Golden Filly Collection One (55 page)
Trish waited for the number six horse to settle down before she entered the gate. After their assistant unsnapped the lead shank, Spitfire looked straight ahead. He settled himself, ready for the shot.
Trish crouched tight over his shoulders.
And they were off!
Spitfire broke clean. He ran easily, head out, ears tracking those around him. By the quarter-mile post, the field had separated and Spitfire was running with the front four.
“Come on, baby,” Trish encouraged him with her musical patter. “Let’s move on up.”
Spitfire lengthened his stride. As they went into the far turn, the four appeared to run neck and neck. Coming out of the turn and entering the stretch, a bay made a bid for the lead.
“Now, Spitfire!” Trish gave him his head.
One horse dropped back. They eased up on the second place. Passed that one and headed for the leader.
Trish used her hands and voice to cheer him on.
The other jockey went to the whip. Spitfire caught him at the mile marker. The two ran stride for stride, thundering down to the wire.
Spitfire eased ahead.
The other horse pulled even.
Spitfire reached again, each stride demanding the lead. They won by a head.
Trish rose in her stirrups to bring him back down. “You did it! We did it!”
She turned and cantered him back to the flower-box-bordered winner’s circle. She slid to the ground and fell into her father’s arms as David grasped the reins. Trish tried to stop the tears streaming from her eyes, but that was no more possible than controlling the grin that split her face.
“We did it! We did it!”
When they led Spitfire in front of the risers, Marge and Rhonda joined them on the second tier. Hal accepted the trophy and Trish wrapped the floral blanket given to jockeys over her shoulders. Flashbulbs popped, and Brian led Spitfire off to the receiving barn for the mandatory testing.
“How does it feel?” A reporter stuck a mike in front of Trish’s face.
“Fantastic! One of these days I’ll come back to earth—but not too soon.” Trish linked arms with her mother and father.
“Are you planning on the first Saturday in May?”
“Are we ever! Kentucky, get ready!”
“Do you know how much you won?” Rhonda asked her as they walked back under the grandstand. The dim tunnel was the entrance for the race horses.
“Two hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars!” Trish grabbed Rhonda’s arm. “I can’t even count that far.”
“I’m just thankful you’re safe,” Marge admitted, hugging Trish again.
“I get so scared and so excited at the same time. I think I beat David’s arm to death.”
David rubbed his bicep. “I think so too. She was jumping and screaming as bad as Rhonda was on my other side. They both used me for a pounding board.”
Trish smoothed her hand over the flowers across her shoulders. “Wish this would last. We gotta get lots of pictures. Hey, all of us were in the picture! We won’t have any.”
“Don’t worry,” Hal said. “I’ll get them from the track. They always give copies of the official pictures to the owner, breeder, trainer, and jockey. That should give us a few.”
“Congratulations, Hal, Trish.” Adam Finley stepped in front of them. “My girl, you rode like a veteran on that one.” He shook her hand, then gave her a hug. “Hal, you’ve got some rider here.”
Trish tucked his words in the back of her mind to ponder later. Praise from a man like Finley was something to cherish.
Brian Sweeney added his congratulations when they got back to the barn. “You handled him well, Trish. You and the colt are a good team, even if he is a bit of a clown.”
Trish told David what had happened in the saddling stalls.
“So he got you too?” David shook his head. “Usually I’m the brunt of his clowning, but at least he doesn’t bite. Not like another horse I know.”
“Gatesby,” Rhonda and Trish said at the same time.
“I wish Brad could have come too,” Trish said as she looked around their group.
“Somebody had to stay home and do chores,” David said.
“And I wanted our whole family together for this.” Marge linked her arm with Hal’s.
“That’s the bad part of farming,” Hal added. “Someone has to be there to do the chores.”
Later that night they gathered in the dining room at the hotel. Hurricane lamps flickered on white-clothed tables. Heavy wrought-iron chandeliers and wall sconces lit the beamed ceilings.
After a dinner that left everyone groaning from over-indulgence, Rhonda asked Hal, “Have
you
ever been to the Kentucky Derby, Mr. Evanston?”
“No, almost made it once—as a spectator—but something happened and I didn’t go. I’ve never had a horse this good before.”
“It’ll be
some
trip then.” Rhonda’s eyes widened at the thought.
“Sure will. And we’ll be flying there.” Hal smiled at Trish. “No fog that way.”
“Fog? You told me on the phone it was a problem. But is there more you didn’t happen to mention, Hal?” Marge wondered.
“Not really, Mom. But there’ll be no fog this time. Only eagle’s wings.” Trish giggled at the look of confusion on Rhonda’s face. “You know our song, don’t you?”
Rhonda nodded.
“Well, the airline’s called
Eagle Transport
, so it looks like we’ll be flying on eagle’s wings after all!”
Hal nodded. “Haven’t we always?”
My thanks to Brian Sweeney, Thoroughbred trainer/owner at Santa Anita, who so willingly shared his time, expertise, and love of racing with me. Thanks also to Director of Communications Jane Goldstein and staff for assisting me in my research at Santa Anita.
Gordon Tallman, Public Relations Director at Portland Meadows, has been an ongoing, invaluable aid with his knowledge and enthusiasm for the sport.
Friends of writers never know what they’ll be called on to do. Barbara Rader learned more than she ever dreamed she wanted to know about horse racing in our two days of research at Santa Anita. Thanks for being caring and curious. We had fun.
Thank you to Ruby MacDonald, friend, fellow-writer, and critiquer, and to my husband, Wayne, who is always game for new adventures.
And finally, editor Sharon Madison and the Bethany House staff make me feel like someone special. Thanks, folks.
To Wayne,
whose love and support
make it possible for me to fly.
T
hey must have talked half the night.
Tricia Evanston stretched and yawned. It felt as if she had just fallen asleep, but she knew that since the birds were already singing, her Thoroughbred horse Spitfire, winner of yesterday’s Santa Anita Derby, would be wanting his breakfast. She tossed a pillow on the body sleeping in the other bed.
“Go ’way.” Her best friend since kindergarten, Rhonda Seabolt, knocked the pillow to the floor.
“Well, if you’d rather stay in bed—but I need to eat breakfast and get to the track. If you’re coming, you’d better hustle.” Trish hit the floor running. “Dad said he’d meet us in the lobby at seven,” she called from the bathroom.
Trish stared at her image in the mirror.
Wow! Winning jockey of the Santa Anita Derby!
How come her face didn’t look any different? She finger-combed her dark, wavy hair up off her face.
Shouldn’t you look, well, more grown up than sixteen when you and the true-black horse you’ve raised from a colt have just won the Santa Anita Derby? When you’ve met and defeated world-famous jockeys—and their horses?
She shook her head. Her bangs fell over one eye.
A moment later, with toothpaste fuzzing around her mouth, she checked her face again. Nope, no change. She spit and rinsed.
“You about done in there?” Rhonda, of the carrot-red mop, hammered on the door.
“Do you know who you’re yelling at?” Trish opened the door and leaned against the frame. A grin attacked the corners of her mouth and winked in her hazel eyes.
“The winner of the Santa Anita Derby.” Rhonda pretended boredom just before she grabbed Trish in a bear hug and danced her around the room. The two girls flopped back on the bed. “You really did it! You and Spitfire showed ’em all.” They stared up at the ceiling. “So now what?”
“Now we rush downstairs and meet my dad.”
“No, silly.” Rhonda punched her on the arm. “Do you go for the Triple Crown, or what?”
Trish let the question sink in. “I wish I knew,” she whispered. “I just wish I knew.”
Reporters met them at Spitfire’s stall. After all the questions and pictures right after the race, Trish was surprised to learn there were more to come. She left them to her father while she measured the grain for Spitfire’s morning feed. She’d already realized that the tall, ebony colt hid her from the inquisitive journalists.
“So, how does it feel?” her curly-haired brother David asked as he picked Spitfire’s hooves.
“I’ll tell you when I figure it out.” Trish kept on brushing.
It seemed only moments later that she and her father, Hal, were waving good-bye to Rhonda, David, and her mother. They were driving home to Vancouver, Washington.
Marge kissed her husband and hugged Trish. “You two drive carefully now.” Her chronic worrying always stole some of a day’s happiness from Trish.
“Don’t worry, Mom.” Trish halfheartedly returned her hug. She and her mother didn’t see eye to eye about a lot of things, like Trish driving the big horse van or racing Thoroughbreds.
Trish rubbed her forehead. A headache thumped behind her eyes. She finished packing for the return home.
“You about ready?” Her father massaged her shoulders.
Trish let her head drop forward. She took a deep breath and relaxed under his ministering fingers. “Yeah, anytime you are.”
“We’ll fill that ice pack one more time, as soon as we load Spitfire.” Hal dug out the tension in her neck with his thumbs. Spitfire leaned over the green-web harness across the stall opening and nuzzled her hair. When she didn’t respond, he lipped a curl in her bangs and tugged.
“Ouch!” Trish shoved the black nose away. “You did that on purpose!” Spitfire rolled his eyes in mock fright. He blew in her face, then rubbed his forehead against her chest, begging for the scratching she performed so well.
“We should form a line here.” Trish stroked her horse’s neck while her father finished smoothing the knots of tension from her own.
“You need anything else then?” Brian Sweeney, long-time friend of Hal’s who had invited them to stable in his barn at the track, asked in his slight Canadian accent.
“Just more ice after we load this guy.” Hal clipped a lead shank to Spitfire’s halter. “Here, Tee, take him up.”
Trish led the colt out the open entry of the green stables and to the foot of the loading ramp of their borrowed horse van. Spitfire didn’t even hesitate this time when his feet thudded on the padded ramp. He followed her right up.
“Good fella.” Trish knotted the half-hitch to hold him in place while her father Velcroed the canvas ice pack to the colt’s right foreleg. The knee had been warm ever since the race, but at least it wasn’t hot and swollen like times in the past. If it didn’t heal in the next few weeks, a hot knee could keep them from the Kentucky Derby the first Saturday in May.
