Golden Filly Collection One (54 page)

Back at the track the next morning, she trotted Spitfire through the gap and onto the track.

“Take two laps at a slow gallop, then let him out at that pole.” Hal pointed to one of the furlong markers. “We’ll clock him at three-eighths of a mile.”

Trish did as her father said. Spitfire seemed to have understood the instructions too, at least the part about running that day. But he wanted speed from the very start.

By the time she’d fought him twice around, Trish could feel her right arm beginning to ache. “Go for it!” she hollered as they passed the designated furlong post.

Spitfire didn’t need any further urging. He flattened out in three strides, reaching his sprinting speed in a couple of seconds. Trish crouched high over his withers, her face blurred by his mane. After the third post she pulled him down gradually, then continued around the track, slowing to a canter, then a jog.

“I know, that wasn’t long enough.” She sat back in her saddle and stroked his neck. “But Saturday is almost here, and then you get to show ’em what you can do.”

At the mention of Saturday, Trish’s butterflies took a couple of test leaps. She met her father and Brian at the gap.

“We’ve got the post breakfast in half an hour, so you better hustle.” Hal smiled up at her.

“I think he likes running here,” Trish said. “Maybe it’s the sunshine.”

“Whatever it is, he’s ready. Stopwatches were clicking around us, so the word will be out right away about ‘that Oregon horse.’”

“Da-ad, we’re from Washington.”

“I know that and you know that, but since he’s only raced at Portland Meadows, that’s where his times will come from.”

“Oh.” Trish licked her lips. She had so much to learn.

At the breakfast, she felt about as welcome as a toothache. It was easy to see who the jockeys were, and there wasn’t another female among them.

“This is put on specially for the owners, trainers, and jockeys,” Brian was saying.

Trish looked around the room again. She stopped and looked back. Sure enough. She pulled on her father’s jacket sleeve.

“Dad, that’s Shoemaker, isn’t it?” She nodded at a gray-haired, jockeysized man across the room.

“Sure is,” Hal answered.

“Would you like to meet him?” Brian smiled at her. “He retired here at the track and has gone into training. Come on.”

When Shoemaker shook her hand, Trish’s “Pleased to meet you” came out in a stutter.

“Good luck in your race tomorrow,” the great man said. “You have a mighty strong field out there.”

“It includes one of yours, doesn’t it?” Hal asked.

“That’s why I can’t wish you too much luck.” Shoemaker smiled as he spoke. As another person asked him a question, Trish stepped back and watched.

How she would love to hear some of
his
stories, of horses he’d ridden, of races won and lost. He’d been injured more times than anyone cared to count, but he went on to become one of the winningest jockeys in racing history.

Number seven became their post position at the ceremony during breakfast.

Nothing else seemed important after that.

Until they started schooling Spitfire that afternoon. Following Sweeney’s instructions, Hal led the colt over to the receiving barn, where a farrier checked the colt’s shoes. From there they entered the line of saddling stalls where horses for the next race were being saddled. Spitfire danced some when he was led around where the spectators could look him over.

Trish walked beside the colt, talking to him, explaining what was happening and how he should behave.

“I think you must talk horse,” Brian teased her when she led Spitfire back into one of the open stalls. They stood there for a while, giving Spitfire all the time he needed to become comfortable.

The next stage was the walking paddock where the jockeys mounted and again spectators could view the entrants. Spitfire walked around the circular railed area with the other horses. When the bars opened for the mounted animals to proceed to the track, Spitfire watched them leave.

Trish watched the majority of the crowd stream back into the grandstand to prepare for viewing the race. “Something to see, isn’t it, fella?” She looked up on the grandstand where stylized tan horses adorned the forest green siding. A flashing light board announced the odds on the horses running.

Around them, sculptured ancient olive trees offered shade to those sitting on the benches. A circular fountain, surrounded by stunning bright flowers, spouted water in a perfect arc.

“You know you’re racing where some of the greats have been, don’t you?” Trish said. Spitfire rubbed his forehead on her shoulder. “John Henry ran here, and Seabiscuit. Aren’t you impressed?” Spitfire shook his head and acted bored.

“I think he’s seen enough.” Hal leaned over the rail. “Let’s leave it until tomorrow.”

Friday followed much the same pattern. By now Spitfire acted like he’d always raced at Santa Anita.

That afternoon Trish took some time in the gift shop by the front gate to buy sweat shirts for David, Rhonda, and Brad. She couldn’t decide what to get her mother. There were T-shirts and hats, pictures and jewelry. Even jackets, all with signs and slogans about Santa Anita. Finally she chose a T-shirt with a picture of a mare and her foal on it. “Mother Love” was the caption.

Sure wish you were all here,
Trish thought as she paid for her purchases.
I need all of you to tease me out of my willies.

When she called home that night there was no answer.

“That’s funny,” she said, turning to her father.

“What is?”

“They’re still not home. I’ve tried a couple of times.”

“They must have gone to a movie.” Hal switched off his light. “How are you feeling?”

“Scared spitless.”

“Well, spitting isn’t polite anyway.”

Trish threw one of her pillows at him. “You know what I mean.”

“All you have to do is give it the best you can. If God wants you to win, you will. That’s why you don’t have to be afraid.”

“But all those people. And if we don’t win, we won’t go to the Kentucky Derby.”

“True, but that’s part of this business. You win or you don’t win, but you go for the glory anyway because you love racing. It gets in your blood.”

“But, Dad, I want to win so-o bad.”

“So do I, Tee. So do I.”

Trish snuggled down under her covers.
Please, heavenly Father, help me do my best tomorrow.
The roar of the crowd filled her ears as she finally drifted off to sleep.

Chapter

16

T
rish found a card propped against the lampstand in the morning.
“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me” (Phillipians. 4:13).
Trish read it through several times.

“Thanks, Dad.” She slid into the seat across from him in the dining room. “I needed reminding.”

“We all do.” Hal sipped his coffee.

“Now if we can just convince my butterflies….”

Spitfire trotted out on the track for his morning workout like he owned the world. Ears pricked, neck arched, he surveyed his kingdom and found it to his liking.

Trish breathed in the cool, crisp air. Bits of cloud still hovered on the mountains, but the sun was quickly drying dew that sparkled on the grass of the turf track. The weather report was for low eighties with a slight breeze.

“No rain down our necks today, fella.” Trish rubbed his neck along the high poll. “Nice fast track. Who could ask for anything more?”

I can,
Trish thought later, after Spitfire was polished to the nth degree. Even his hooves shone.
I wish David were here. And Brad on Dan’l to lead us to the starting gate. And Rhonda screaming for us.

“I even miss Mom telling me to be careful,” she said to Hal as they walked out to the truck to get her silks and their racing saddle. “Can you believe that?”

When the crowd roared at the start of the first race, Trish’s butterflies flipped and flopped.
Sure is easier when I have several mounts,
she thought.
Then I don’t have so much time to stew.

Worried are you?
her nagger’s voice accused.

No.
Trish tightened her lips.
Scared stiff!

“What’s causing the tight chin?” Hal asked as he handed her a Diet Coke.

“All those other jockeys. Some of them are world-class. They’ve been racing for years.”

“So?”

She cocked her head to the side. “So, Spitfire and me, we’re gonna show them that Washington horses are every bit as good as they are.” She nodded her head.
If I say it often enough, maybe I’ll begin to believe it.

When Hal and Brian led Spitfire off to the receiving barn, Trish followed and walked around to the women’s dressing room. Contrary to the bustling scene in the dressing room at home, she had this one all to herself. There were lockers, a sofa in front of a TV, and even a lighted makeup mirror; but nobody singing in the shower, no one wise-cracking about the last race.

She dressed, locked her things in one of the lockers, and left the quiet room.

Brian knocked on the door to the men’s dressing room for her. “Woman coming in!” he hollered to alert the jockeys.

Trish clutched her saddle to her chest and stepped on the scale, carefully keeping her eyes down.
Talk about humiliating!
She could feel the red creeping from her neck all the way to her forehead.

“That’s one hundred twenty-two,” the steward said after slipping ten pounds of lead into her saddle pad. “Good luck.”

Trish fled the room.

The field of ten were all present in the stalls, along with a couple of schoolers. Trish handed her saddle to Brian Sweeney and walked a round with Spitfire. When he nudged her arm, she rubbed his neck.

Back in the stall, Brian squatted down to check a leg wrapping. Spitfire flipped the man’s hat off.

“Up to your old tricks, are you?” Hal asked the horse.

Trish fetched the hat. “Sorry, it’s kind of a game with him. Guess you can feel part of the family now.”

Brian brushed the sand off the tan brim. “Thanks, old man. I needed that.”

Spitfire tossed his head. Trish could tell he was laughing.

Hal tightened the over-cinch on the racing saddle just before the number-one horse led the way to the walking paddock. They hung back a bit because the horse in front of them was skittish.

Suddenly a woman screamed as the Thoroughbred’s hind feet struck for the stars, throwing clods of dirt over the crowd along the railings.

“Never a dull moment.” Brian smiled, shaking his head. The horse in front of them acted like nothing had happened and walked on ahead.

After Spitfire snorted his way around the paddock once, Brian held the colt while Hal gave Trish a leg up. She settled her feet in the stirrups and looked down at her father.

He patted her knee. “You know what to do. I’m proud of you.”

Trish swallowed. One of her butterflies flipped a cartwheel while another commanded order.

“Trish! Trish!”

She looked out over the crowds. Who could be calling her name?

Then she zeroed in on a leaping figure, arms waving above a brightred head. Trish stared in disbelief. “It’s Rhonda! And Mom! And David! Dad, they came!” She felt like jumping from her horse and charging out to meet them. “They came! They really came! Hey, you guys!” Trish waved her hand above her head, not jockey protocol or cool, but who cared at this point?

Rhonda pushed through the crowd to lean over the rail, and the others followed. “We were scared to death we wouldn’t make it in time.”

“Would have been here an hour ago except some idiot had an accident and tied up the freeway.” David reached over to pat Trish’s knee. “How’re you two doing?”

“Great! Mom—I—all of you…” Trish blinked away the sting in her eyes. “I can’t believe it! You all came!”

Marge had to blink too. “We decided we just
had
to be here. And we wanted to surprise you, Trish.”

“That you did!” Hal smiled and turned to Brian. “I’d like you to meet the rest of my family.” He introduced Marge and David and then Rhonda.

“You’d better get in line,” Brian said after greeting everyone. “It’s time.”

“Go for the glory, Trish!” Rhonda gave her the thumbs-up sign.

Trish swallowed hard and grinned at them all. “Thanks.” Hal led her up the padded walk to the cavern through the grandstand where riders waited to lead them to the post.

Trish heard the bugle blast. A woman rider on a gray peeled away from her spot by the wall and took the lead shank. They broke out of the shade and onto the track.

The sun glinted sparks off Spitfire’s shiny hide. The saddle blanket with a number seven flapped in the breeze. The riders led them past the grandstand and on around to the far side of the track.

Trish forgot the crowds. She forgot the famous jockeys. She concentrated on Spitfire—and began to relax.

The blue and white starting gates were moved in position about even with the gap, and she and the other entrants trotted forward.

“If you win this, you’ll be the first woman to win the Santa Anita Derby,” her rider said. “So go for it!” She handed the lead over to the official in slot seven.