Golden Filly Collection One (34 page)
The next afternoon, Trish rode two races before Gatesby—winning one and placing fourth in the other. Just the thought of having her dad in the stands sent an extra thrill down her spine as she and Gatesby paraded to the post. The rain had stopped, but the track was still wet. A brisk wind bit through her silks and snapped the infield flags.
Gatesby wanted to run. He’d already worked up a lather before Brad turned them loose at the gates. Trish laughed at the bay’s antics as the gate squeaked shut behind them. Gatesby spooked at the sound, then settled for the break. In a split second Trish noted who rode on either side of her. Genie grinned back on the left.
Gatesby pulled ahead by the quarter pole and stayed there. After the finish line Trish had to fight him back to a trot. He shook his head at her command and sent gobs of lather to decorate her silks. She scraped a glob off her cheek as she slid to the ground in the winner’s circle and wiped her hand on the colt’s nose. “Looks better on you,” she said, and held his bridle tightly under his chin. John Anderson gripped the other side the same way. Neither of them wanted a new bruise.
When the announcer called Firefly’s race, Trish gladly slipped into her crimson and gold. She didn’t get to wear their own silks half as much as she’d like. She smoothed the sleeve and snapped the colors on her helmet. Another win would sure feel great. She raised her shoulders up to her ears and relaxed them to get the kinks out.
By the time they paraded to the post, the drizzle had returned. Trish hunched her shoulders again, this time against the dampness. When they entered the starting gate, the drizzle deepened to a downpour. Firefly shook her head and laid back her ears.
“I don’t like it any more than you do.” Trish rubbed the filly’s neck. “So let’s just get this over with.” Firefly paused an instant after the gates clanged open, then leaped forward. Within six strides they were boxed in. Just the spot Trish hated and feared. A horse behind them kept her from pulling back.
She could hear her father’s advice in her ears.
Just ride it out and watch for a hole.
Firefly skidded a bit in the turn. The harsh thwap of the whip and the squeal of pain sounded at the same instant.
Firefly leaped ahead, thudded into the horse on their right and clipped the hind feet of the mount in front of them. Trish fought to keep the filly’s head up as horses grunted and stumbled around them. Jockeys swore, horses squealed. Seeing daylight in front, Trish drove for the opening and by sheer willpower kept her mount moving and upright.
Feeling Firefly loosen up and lengthen her stride, Trish checked the track ahead. One horse rounded the far turn. “Let’s go for it, girl,” she shouted. She ached to look back and see if anyone was injured. That had been too close. Who had struck Firefly? And why?
They pounded into the stretch, gaining on the leader. Rain drove in Trish’s face. The horse ahead appeared and disappeared in the sheets of silvery, icy rain. Suddenly the first-place runner stumbled, almost went down, then limped along the rail in obvious pain.
Trish pulled Firefly up on the far side of the wire. They’d won—but at what cost to the other entries?
Hal wrapped a jacket around his daughter as she slid off her horse. The pictures were taken with an umbrella over the owners and cameraman.
“What happened?” her father asked as she stepped off the scale. David led Firefly away to the testing barn.
“Someone hit us! Dad, what’s going on? What about the rest of the pack? And what happened to the lead horse?”
“I haven’t heard. All I could think about was you.”
“I’m okay. But someone caused all that. It was no accident.”
Wouldn’t you know, Mother would be here to see this one,
Trish thought as she stepped into the hot shower back in the dressing room. She wasn’t sure if the shakes were caused by the cold or left over from the race. Anger, fierce and unrelenting, burned her from the inside as the water pounded her skin. Someone had whipped her horse, and maybe caused the injuries of other horses and riders. What sort of person would do such a thing? Poor Firefly. She’d never been struck with a whip in her entire life—until today. Trish ground her teeth. The filly’s squeal of pain echoed in her ears.
Trish and her father filed their complaint before they left the track. Trish was still so angry, she could hardly give the correct information.
“They acted like it was
my
fault!” Trish railed on her father as they left the office.
“Easy, Trish. They’ll look in to it. The rain made it difficult for anyone from the stands to see what was happening. At least no one was hurt. Let’s be thankful for that.”
“Except that horse broke a leg.”
“Yes, but that had nothing to do with your situation. Sometimes bones just crack. It’s one of the hazards of racing Thoroughbreds.” Hal snapped open the umbrella as they reached the exit. “Let’s get back and check on Firefly.”
The filly nickered at the sight of Trish. “I’m going to find out who did this,” Trish muttered as she rubbed down the horse’s neck and behind her ears. “I promise.”
A
complaint against
me
? Again?”
“I know. But your horse bumped the others. No one saw anyone strike Firefly. The rain made everyone extra cautious and visibility was nil.”
“But, Dad, that’s not fair!” Trish could feel herself losing control. She wanted to scream and pound someone—the someone who caused this. Twice now. Someone had struck her horses twice. “What are they saying?”
“That you’re young and inexperienced.” He dropped his voice. “And you’ll do anything to win.”
Trish stepped back as if struck. “But…but that’s not true!”
“I know. I think someone is starting rumors too. Those who know us won’t believe it, but others? Well, you know how it goes.”
Trish stared at her father, her eyes wide with shock. She licked her dry lips and tightened her jaw. “What are they going to do about it?”
“Continue investigating.”
Trish replayed the race in her mind—moment by moment. Nothing. All she could remember was disgust at being boxed in, and trying to keep Firefly on her feet. The reel played as she worked the horses around the home track; when she took a shower; and in a nightmare that left her shaking.
On Tuesday morning Trish found a new card.
“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me” (Philippians 4:13). I suppose that means not wanting to beat up whoever is doing this.
Her nagger seemed to congratulate her,
You’re right!
And I can study in spite of everything?
she asked.
Right on.
Even chemistry?
You got it.
Trish smoothed the covers on her bed and read the card again. She pinned it above the others. There was quite a list of promises. Now, to hang on to all of them.
A trailer truck drove out of the yard when Brad dropped her off after school Wednesday afternoon.
“Who was that?” she asked.
Hal studied his hands. “He bought Samba and the gray filly.”
“You mean they’re gone? Already?”
Hal nodded. “He met my price, Tee. Those two yearlings just bought us some breathing room.”
Tears prickled at the back of Trish’s eyes. She swallowed. “But I didn’t even get to say good-bye.”
“I know.” Hal put his arm around her shoulders. “I know.”
That evening Trish had to turn down another mount when a trainer called her. His “Thanks anyway,” when she told him she’d be glad to ride for him on the weekend didn’t help.
And now I’m supposed to study chemistry.
Trish slammed the book shut. Standing up suddenly sent her chair crashing to the floor. She stomped to the window and jammed her hands in her back pockets.
Fog drifted past the mercury yard light, creating a shimmering, circular glow. Rocks glistened in the driveway. Moisture beads on the car roof sparkled in the soft light. Trish sighed and returned to her desk.
Where are my eagle’s wings tonight?
The new card caught her eye. She gritted her teeth and opened the book again. “Please, God. It says
all things.
”
The next afternoon Trish got a B on the chemistry quiz.
Well, that means a D average for this quarter.
She felt like putting her head down and bawling.
When will I ever get to race again?
Trish met her parents by the trophy case near the main doors. “Mrs. Olson asked me to take you to the conference room. She said the others would be there in a few minutes.”
Trish pulled out a chair by her father. “I don’t know what good this is gonna do,” she muttered under her breath.
“Trust us.” Her father patted her knee.
Trish nodded and smiled as all her teachers, the principal, and Mrs. Olson, her counselor, took their places. After general greetings and exchanges, a hush fell on the room. Trish squirmed in her seat.
I’d rather be home working the horses. At least that might do someone some good.
Her father cleared his throat. “I think you all are somewhat aware of our situation. I have cancer, and…”
Trish forced herself to straighten up in her chair. The expression she wore masked the thoughts that whizzed through her brain.
Why does he have to tell everybody what’s happening in our family? This is our business.
