Golden Filly Collection One (36 page)
While it seemed to Trish they’d been held back forever, they were only a furlong behind the leaders. Spitfire lengthened his stride, his belly low to the ground. Trish rode high over his withers, no longer fighting but assisting him all she could.
They drove past the third-place runner, then the second. At the mile post they caught the straining leader. Even with the saddle, neck and neck, each stride brought the black colt closer to victory.
The whip did the other horse no good. Spitfire ran him right into the ground to win by half a length. When Trish pulled him down to a trot, he began to limp. His heaving sides told her the effort he’d put forth to take the race. By the time they got to the winner’s circle, Spitfire could harldy touch his right front hoof to the ground. Trish slid off him and ran her hand down his leg. The swelling popped up as she stroked.
“Dad, they did it again!”
D
id you see anything? Could you tell who did it?”
Hal shook his head. “I must have moved the glasses off you just that second. The next thing I knew both horses were going down. It happened so quickly.”
Trish smiled for the photographer, then turned her attention back to
Spitfire. “Easy, fella.” She smoothed his forelock and rubbed behind his ear. Spitfire leaned his head against her, all the while keeping his weight off the injured leg.
Hal stood after his inspection of the injury. “I’m pretty sure it’s not broken, but we’ll get an X-ray to be on the safe side. Let’s get him back to the barn. Trish, you have another mount, right?”
“Yeah, I’ll come down to the stalls as soon as I’m done.” She shook her head as Spitfire limped slowly away.
There goes the Futurity.
Scenes flashed in her mind as she trotted over to the dressing room.
If only I’d pulled back harder. I should
not
have let us get caught in that box. A
good
jockey keeps her mount out of trouble. What’s the matter with me?
She jerked open the door. The familiar aroma of liniment-steam, shampoo, and perfume greeted her. Today
she
smelled of mud and horse.
Trish quickly changed to the black-and-white silks, snapped the helmet piece in place, and picked up her whip. The thought of using it on some well-deserving jockey brought a grim smile to her face.
If only they could find out who hates my performance so much they’d whip my horse.
“You okay?” one of the women asked.
“Yeah. How’s the jockey that fell?”
“Broken arm. He must’ve gotten kicked by one of the other horses.”
Trish gritted her teeth. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Now a jockey’s been injured too. Does a jockey or a horse have to get killed before this stops?
She was sure she felt a coolness from the other jockeys.
Do they think I’m at fault?
The new thought brought a lump to her throat. She left for the scales.
“Now, you be careful, hear?” Bob Diego gave her a leg up. “Something funny is going on out there.”
Trish nodded. “You don’t think I…um-mm…that is…”
“No. Once—maybe an accident. Three times?” He shook his head. “Just bring this old lady up from behind. She doesn’t mind mud in her face and she likes to chase the leaders, wear ’em down.” He patted his mare’s shoulder.
Trish did exactly as she was told. She held the mare back so she was slow coming out of the gate. Reins tight, Trish let the field pull ahead. When the runners strung out along the fence, she let the mare have her head on the outside. Every stride brought them closer to the trailing horse, past him, and working on the next. Trish grinned.
This old lady sure knows her stuff.
Trish felt like she was only along for the ride.
When they passed the second-place runner, the rider went for his whip. Trish closed out her instinctive flinch and shouted her own encouragement. The mare stretched out even more and caught the furiously lunging lead. The number-one animal dropped back, spent before the finish line. The mare crossed a length ahead.
“Thanks.” She slid to the ground in the winner’s circle and handed the reins to Diego’s trainer.
“Thank you.” Bob Diego smiled for the flash and turned to Trish. “You did a good job. She was due for a win.”
Trish trotted across the infield to the stables. She met horses on their way to the next race. “Please, God” kept time with her feet, but this time it was for her horse.
Hal and David already had the leg wrapped in medicated mud bandage strips. Spitfire rested the tip of a hoof on the ground, taking all his weight on the remaining three good legs. He nickered when he saw Trish.
“No, it’s not broken,” Hal said before she could ask. “Let’s get him home so we can work with him.” Hal leaned against the wall. “David, you get the truck, and Trish, you lead him out.”
Hal rested his head on the back of the seat as David drove out the back gate. By the time they reached Highway 205, the weary man snored softly.
Now, alone with her thoughts, Trish’s anger came rolling back, threatening to drown her. She clenched her fists and jaw.
How could anyone deliberately hurt someone else—man or horse?
When her mind played with what might have been, she shuddered. “I didn’t file a complaint!” She kept her voice low so her father wouldn’t wake up.
“Dad did,” David whispered.
“Good.”
As soon as they arrived home, Hal went straight to bed and slept through the evening. Trish and David took turns applying ice packs to Spitfire’s leg.
“What’d Dad say about his chances for the Futurity?” Trish asked as they turned off the lights for the night.
“Said not to give up hope, but chances are slim.”
“It’s just so unfair, so…so…”
“Bet the jock with the broken arm is ticked too.”
“And Mom?”
“What do you think?”
Trish chewed on her bottom lip. She could imagine what her mother was thinking.
Marge gave her daughter a quick hug, I-told-you-so written in her expression.
The next morning Trish wanted to stay with Spitfire, but wisely dressed for church, and was ready on time.
God, you’re supposed to be taking care of us. That’s what Dad always says.
When she simmered down a bit, her nagger whispered almost imperceptibly,
You weren’t hurt, were you? It could have been a lot worse.
Trish couldn’t think of a good answer. And with so much on her mind, she didn’t hear much of the service.
With the extra study hall, Trish didn’t have to bring books home, but it also gave her extra time to brood.
Who, and why? And why hasn’t the racing commissioner reported it yet? What is going on?
Rhonda, Brad, and Trish worried over the situation like dogs with a bone. They dug up every memory and fact they could, discussed every jockey, and then repeated the process again. Nothing. They just didn’t have all the pieces to the puzzle.
Trish spent every evening with the horses—packing Spitfire’s leg and galloping the others. Every time she saw the colt flinch or limp, she wanted to grind the culprit who caused the injury into the dirt.
“Trish, you’ve got to let this thing go,” Hal told her one evening. “It’s not your place to solve this. And
you
aren’t the one to mete out justice or punishment.” He smiled at her troubled expression.
“How can you be so calm? Don’t you want to…to…”
“Get even?”
Trish nodded.
Hal shook his head. “Then I’d be just as guilty as they are. No, Tee, it’s not worth it. Just let it go. And do your best.”
By Wednesday the swelling was gone, and on Thursday Spitfire’s leg was cool to the touch. When they clipped him to the hot walker, he still favored the leg but he was walking straight. Within half an hour, the leg heated up again. It was back to the barn for packs.
Friday morning Trish found a new card on her desk.
“Vengeance is Mine, I will repay” (Hebrews 10:30).
Her father had added a line of his own.
“He’s better at it than we are.”
Trish smiled grimly.
Then why doesn’t He get on it?
Friday the leg stayed cool after an hour on the walker.
“I think we’re okay.” Hal carefully felt every muscle and tendon. “But not working at all this week, I don’t know, Tee.” He shook his head. “I just don’t know.”
“You think we should scratch him?”
“He seems sound, but racing could injure it again.” He patted Spitfire’s neck. “Well, old boy, I guess we’ll make the decision in the morning.”
Trish had been praying all week, but her prayers that night included a note of panic. She’d been so sure God would heal her horse in time.
Saturday morning Spitfire trotted around the hot walker, snorting and playing with the ring and lead shank. Hal rubbed his chin once. “Let’s do it.” He turned and headed up to the house for breakfast. Trish danced beside him, much like Spitfire, in her exuberance. At one point she jogged backward, arms raised in a victory clench.
“So you’re going to do it.” Marge shook her head, a frown creasing her forehead.
Trish knew her mother had been hoping they would give up the idea. But if they won the Portland Futurity…the next step would be the Santa Anita in California. And after that, the first Saturday in May.
Trish won on both mounts that afternoon. And while she watched carefully, no one bothered her. No whips, no screams of pain. No falling horses or jockeys. On the ride home, she voiced something that had been lurking at the back of her mind. “The attacks come only when I’m riding
our
horses.”
“Naw,” David disagreed. “The first time you were up on Anderson’s gelding.”
“I know. But he’s from our stables. Maybe the dummy didn’t know any differently.”
“You may have something there,” Hal agreed that evening when they were doing their post-race hash-over.
Trish went to bed with a solid weight in her middle. Tomorrow she would be back up on Spitfire—their own horse. She tried to swallow with a parched throat.
What if…
She shut her eyes tight against the “what if’s” and tried to picture Jesus hugging the children.
I bet He loved horses too!
It was Sunday morning. “Clearing by noon,” David’s clock radio announced as Trish padded down the hall to the shower.
That’s one good thing,
she mused. It had been dry for three days. At least the track wouldn’t be muddy. She let the hot water beat on her tight shoulders. Even her butterflies felt dormant. No aerial flips today, just heavy weights.
