel.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I figured if you were sleeping that hard, you must need it. So I followed some trucker’s taillights. He turned off here. Do you think God uses truckers as guardian angels?”

“I’m sure He does, Tee. I’m sure He does.”

Trish turned on the interior light. “Nine. Why do I feel like it’s about one in the morning?”

“Could be four hours of the most miserable driving conditions in the world. You hungry?”

“Starved.” She reached for the water bottle. After a long drink, she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “Boy, I needed that.”

“Why don’t you feed Spitfire while I go in and check on our room?” Hal stepped down from the truck. “Do you have any idea where that trucker went?”

“He’s parked at the edge of the parking lot.”

Trish watched her father cross the asphalt. The fog glistened in the lights of the motel. She could barely see the truck.

Carefully she flexed her fingers. Her arms ached from clenching the muscles for so long. She opened the door and stepped down. Spitfire nickered. She heard him moving about.

“Okay, fella. I’ll get you some dinner, then it’s my turn.” She stuck a flashlight in her rear pocket, measured grain, and separated a couple leaves of hay from the bale. When she opened the people entrance on the side of the van, Spitfire greeted her with both a head in her chest and the soft whufflings that barely moved his nostrils.

“Hey, I only need three hands, now get back, you big goof.” She put the hay down and pulled the flashlight from her pocket. By its beam, she set the bucket in the manger and dumped the hay in the sling. A quick flash showed her an empty water bucket.

Spitfire needed attention more than feed. Only when she’d rubbed his face, scratched his ears, and stroked his neck did she finally shove him toward the feed. He reluctantly left her to begin his dinner.

“I’ll get you some water.” He left the feed bucket and followed her to the door. “No, now get back. You’ll get out after you’ve eaten.”

“We’re right in front,” Hal said, meeting Trish after she’d filled Spitfire’s water bucket. “Number 106.” His cough sounded as if it were painful.

“Did you tell that trucker that he was a guardian angel?”

“Yeah. He said that was the first time anyone had
ever
called him an angel—of any kind. But he was glad he could help. Says he drives this freeway every other day but even he gets confused in the fog.”

“Why don’t I run over and get us some hamburgers?” Trish pulled her small bag from behind the seat. “And you get out of this cold, damp air.”

“Okay.” He handed her some money.

“You want anything special?”

“A chocolate shake?”

“Now, how come I’m not surprised?” Trish gave him her bag. “I’ll be right back.”

Hal was already asleep on one of the beds when she returned with two sacks of food.

“Dad, come on, you gotta eat.” Trish shook him gently.

Hal rubbed his eyes and pulled himself up against the headboard of the bed. “Thanks. I can’t get over how sleepy I am. Must be that medication I’m taking. While it helps clear my head, it puts me right out.”

After they ate, they went back outside and lowered the ramp. Spitfire clattered down the ramp, eyes rolling and ears pricked forward. He danced in a circle around Trish, snorting at the truck, the fog, the shadows, anything that caught his attention.

“You want me to take a lead too?” Hal asked.

“No, you get inside. We’ll be fine. He’ll settle down pretty quick.” Trish clucked to Spitfire and the two of them trotted off around the parking lot. When Trish started to puff, she pulled him down to a walk.

“I’m not used to the altitude,” she told him. “And besides that, I haven’t done any running for a long time.” Spitfire nodded his agreement. Before long he walked with his head drooping over her shoulder.

“I can’t carry you and me too.” Trish pushed him away. “So let’s get you to bed.”

Spitfire snorted and back-pedaled as soon as his front feet struck the metal ramp. “Oh, no you don’t.” She led him around in a tight circle, and this time he walked right in. Trish gave him a last hug and shut and locked the door. When she tried to slide the ramp back on its rollers, it was too heavy.

“Now what?” She studied the ramp. As soon as the thought hit, she spun and headed for the office. “Could you please help me?” she asked the man at the desk. “I can’t get the ramp up and Dad’s already asleep.”

“Be glad to.” He followed her outside and together they slid the ramp home. “You sure were lucky to make it this far in that fog.”

“Yeah, thanks to that trucker.” Trish pointed across the parking lot. “He turned out to be my guardian angel tonight.”

“Oh. Well—ah—good night then.”

Trish shrugged and raised her eyebrows.
Maybe he doesn’t believe in guardian angels.
But she sure did.

Hal had left her a note. “I called home. Said we hit a little fog. Sleep well.”

No problem there.

It was still foggy in the morning, but after feeding Spitfire, cleaning out the manure, and trotting around the parking lot a few times, they got themselves some breakfast and back on the road. Hal drove, nowhere near as slowly as the night before, until they reached Redding and the end of the fog.

Trish took over the wheel there. It wasn’t long before the sun beating on the windshield made her roll down the window. After a morning Coke break, she took off her sweater and let the warm sun shine on her bare arm, resting on the door.

Hal slept some more, and when he woke he pointed out the rice fields, the almond and walnut orchards. They stopped for lunch outside of Sacramento, the state capital.

“We aren’t too far from Adam’s now, only a couple of hours. No need to take Spitfire out.” Hal swung down from the truck cab. “But make sure he has water.”

The van was plenty warm, so Trish opened all the vents and removed the horse’s blanket. Spitfire shook hard, making the whole van shudder. She refilled the water and left him with a last pat. The colt whinnied as if being deserted.

Trish laughed as she joined her father. “Feel that sun? I just know I’m gonna get a tan. Everyone’ll be jealous. Ha!”

“Just don’t get burned. You’re not used to summer sun yet.”

“Am I ever? You know what they say about us Washingtonians: We don’t tan, we rust.”

Trish couldn’t believe her eyes when her father drove into his friend’s horse farm. “Has this guy got bucks or what?” She stared at the Spanish architecture. The house, the barns all looked like pictures she’d seen of haciendas in old Mexico, with white stucco walls and red tile roofs. Blooming scarlet roses lined all the boundary fences. She could see mares and foals in one section and what looked like yearlings in another. The paddocks seemed to go on to the horizon.