Golden Filly Collection One (84 page)
He nickered when he saw Trish.
“Missed me, did you?” She smoothed his forelock and rubbed his ears.
“We’re praying for you,” Hal whispered in Trish’s ear as he hugged her.
David swallowed before he could speak. “Go for the glory.”
Patrick waited beside the colt’s shoulder. Trish started to shake his hand, but instead threw her arms around his neck and hugged him hard. “You’ll do it, lass.” She raised her leg to meet his waiting hands, and with a smooth, swift motion, settled into the saddle. When she looked down, she could see his eyes were suspiciously bright.
Trish sniffed and wiped her eyes. The smile she gave the most important men in her life rivaled the warmth of the sun. “I love you.” She picked up her reins. “Okay, fella. Let’s do it.”
David led Spitfire, and Hal walked alongside with his hand on Trish’s knee. As they stepped onto the dirt track, the pony rider met them. Hal gave his daughter one last pat as the bugler raised the shiny brass horn. The notes floated on the air. Parade to post. The Preakness had begun.
Spitfire took the word
parade
to heart. Perfectly collected, neck arched, he jogged in step with his leader. The sun glinted blue on his shiny black hide. Muscles rippled, the mane and tail feathered in the breeze. Spitfire was everything a Thoroughbred should be. He snorted at the turn and cantered back past the stands to thunderous applause.
“You know it, fella. They’re yelling for you.” Trish rode high in her stirrups, in perfect symmetry with her horse. When they approached the starting gate Spitfire waited his turn.
Equinox refused to enter the gate. It took four gatemen to finally shove him into place.
Spitfire walked right in and stood perfectly at ease.
Nomatterwhat also needed encouragement. He’d acted cantankerous ever since the parade began, trying to outrun his pony and refusing to maintain his place in line. The remaining six filed into their assigned places.
Equinox reared in the stall.
Trish caught sight of the jockey bailing off rather than being squeezed between horse and gate. Spitfire stood still, listening to Trish’s voice as she continued her soothing song.
One of the handlers led Equinox around and back into the gate. The jockey swung back aboard.
Trish breathed a sigh of relief and settled herself for the break. Spitfire tensed, his weight on his haunches, his focus on the track ahead.
The gates clanged open. “They’re off!”
Spitfire broke in perfect stride. Equinox hung back. Nomatterwhat came into perfect sync with Spitfire. As they passed the grandstand for the first time, the two ran neck and neck, Spitfire on the inside.
Going into the first turn, Jones took Nomatterwhat into the lead by half a length. Trish kept a tight rein, letting the other horse set a faster pace. Through the backstretch they thundered stride on stride; Spitfire’s nose seemed glued to Jones’ stirrup. The remaining field spread out behind them.
Going into the turn, Trish loosed the reins a fraction. Spitfire’s stride lengthened. He gained with each thrust of his haunches.
Jones went to the whip. Coming out of the turn, Spitfire paced him, stride for stride. But down the final stretch it was Spitfire going away.
Trish heard the thunder of Spitfire’s hooves, his breath like a freight train. The crowd screamed, waves of sound bashing against their eardrums.
And it was Spitfire by one length. By two. The winner of the Preakness—Spitfire by three lengths. As they flashed across the finish line, Trish raised her whip in salute.
Tears streamed down her face. “Thank you, God. We did it. For my dad!” She listened for the announcer.
“And the winner of the Preakness is Spitfire—owned by Hal Evanston and ridden by his daughter, Tricia Evanston.”
Trish and Spitfire cantered on around the track accepting the roar of the crowd as their due. At the sixteenth pole, an official opened the railing and waved her in. Trish trotted her horse back around the turf course, stopped Spitfire in front of the stands, and turned to face the crowd.
Head high, nostrils still flared red and breathing hard, Spitfire surveyed his kingdom. Trish stroked his neck, letting him accept the applause.
“It’s ours, fella. Middle jewel of the Triple Crown. Your name is history now.” She turned him toward the winner’s circle where her family waited.
“Congratulations, Tricia.” Mel Howell appeared beside her. He grasped the reins under Spitfire’s chin and led them toward the cupola. White picket fences kept back the crowds and the press in the infield. Manicured shrubs outlined the flower-bordered circle. The huge silver Woodlawn Cup shone in its place of honor.
Trish smiled and waved till it felt as if her face would crack. She let the tears flow unchecked when she saw her parents, arm in arm in front of the red banner-decked porch of the cupola. Patrick and David met her at the circle.
David raised two fingers in what looked like a peace sign. Trish nodded. Two down.
“I knew you could do it, lass. You and the clown here.” Patrick thumped her knee and Spitfire’s shoulder. He took the reins so Mel could help with the blanket of flowers. Yellow chrysanthemums with the brown painted centers, the blanket was draped over the horse’s withers.
Trish felt the weight across her knees, like a heavy quilt. With one hand she smoothed the blossoms, waving with the other. Flashbulbs popped, video cameras recorded the moment.
Her father gripped Trish’s hand. No words were necessary. The love and pride in his eyes said it all.
Trish leaped to the ground, right into her mother’s arms. Marge hugged her hard, then wiped tears from both their cheeks.
Trish hugged Spitfire one more time before an official from the detention barn led him away to be tested. Mel motioned Trish to the scale, where once she was weighed, the race was declared official. She followed her family up to the railed podium.
Announcer John McKay, known everywhere as the voice of Thoroughbred horse racing, first greeted them, then led them to the microphones. “And now, I give you the owner of this year’s Preakness winner, Hal Evanston,” his voice boomed over the applause of the crowd.
Hal stood a moment, surveying the sea of spectators. “I can’t begin to thank you all enough for the way you’ve made us feel welcome here. Winning the Preakness with a colt from our own farm and my daughter riding it—well, it’s beyond what most men dream of. I thank our heavenly Father for the privilege of being here, for keeping everyone safe in this race, and for my family, without whom none of this would be possible.” He raised one hand to wave and clasped Marge to his side with the other.
“And now, the young woman you’ve all been waiting for—” McKay announced, pausing, “—winning jockey, Tricia Evanston! As you can see, they’re keeping the trophies in the family.”
Trish looked up at her father, then out at the crowd. She clenched the mike tightly in her hand to keep it from shaking. “Only one person a year gets to stand here for this honor. No one could be more proud than I am right now. Or more thankful. I have a lot to be thankful for. My father is standing here in spite of a killer disease. As he has said so many times, we are in God’s hands.” Trish choked on the last words. “There’s no safer or better place to be. Thank you.”
The crowd thundered again as she and her father hugged each other. They raised a replica of the Woodlawn Trophy for another photo, but the one that would make most newspapers was the one of father and daughter in each other’s arms.
“And now—” McKay introduced the Chrysler representative, who in turn presented a set of keys to Trish.
“These are for that red Chrysler LeBaron convertible waiting right over there. How does it feel to own two cars?”
Trish took the mike again. “It feels great and I love it. But this one’s for my brother, David.” She grabbed his hand and stuffed the keys into it. “He earned it—the hard way.”
“Trish, you can’t—” David blurted.
“Oh, yes I can.” Trish handed the mike back, and the crowd applauded again.
“I think she’s got you, son,” Hal said with a laugh. “You’ll look good in it. Red seems to suit you both.”
“Right.
Both
our kids in red convertibles,” Marge moaned. “In Washington—where it rains all the time.”
“Mother.” Trish and David echoed the lament of children everywhere.
A
nd now the most important question—” McKay paused for effect. “Will you be going on to Belmont?”
“God willing,” Hal replied. “We’ll give Spitfire a bit of a rest and leave on Wednesday.”
“And there you have it, folks. Hal Evanston, owner of Spitfire, the winner of the first two legs of the Chrysler Triple Crown Challenge. Will this black colt be the first winner of the five-million-dollar bonus? We’ll know in two weeks.”
Hal, Trish, David, and Marge waved again then, escorted by Mel Howell and several security people, trekked across the track and up to the Sports Palace for more celebration.
Trish watched her father closely. Was it exhaustion that made him look weaker or was it her imagination? Maybe they should just leave so he could get some rest. She stood behind him with her hand on his shoulder when he finally sat down.
Marge stood at his side. “Don’t worry, Tee,” Marge whispered under cover of someone else’s question.
“Don’t worry?” Trish whispered back, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Worrying is what got you into so much trouble. Must be a family trait.
Her thoughts flashed back to her grandmother at the Derby. Now, there was a worrier if ever there was one. When Trish looked back at her mother, she saw a younger form of her grandmother.
“At least I’m more like Dad’s side of the family,” Trish said in an undertone.
Marge raised her eyebrows.
“They don’t worry so much.”
Marge shook her head and chuckled. “No, I don’t think you inherited the worry gene. I’m glad.”
Then why do you worry?
her little nagger leaped into the act.
You know better. It never does any good. Your worrying can’t make your dad any better. In fact, it probably makes him worse.
“Thanks a bunch,” Trish muttered.
“What’s that?” Hal turned his head to look up at her. He patted her hand at the same time.
“Nothing…I…”
“Well, Trish.” Adam Finley took her hand. “We sure are proud of you. Martha and I…well, we feel you’re part of our family now.”
“And we couldn’t be more pleased if you were our own daughter,” Martha said as she gave Trish a hug.
“Thank you. Maybe being part owners in Spitfire makes us all one family in a way.”
“Family’s better than business partners any day.” Martha’s blue eyes twinkled above a merry smile.
“You think you’ll have any trouble deciding what to do with that five mil?” Adam teased Trish.
“We’ve gotta win it first, but it sure would buy a couple of good yearlings.”
“Well, you certainly don’t need to think about buying a car,” Adam joked.
Trish laughed and glanced at her mother to catch her reaction. They hadn’t really talked about the convertibles yet. Her mother and father had always said no car until after high school graduation. And now she had two—that is, she and David. What if she won a third?
Hal patted her hand again. “What do you say we take a break here and head on back to the stakes barn. David and Patrick could maybe use some help.”
Things had quieted at the barns. Patrick greeted them, then finished talking with a reporter.
“How’s it going?” Hal asked after sinking into a lawn chair. He tipped his head back and rotated his neck. When he opened his eyes again, Trish could tell it was an effort.
“The problem’s back.” Patrick sat down beside Hal. “Spitfire’s foreleg is hot and swollen. We’ve got it iced, and tomorrow I’ll start the ultrasound.
He’s had a nice feed. He earned it.”
“How bad is it?”
“We’ll know more in the morning.”
“And the reporters?”
“They couldn’t miss the ice pack.”
Trish left them talking and slipped into the stall where David was refilling the ice pack that stretched from shoulder to hoof. “Want me to do that?”
“No, we’re about done. How’s Dad?”
“He looks so tired he scares me. But Mom says not to worry.”
“Right.” David rolled his eyes and shook his head.
