Golden Filly Collection One (78 page)

“Now, you can use that whip to keep old Jiminy’s mind on his business,” Danielson said as he gave Trish a leg up. “I like my horses to come from behind, but take advantage of that number two position. Don’t let him drift out.”

Trish nodded, stuffing her reluctance to use a whip back where it belonged. All horses weren’t trained like those at Runnin’ On Farm.

Jiminy behaved like a veteran as he galloped out to the starting gate and walked in flat-footed. Trish tightened the reins, forcing him to center his weight on his haunches and prepare for the start.

As the gate clanged open, Jiminy leaped forward in perfect time. Ears pricked, he suddenly seemed to realize what he was supposed to be doing—racing.

“Yeah, that’s the way!” Trish shouted at him as they surged past the number one horse and took the rail. “Come on, come on, don’t be lazy now.” She kept a firm hold on his mouth so he couldn’t drift and bump into another horse. With only six furlongs to run, they couldn’t miss a beat.

Jiminy held his number one position through the turn and into the final stretch. When two other horses pulled up even with them, Trish went to the whip. Jiminy flattened his black ears and obeyed quickly. His stride lengthened, while heavy grunts matched the pounding of his feet.

One horse kept the pace and began to pull ahead.

Trish encouraged Jiminy again with her voice and the leather whip. Each stride brought the white columns closer. One more command screamed at the twitching ears and they flashed across the wire. They’d won by a nose.

That’ll show ’em,
Trish thought as she accepted congratulations from the trainer and the owner. She recognized the owner as the man in the brown sweater that morning, the one who’d said she couldn’t ride anything but Spitfire.

She smiled for the cameras. This photo would go in a frame on her wall.

When she pulled a fourth place out of a field of ten in the seventh race, Trish didn’t feel too badly. The mare she rode tried to quit in the stretch but Trish had kept her running. That in itself was something to be proud of. She had shown her skill as a jockey again.

Besides, Sarah’s Pride, the filly her father had put claiming money on, had won. Runnin’ On Farm now owned a new horse. Trish followed David and Patrick as they led their new acquisition back to the barn.

“Ya done good, lass,” Patrick said. “Guess that’ll show ’em what you’re made of.”

Trish grinned. “Feels good.”

When they got back to the hotel that evening, the message light was flashing on their phone.

“Sorry, kids,” Hal’s voice sounded both sad and weak when they returned his call. “I just won’t make it in time. You’ll have to go on to Pimlico without me.”

Chapter

05

B
ut, Dad, what’s wrong? Why can’t you come now?”

“Trish—”

“Are you sicker and not telling us?” Trish could hardly keep the tears from choking her voice.

“Tee, listen to me. I don’t want to talk about this over the phone. All the arrangements for your trip are in place, and Mom and I’ll just be a bit later, that’s all. Besides, this way I won’t have to make that long drive. We’ll fly directly to Baltimore.”

“I guess.”

“Now, is David there? Put him on the other phone.”

“I’m here, Dad. Have been all along.”

Hal finished giving them directions to the Crosskeys Inn and on how to manage the trip. “You’ll meet Mel Howell at Pimlico. I’ve already talked with him. Oh, and Trish?”

“Yeah.”

“I think you should ride in the van just in case the horses need you. I love you kids more than you’ll ever know.”

After they said good-bye, Trish returned the receiver to its cradle and sprawled spread-eagle across her bed. Nothing was turning out as it was supposed to. Her father had been getting better before they started traveling. Maybe they shouldn’t have come to Kentucky. Would staying home have helped? Maybe her mother had been right all along.

Later that night Trish couldn’t get comfortable in bed. She turned one way and then the other. She punched the pillows up and kicked the bedspread off. Kicking felt good.
If only there were some way to kick the cancer.
Finally she turned the light back on, propped herself up on two pillows, and reached for the carved eagle her father had placed on her nightstand before he left. She smoothed a finger over the perfectly carved feathers. “If only we could soar like you,” she whispered.

Placing the figure back under the light, Trish picked up her Bible. The verse in Isaiah 40 hadn’t changed, but the first words caught her attention.
“Those who wait upon the Lord…”
She read them again. Waiting had never been one of her favorite pastimes.

Her father was learning to wait. He’d said so.

She’d rather have the eagle’s wings
now.
She read the rest of the verse.
“They shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.”
Boy, did she need these promises now. She shut the book and closed her eyes. The words to pray wouldn’t come, only a picture of an eagle catching the thermals and soaring above the cliffs.

Finally, Trish snapped off the light and burrowed under the covers. “Thank you, God—I think. Please take care of my dad.” The next thing she knew the alarm was ringing.

Dawn had pinked the sky by the time Trish and David drove through the gates at Churchill Downs. They’d taken the time to pack up and check out of the hotel.

At the stall both horses were still eating. Trish told Patrick what her father had said, then opened the tack boxes to begin packing for the trip. Everything was in order—ropes wound neatly, buckets stacked. Even the feed sacks were tied off.

“Patrick, you’re super.” Trish turned and smiled her appreciation. “Thank you.”

“David and I did that yesterday, figuring we’d be leaving early. All that’s left is the stuff from this morning.” Patrick tipped his fedora back and scratched his forehead. “I’m all packed too, so after you loosen ’em up, we’ll be ready to load.”

Trish felt herself saying good-bye to Churchill Downs as she trotted Spitfire around the track. It wasn’t like at home where she knew she’d be back in the fall. After all, how many times did a West Coast farm get to bring a horse to the Derby?

“Maybe I’ll ride here sometime on my own. What do you think?” Spitfire twitched his ears and shook his head. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” She patted his neck and tightened him down to a walk. “Maybe we’ll get to bring you here for the Breeder’s Cup in October. What would you think of that?” Spitfire snorted. “Was that a yes or a no?” The black colt tugged on the bit and pranced sideways as they left the track. “See if I ask your opinion again.” Trish jumped to the ground and handed the reins over to Patrick. She gave Spitfire a quick scratch while David switched the saddle to Sarah’s Pride.

“How’s our girl this morning?” Trish spoke softly to the bright-sorrel filly. With one hand clamped on the reins under the filly’s chin, Trish used the other to work magic around the horse’s ears and down her cheek. Sarah’s Pride pricked her ears and nosed Trish’s shoulder. She dropped her head lower to make it easier for Trish to reach under the bridle behind her ears. Trish smoothed the forelock and rubbed down the horse’s neck.

“You’ll be puttin’ her to sleep that way,” Patrick said as he watched Trish get better acquainted.

“Well, we better not do that.” Trish raised her knee, and with David’s assistance swung smoothly into the saddle. “Come on, girl, let’s see how you behave.”

Sarah’s Pride wanted to run. She snorted and pranced, throwing in a bounce or two to keep Trish alert. Halfway around the first turn, the filly shied at a blowing paper. A few strides farther she stopped to stare at something only she could see.

By the time they returned to the barn, Trish felt as if she’d been working Gatesby, the horse who gave her so much trouble at home.

“No wonder she doesn’t usually win,” Trish said as she slid to the ground. “She can’t keep her mind on what she’s doing. If she races like she works—” Trish shook her head. “And look at her, she’s lathered from just that bit we did. My girl, even I know you’ve got some conditioning ahead of you.” Trish slipped the filly a carrot piece.

“Never mind, lass. We’ll turn her into a racehorse yet.” Patrick stripped off the tack while David brought out the wash gear. Once the filly was washed down and scraped dry, Trish took the lead.

“I’ll walk her. Then let’s eat. That truck’ll be here anytime.”

Red fell into step beside Trish after a couple of rounds on the sanded walking circle. “Hi. Guess you’re leaving pretty soon, huh?”

“Yeah. Dad’s meeting us in Baltimore.”

“Um-m-m.” Red seemed uncomfortable. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Trish watched him trot back to their stalls. “What’s the matter with him?” The filly kept on walking.

“Here, let me finish.” David reached for the lead shank as soon as he joined her.

“What’s up?” She looked from her brother to Red.

“I need to talk with you a minute.” Red nodded toward the grassy area behind the barns. “How about over there?”

“Fine, I guess.” She looked at David, who just shrugged. “But I don’t have much time.”

“You rode really well yesterday.” Red kicked a stone in front of them.

“Thanks.” Trish’s shoulder felt warm where it rubbed against his. If only he’d take her hand again. If only she were brave enough to take his.

Red kicked the stone again. It skittered across the gravel. Sounds from the barns faded into the distance.

“I—I’m really going to miss you.” Red turned to Trish, and they stopped under a spreading oak tree. “I have something for you—to remember me by. But I’ll see you again.”

Trish swallowed against the tight knot in her throat. She drew circles in the dewy grass with the toe of her boot.

“Here.” Red took her hand in his and placed a small box in it.

The knot turned into a lump in Trish’s throat that threatened to choke her.

“Open it.” Red leaned closer.

Trish smoothed the blue velvet of the flat box and finally opened it. She gasped at the sight of a finely etched gold cross on a delicate chain. “Oh, Red, it’s beautiful!” Her smile trembled, threatening tears.

“You like it then?”

“Oh yes.” Trish lifted the cross and draped the chain across her palm.

“Here, let me put it on for you.” Red took it from her, looped the chain around her neck, and fastened the clasp. “Now you have something to remember me by.” He turned her to face him again and placed his lips on hers. It was a first kiss—tentative and sweet.

“Thank you—for the cross,” Trish whispered as she stepped back. “But I didn’t need anything to remind me of you.”

Red smiled. “I’ll see you at Belmont for sure, Pimlico if I can possibly make it.” He brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. “I want to be there when you take the Triple Crown.”

Trish nodded, but couldn’t speak. Her voice was lost somewhere in the sadness of leaving.

Red threaded his fingers through hers, and they ambled back to the barn.

Trish wiped the tears from her cheeks as they drove out the gates of Churchill Downs. She waved to Red once more, and settled back for the trip. Everything had conspired to speed them on their way, and the horses had loaded as if they were looking forward to a new place. There hadn’t been a line in the track kitchen, and the truck had arrived early.

Trish had been pleasantly surprised when the truck drove up. Fred Robertson, the driver who had taken them in from the airport, had requested the trip.

The drive was long but uneventful. Trish checked on the horses when they stopped for lunch. Spitfire nickered when he heard her voice and snuffled her hair as she checked the tie ropes and water buckets.

After lunch Trish slept for a couple of hours. It kept her from thinking about having left Red and about the fact that her father was not with them. It was a good thing Fred had lots of stories to tell about racing and about the country they were passing through. His company helped Trish through her sadness.

They pulled up to the gate at Pimlico at seven o’clock. Racing was over for the day and the evening chores finished. The area was quiet. Trish stifled a feeling of disappointment as she compared the old track at Pimlico to Churchill Downs.