Golden Filly Collection One (58 page)

The doctor nodded. “You’ll call if you notice anything different?”

“Yes.” She kept her head still. She’d learned that trick pretty quickly.

“We’ll have the nurse wheel you out.” He shifted his attention to Trish’s parents. “Call me if you need me?” He studied Marge’s pale, set face. She hadn’t said a word throughout the examination.

Trish saw him glance from Marge to Hal, a question on his face. Marge looked like she’d shrunk. Her shoulders, arms, and neck seemed squeezed inward as if she were trying to disappear. When the doctor touched her shoulder, she flinched and tucked her face into Hal’s shoulder again.

“We’ll be fine,” Hal answered the unspoken question. “I’ll get them both home and to bed. We’ve had a pretty big shock today.” He turned toward the curtain opening. “We’ll get the car.”

“I can give her something,” the doctor said. “Make it easier.”

Hal smoothed a gentle hand over his wife’s hair. “I’ll let you know.” Marge seemed to shuffle as they left.

Trish wanted to scream, but instead she asked the question quietly: “What’s wrong with my mother?”

“An accident like this can cause shock to family members too. Besides, you’ve all been through a lot these last months. Sometimes the body needs a break.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s plenty. You’ll call me if you feel worse?”

Trish nodded as she allowed the doctor and nurse to help her into the wheelchair. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, changing altitude’ll get you. Let me know now.” The doctor patted her hand. “About your mom too.”

Silence filled the car on the way home. Trish lay down in the backseat, her head resting on her bent arm. The last she heard were the tires howling across the metal treads on the I-5 bridge across the Columbia River.

“Come on, sleepyhead, we’re home.” Her father patted her shoulder gently.

Trish sat up very carefully. “Where’s Mom?”

“I already took her into the house and put her to bed. That seemed the best thing to do.” Hal extended his hand to help Trish from the car.

“Why? Dad, what’s really wrong with her?”

“Shock, I think. She’ll be okay.”

As Trish slowly changed altitudes, Hal put his arm around her shoulders so she could lean against him. Together they mounted the steps to the front door, with Trish feeling like stopping at each level. She tightened her jaw and kept on, in spite of the woozies attacking her head.

Never had her bed looked more inviting. Hal folded back the covers, then pulled off Trish’s boots. “Now, you call me if you need anything else,” he said.

“Where’s David?”

“He and Brad are down at the barns. I’m going down to tell them what happened and check on our animals, then I’ll be right back. You just get some sleep so you feel better.”

“What about the horses I’m riding tomorrow?”

“First of all, you’re not riding tomorrow. Give me the owners’ names later and I’ll call them.”

“Who rode my last mount today?” Trish could feel her attention slipping.

“I’m not sure. We left right after the accident.”

“Oh.” His comment brought the sounds and feelings cascading back.

After he left, Trish slipped out of her silks and under the covers. The bed welcomed her battered body.
I need a shower—bad.
She was asleep before she could dwell on the thought.

Screaming horses. Groaning people. Ambulance sirens. Trish jerked awake. She took a deep breath and let her gaze rove around her room. Light from the mercury yard light cast shadows across the floor. It had been a dream, but the dream mirrored reality. Tears started again. Phil was dead—what about his family? Horses were killed. She’d never heard even the old-timers talk about an accident as bad as this one.

“Oh, God, thank you for taking care of me out there.” She stopped the prayer.
Why me? Why did Phil die and not me? Who makes the choices? And why? It all happened so quickly—and so senselessly. None of it makes any sense.
She tried to shut out the thoughts. But when she clenched her eyes closed, the pain in her head came back.

Her little nagging voice snuck by her resolve:
Now you know why your mother worries so much. No matter how well you ride, an accident can happen.

Trish wished the voice would go back to sleep. She wished
she
could go back to sleep. “And, Jesus, please help my mom. I know she is hurting too. And the Snyder family, help them and all the others hurt in that mess. Thanks again. Amen.” She pulled the covers back up to her chin, and slept.

Trish felt the bathroom urge sometime in the dark hours before dawn. As she passed her parents’ bedroom, she heard them talking.

“I can’t take any more,” her mother said between gut-wrenching sobs. “It could have been Trish out there. She
was
out there.”

Trish could hear her father’s soothing murmur.

“I—just—can’t—take—any more!”

Trish slipped into the bathroom and quietly shut the door.

It’s all your fault,
she heard her nagger accusing her.

It was light out when she staggered up to go to the bathroom again. If she took things easy, it wasn’t so bad. She nearly freaked when she looked in the mirror. She hadn’t washed her face, and mud from the track still outlined where her goggles had been and smeared across her cheeks and chin. She scrubbed a wet washcloth across the worst of it and went back to bed. The house was strangely silent for the 8:00 a.m. that the clock read.

Maybe she’d dreamed that her parents talked in the night.
I hope so,
she thought.
What if they make me quit racing?

Hunger pangs woke her at ten. She entered an empty kitchen after a careful walk down the hall. One thing was sure, she felt much better than last night. But where was everybody? Had they left for church without telling her? She poured cold cereal and milk into a bowl and sat down at the table. After the cereal and a piece of toast, she searched for a note by the phone. None.

She looked out the window at the driveway. All the cars were parked in their normal places, so Dad and David must be down at the barn. Shivering, she headed back to her bed. On the way she opened the closed door and glanced into her parents’ bedroom. In the darkened room, a mound raised the covers on her mother’s side of the bed.

Trish stopped at the door. “Mom?” No answer. What could be happening? Her mother never slept late. She was always the first one up because she loved early mornings. And to miss church? Could something really be wrong with her mother?

Chapter

03

I
s Mom sick?” Trish confronted her father when he walked in the door.

“Well—” Hal took the time to hang up his coat before replying. “That depends on what you call sick. She doesn’t have the flu or a cold.”

“So?”

“I think she just needs some time out.”

“Because of the accident?”

“That, and all the rest of the stress that’s been going on around here.” Hal sank into his recliner and patted the hearth beside him. “Sit down, Tee. Maybe you can help me with some ideas.”

Trish sat down very carefully, because changing altitudes still caused her stomach to flip. Besides, she sported a couple of bruises from where she’d hit the ground. She stared at her father, waiting for him to quit fidgeting and begin.
Please, please, don’t let him ask me to quit racing,
she pleaded to her heavenly Father.

“I think we have to give your mother the kind of care she’s always given us.”

Trish clenched her eyes shut and gritted her teeth.
He can’t ask me to quit. He just can’t!
She opened her eyes again. Tears burned behind her eyelids.

“I know you don’t feel too well, but if you start the dinner, I’ll help you with it.”

Dinner!
The word smacked into her brain and exploded in red, white, and blue streamers.
Dinner!
She released the streamers in a laugh and a hug. “Sure, Dad. I’d be glad to.”

Trish felt like dancing into the kitchen. She was dancing in her mind even though she walked carefully. She stared into the freezer. Yep, she could thaw and fry the chicken. Potatoes—her dad could peel those; there were plenty of vegetables, corn would be good. All the while one part of her mind thought
dinner,
the other rejoiced. She’d still be racing!

But by dinner her mother hadn’t come out of her room. She refused a tray; said she wasn’t hungry. While Trish and her father had a good time making the dinner, it just wasn’t right. Her mom had always been there. If she’d been gone—but that was the problem, she wasn’t gone. She was right in the bedroom, and Dad said she wasn’t really sick.

David didn’t have a lot to say at dinner either. No one did.

“How’s Spitfire’s leg?” Trish looked at David.

“Uh, better.”

“The ultrasound is helping?”

“I guess.”

Hal stared at his dinner. “Thanks, Tee.” He shoved the half-full plate away. “Sorry, but guess I’m not too hungry after all. Think I’ll go sit with your mother for a while.”

A knock changed his direction from the hall to the front door. “Why, Pastor Mort. How good to see you. Come on in. We were just finishing dinner. Can we get you a cup of coffee?”

Trish started to leap up, but stopped mid-jump and pushed herself up slowly. “Quick, David, clear the table. I’ll put the coffee on and…”

The two men entered the dining room.

“How are you, Trish?” Pastor Mort extended his hand. “I heard you were part of that horrible accident yesterday.” He squeezed her hand and patted her shoulder. “Had to come myself to make sure you were okay. Hi, David. It’s good to see you.” He glanced into the kitchen. “Marge around?”

“Have a seat,” Hal said. “I’m glad you came by.”

Trish picked up her dishes and escaped to the kitchen. “I’ll get some coffee going.” She listened to the friendly talk with one ear, kept her hands busy filling the coffeepot with water, and still had time to think that she looked worse than a drowned rat. At least she’d taken a hot shower, which got the kinks loosened up and the dirt off her face. But she was wearing the gross sweats she’d worn when her arm was broken. She set out mugs and arranged peanut butter cookies on a plate. As soon as the coffeemaker stopped gurgling, Trish carried the tray of refreshments into the dining room.

“Thanks, Trish.” Pastor Mort smiled at her when she handed him a mug of coffee. “Black, just the way I like it.”

“You’re welcome.” Her smile slipped a little as her nagger reminded her she’d forgotten to ask if he took cream and sugar. Her mother didn’t forget things like that.
She
should be out here. “Dad, anything else?” She set his mug on the table.

The twinkle in her father’s eyes told her he knew
exactly
what she was thinking. “Thanks, Tee.”

“Well, I’d better get down to the barn and start chores.” David snagged a cookie off the plate as he stood up. “Good to see you, Pastor.”

Trish started to clear more dishes from the table, then stopped. Maybe if she got out of there, the two men could talk about how to help her mom. Maybe Pastor Mort could get Marge to come out of her room. “I’ll be down in a minute,” she told David.

“There’s plenty more coffee,” she said as she picked up the bowls of leftover food.

“You ready for the big one?” Pastor Mort asked.

“Hope so. If Spitfire’s leg gets better, and if—” she glanced at her father. “Or, rather, when.” Hal grinned at her. “I have to keep reminding myself that ‘if’ doesn’t count.” Trish smiled back at the contagious grin on her pastor’s face. She was quoting his own words.

“Good for you, Trish.” The balding man nodded as he spoke. “You’ve got the right attitude, and I know it hasn’t come easily.”

“Thanks. See you later.”

Trish grabbed some carrots from the fridge before she went out the door, and broke them into pieces on her way to the barn. Caesar met her halfway, barking his approval and begging for attention. Trish slapped her chest with both hands and the dog responded by planting his forefeet by her hands. Trish scratched his ears and tugged on the white ruff.

“You ol’ sweetie.” Her nose got a quick lick. Then her chin. “Hey, knock it off. I washed my face today.” Caesar grinned his doggy grin and gave her another quick one before he dropped to the ground.

Trish took a deep breath. Nickers escalated to whinnies when her stable friends heard her voice. She heard David talking to them as he moved from stall to stall with the evening feed. A pheasant rooster called out in the field. Trish searched the fence rows toward the west, trying to locate him. Another deep breath took in the aromas of spring—growing grass, freshly turned dirt, all overlaid with a tinge of stable. She grinned down at the dog sitting at her feet. “Come on, fella, let’s go see the kids.”

She gave each of the racing string a bit of carrot and a quick scratch as she walked down the line. Spitfire smeared grain on her cheek as he blew in her face. Gray Dan’l begged for more—both carrots and loving. Even Gatesby acted glad to see her, a wuffle warming her fingers as he picked up his carrot.

Trish left them behind and headed for the paddock behind the old barn where the two foals played at grazing along with their dams. When she whistled, Miss Tee, the filly born on Trish’s birthday in September, trotted up to the fence. She’d lost her baby coat and was deepening into a dark bay, with one white sock and a narrow blaze down her face. Double Diamond, the January-born colt, hesitated before following the filly up to the fence.