Golden Filly Collection One (16 page)
A
ll Trish wanted to do was crawl back into bed.
She’d fed and watered all the home stock while David took care of the two at The Meadows. When she cross-tied the mare in the alley to clean out her stall, Miss Tee explored her new domain, her tiny hooves dancing through straw wisps and thudding back to hide behind her mother.
Trish threw new straw in the stall, refilled the water bucket, and led the mare back in. Miss Tee started her spooking-at-the-straw game all over again.
“You’re so silly.” Trish dumped a measure of grain into the feedbox. While the mare munched, Miss Tee lipped a bit of hay. Trish tugged a couple of strands of straw out of the filly’s brush of sorrel mane. “You look like someone gave you a Mohawk.” She smoothed the bitty forelock. “Hard to believe you’ll ever be big enough to race.” Miss Tee whiskered Trish’s hand, her nose softer than velvet to the touch. “I’d better go.” Trish latched the stall door as she heard the pickup return. “Or they’ll be down to get me.”
Her mother glanced pointedly at the clock when Trish slid open the glass door. “You’ve less than an hour,” she said as she placed a plate of pancakes in front of her daughter.
“How’s Dad?”
“Ready and resting. We don’t want to be late to church.”
Trish flinched at the implied criticism. She wasn’t late
all
the time.
Trish’s concentration failed her during the sermon. She was right in the middle of a workout with Spitfire when Pastor Mort’s voice broke in on her daydream.
“God loves each of us so much He sent His only Son to die a miserable, degrading death—death on a cross. Even Jesus felt abandoned when He cried, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’”
Trish tried to put herself back up on Spitfire’s back. She couldn’t.
Does everyone have to talk about dying?
she thought. But the pastor’s next words grabbed her back.
“That’s how much He cares for you. For each one of us. Look for His promises when you’re trapped in the hard spots of life, when everything seems hopeless. Your Bible contains all the promises God has made to His people for all time.”
Some care,
Trish’s thoughts kept pace.
Some promises.
But you don’t know His promises,
her inner voice began a debate.
I know some of them,
Trish countered.
Not enough,
the voice insisted.
“Memorize the verses,” Pastor Mort continued. “So the Holy Spirit can bring them to your mind when you need them. It is a certain thing that there will be times in life when you need His help, when you need His Word.”
Trish got so caught up in the argument in her head, she missed the rest of the sermon. Still, a feeling of warm comfort seemed to settle around her shoulders and snuggle into her mind. How would she find the promises? She didn’t have time to read
all
the Bible right now.
“Wake me in half an hour.” Trish tried to stifle the yawn that threatened after lunch. “I need to study before chores.”
“And your room?” her mother asked. “If you’d hang up your clothes when you take them off…”
“I know.” Trish headed down the hall. “I just don’t have a lot of extra time.” She surveyed the disaster, promised herself to catch up later, and fell on the bed—asleep before she could even roll over.
She awoke two hours later. Silence surrounded her as if she were the only one in the house. She checked David’s room. He was sprawled across the bed like a puppet without strings. She peeked into her parents’ room. Both of them lay sound asleep too.
Relief flooded through Trish, making her aware she’d been holding her breath. She breathed deeply, returned to her room, and opened her chemistry book.
Might as well use the bit of afternoon remaining.
She sat down at her desk before she saw it. A green three-by-five card was set against her lamp. In her father’s block printing were the words
“Cast all your cares on Him, for He cares for you” (1 Peter 5:7).
She push-pinned the card to the wall so she could see it whenever she looked up.
Trish’s alarm rang at 4:30 Monday morning. She stumbled out to the pickup with her eyes half closed and didn’t really wake up until David parked the truck at The Meadows. She rode both horses, left them on the hot walker, and was back home at exactly seven.
Her first class after lunch was pure agony. Her umpteenth yawn felt like it would crack her jaw. She got a drink between classes, but the chemistry symbols ran together during study hall.
Her head cleared by the time she had Spitfire out on the track, but the evening at her books was an absolute failure. Her mother tapped her on the shoulder. “Trish, you’d sleep better in bed.”
Thursday afternoon she fell sound asleep in history class. Rhonda poked her in the back. Trish jerked awake to find the teacher staring at her.
When it happened again on Friday, the teacher said, “Tricia, would you stay after class a minute, please?”
“Oh no,” Trish groaned.
“Tricia, this isn’t like you.” The teacher leaned against her desk. “I know you’re getting ready for the race, but your first responsibility is here, in class.”
Trish nodded, her cheeks feeling like she was standing in front of a bonfire. The teacher sounded just like her mother.
“I’ll try harder, I really will,” she managed.
“I hope so. Otherwise I believe I’ll have to talk with your parents.” The teacher signed a tardy slip as the bell rang. “Think about it.”
“Yes.” Trish picked up the paper and left the room.
Oh sure,
she thought.
Talk to my mom. That’s all I need. As if I don’t have enough on my mind without this. Who needs history anyhow?
Rhonda waited for her outside their last class. “How bad?”
“She threatened to call my parents if I don’t shape up.”
“What are you gonna do? You do look beat.” Rhonda held the door open for her friend.
“I don’t know, but if she tells my mother, that’ll be the…” Trish slung her denim jacket over one shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.” Together they jogged out to Brad’s car. “At least it’s Friday.”
“Don’t ask,” Trish said to Brad’s questioning look.
Trish opened the back door of the house to the aroma of fresh chocolate chip cookies. Her mother pulled a cookie sheet from the oven just as she entered the kitchen.
“Wow, these are great!” Trish relished every morsel. “Thanks, Mom.”
“How was school?”
“Okay.” Trish poured herself a glass of milk. “Where’s Dad?”
“Down at the stable.” She turned to put more scoops of dough onto the sheet. “So, what went on today?”
Trish dug a piece of dough out of the bowl with her finger and stuck it in her mouth.
“You might wash your hands first.”
“Um-m-m, that tastes good. Seems forever since I’ve come home to your baking and cooking.”
“I know.” Marge sighed. “This hasn’t been easy for any of us. And Trish, I
am
grateful for all you’ve done. Even when I don’t seem so.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Trish felt her smile begin way inside and work its way out.
You should have told her about your teacher,
the voice admonished.
Well, I got out of that one pretty good,
she thought as she went to change her clothes and head for the barn.
“I’ve hired Genie Stokes to ride Gatesby tomorrow,” Hal announced at dinner that night. “I decided to stay with a woman since you’re the one who trained him, Tee.”
“She’ll be good for him.” Trish laid her fork down. “She taught me a lot last year when we exercised horses together.”
“I know. And she has the same light touch you do.” Her father leaned his chin on his steepled hands. “She’s going to do morning workouts for us too.”
“But—” It was hard for Trish to hide her disappointment.
“You’re too tired, Tee,” he said, glancing toward his wife. “Your mother and I have decided no more morning workouts at the track during school days.”
“But what about when we move Spitfire there? We can’t have someone else work him.”
“I figured we’d move him after school on Wednesday. We’ll make an exception for those next two days. Your mother will take you over to ride him and bring you right back. On the condition that you get to bed early both nights.”
Trish was afraid to say any more, grateful for the reprieve the two days before the race. No one else had ever ridden Spitfire.
“What about when we have an entry during the week?” she asked.
“Genie will ride then.” Marge’s voice was firm, to match her expression.
That’s not fair!
Trish wanted to scream.
They’d let me out of school. My grades are always good enough.
Oh really,
the inner voice intruded.
Flunking chemistry is good enough to get breaks at school?
Trish looked from her mother to her father. He took his wife’s hand in his. “Sorry, Tee. We really believe this is what’s best.”
Maybe for you.
Trish bit her lip to keep the words inside.
But not for me.
“May I be excused, please?” At her parents’ nod, she pushed back her chair, rose, and left the room, her booted heels beating a staccato pout.
Saturday morning Trish worked the two horses at home before she and Brad went to pick up Rhonda and head for The Meadows. David had gone in at the usual six o’clock, and Marge and Hal would be coming closer to post time. Breakfast had been pretty quiet as Trish ate quickly, keeping her eyes on her food to avoid her parents’ gaze.
“I’ll see you about an hour before post time,” her father said. “Then we’ll watch the race from the box with the Andersons.”
Trish nodded.
“I’ve already talked with Genie. She knows what I want her to do.”
“Fine.” Trish left the room without a backward glance, even when she heard her father’s deep sigh.
He should be at the track with us all of the time. He’s never watched from the box before. And how is he going to do all that walking?
Her thoughts chased around her mind, like chipmunks on a log.
Trish rode old Dan’l on the parade to the post that afternoon. Gatesby seemed to respond well to his new rider—he’d only tried to bite her once. While he jigged sideways, his legs crossing in perfect time, his perked ears showed more interest than orneriness.
