Golden Filly Collection One (37 page)
Halfway through the church service, the pastor announced that Hal Evanston would like to share a few words. Trish scrunched her legs against the pew so he could get by. At the same moment, she shot him a questioning look. What was going on?
Her father scanned the members of the congregation and smiled at his family. “I want to publicly thank all of you for your continuing support and prayers. I’m here today because our loving Father listens and cares for His children. The doctors were sure I would go fast, but they shot all their weapons at the cancer anyway. You, we all, prayed. That’s an unbeatable combination—and Friday, the X-rays showed the proof. The tumors are receding.”
The congregation broke out in spontaneous applause.
Hal waited. “We always know God is at work in us and for us even when we can’t see what He is doing. This time He’s allowed us to see the results. Again, thank you for your faithfulness to me and my family, and thank you, Father, for the gift of life.” He bowed his head. “Amen.”
Marge gripped Trish’s hand. “He wanted to surprise you,” she whispered.
Trish let the tears roll down her cheeks. They caught in the corners of her smile.
There wasn’t a dry eye to be seen after the service. By the time everyone had hugged her father and mother, Trish felt full, to the point of spilling over.
Rhonda danced in place. She grabbed Trish’s hands, then dropped them to hug her. “I am
so
happy.”
“Me too.” The words didn’t begin to say what Trish was feeling. No words could.
The glow stayed with her all the way to the track.
Spitfire was in good spirits. When David lifted the colt’s front hoof, Spitfire nudged him and sent him sprawling in the straw.
“Knock it off!” David picked up the hoof again.
Brad rubbed down the colt’s opposite shoulder with a soft cloth. Spitfire reached around, nipped off Brad’s crimson and gold baseball hat, and tossed it in the corner.
Trish caught the giggles. She doubled over laughing at the looks on the guys’ faces. Then Spitfire gave her a shove that toppled her on her rear in the straw.
This time David and Brad joined in the laughter. Spitfire pricked his ears and blew, reaching down to shower Trish with his warm, misty breath.
When Trish was back on her feet, the horse nudged against her chest, then rubbed one eye against her shoulder. She rubbed all his favorite places, all the while telling him how wonderful he was. He nodded in contentment.
“That horse is almost human.” Rhonda leaned on the stall door. “Sorry I’m late, but it looks like you managed without me.”
“You missed the clown act.” Trish let herself out of the stall. “Come on, I’ve got another race before the Futurity. See you guys at the paddock.” She picked up her bag in the tack room.
By the time she’d changed after the first race, Trish’s butterflies were frisking full force. Until she saw her father in the saddling paddock.
“Just let God handle the race,” he said as he boosted her up.
“Reading my mind again?”
“No, your face.” He patted her knee. “And I know how you think and feel. Just go out there and do your best. That’s all you can do. Let God take care of the rest.”
Trish leaned forward to give Spitfire a big hug. She smoothed his mane to one side and gathered up her reins.
She tried to keep the black to a flat walk to conserve his energy, but Spitfire would have none of it. He jigged sideways, pulling against the lead rope in Brad’s hands and against the reins.
“He sure is ready,” Brad said from his perch on Dan’l’s back.
“I hope so,” Trish answered. “But he’s never raced this far before.”
And he’s been penned up all week.
A slow canter brought them to the gates. Trish took a deep breath and released it along with her plea, “Please, God.” The two words said it all.
Spitfire broke clean at the shot and drove straight down the middle of the track. He ran easily, as if nothing had happened. His twitching ears kept track of Trish’s song, sung from high on his withers, and the horses around him. The field spread out going into the first stretch, and when Spitfire eased over to the rail, Trish let him. By the three-quarters mark, Spitfire was running stride for stride with another horse. A sorrel and a gray ran two lengths in front, also side by side.
At the mile post, their running mate fell back and Spitfire gained on the two ahead, now running head to tail. Stride by stride the colt eased past the second place and gained on the front runner. The leading jockey went to his whip.
Trish could feel Spitfire waver. His breath came in thundering gasps. “Come on, fella,” she shouted. “This is it. We’re almost there. Come on.”
Spitfire reached out one more time and hurtled over the finish line.
“And the winner by a nose is—number three, Spitfire. Owner, Hal Evanston, and ridden by Tricia Evanston.”
“You did it. You did it!” Trish pulled Spitfire down to a canter. Lather covered his shoulders and flew back when he shook his head. He slowed to a walk, still gasping for air. His sides heaved. Trish patted his neck, comforting him. As his breathing slowed, his head came up again. By the time they entered the winner’s circle, he pricked his ears and rubbed his itchy forehead against Hal’s arm.
Trish slid to the ground. Her knees wobbled so bad she hardly had the energy to unbuckle her saddle girth. David grinned at her. Hal hugged her and they all posed for the pictures. Trish plucked a rose from the wreath and handed it to her mother.
“Save this one for me, will you?”
Marge nodded, relief evident in the smile that fought the tears for first place.
Santa Anita, here we come,
Trish thought as she stepped off the scales.
And after that…
That evening David turned to the sports section of the local paper. The headline read, “Jockey on Probation.” He read the article aloud. “Investigation has revealed that Emanuel Ortega, nineteen-year-old jockey at Portland Meadows, is the alleged attacker on Tricia Evanston and her mount on three occasions during the last several weeks.” David rattled the paper. “All right!”
The article continued with a quote. “ ‘People like her keep the rest of us from riding,’ Ortega said. ‘She’s from a rich family and since she’s the daughter of a owner, she gets the breaks we don’t.’”
“Rich!” Tricia burst out. She stared at her father. “Rich!”
Hal shook his head. His laugh started down deep in his chest. David joined in, then Marge.
“But we are, you know.” Hal tousled Trish’s hair as she sat at his feet. “We’re rich beyond measure.”
My thanks to Adele Olson, Prairie High counselor and friend to students and their parents. Also to Tex Irwin, trainer at Portland Meadows, who so willingly shared his expertise. And thanks to Ruby MacDonald: reader, critiquer, and blessed friend.
To my son Brian,
my friend.
I
cy rain trickled down her neck. Tricia Evanston, sixteen-year-old wonder jockey at Oregon’s Portland Meadows Racetrack, crouched higher over her mount’s withers. “Come on, girl,” she sang to the filly’s twitching ears. “Let’s do this one. You know we like winning.”
The dark bay filly settled deeper on her haunches. Firefly’s ears pricked forward, nearly touching at the tips. She not only liked winning, she acted as if all the spectators came just to watch her. Besides loving to run, she was a natural performer.
The horse next to them refused to enter the starting gate. The memory of slashing whips flitted through Trish’s mind. But the jockey who’d caused those accidents had been barred from the track.
Trish sniffed. In the cold, her nose ran nearly as fast as the horses. “Come on, get him in,” she muttered.
The rear gates slammed shut. Trish and Firefly both tensed for the shot. The front gates clanged open. The filly burst from the stall, her haunches thrusting them ahead of the horse on their left. Three powerful strides and they had the rail.
Trish kept a firm hold on the reins. Pouring rain meant a slippery track, no matter how much sand the crew worked into the dirt. The marker poles flashed past. By the six-furlong post, Firefly was running easily in the lead. She never seemed to care if the track was muddy or dry. She ran for the pure joy of it. Trish loosened the reins and let the filly have her head. She won by a furlong and was still picking up speed at the wire.
Trish laughed as she pulled her mount down and turned back to the grandstand. “You’re fantastic!” She stroked the filly’s wet neck, then rose in the stirrups for the slow gallop back to where her brother, David, and father, Hal, waited in the winner’s circle. “Shame there wasn’t a bigger crowd for you to dance for,” she teased her horse. “Too many people stay home when it rains.”
Trish glanced up at the glass-fronted grandstand. The sheeting rain made everything look dreary. But with a win like she’d had, it was as if the sun shone brightly.
Trish slid to the ground and unhooked her saddle, almost in the same motion. Firefly posed for the camera. David thumped Trish on the arm and her father gave her a quick hug.
“We should take Firefly with us to Santa Anita,” Trish said, grinning at her father. “She needs a bigger crowd.”
Hal nodded as he stroked the filly’s nose. “She sure struts her stuff. And she’s not even tired. What’d you do, just take her out for a Saturday stroll?”
Trish laughed again as she stepped on the scale. “She was still picking up speed at the wire. I couldn’t believe it. David, you better give her a treat; she earned it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” David touched the rim of his hat in a mock bow. “You mind if we get out of the rain now?”
Trish returned his arm thump. “At least you’ve got a dry stall to work in.” She looked skyward. “I’ve three more mounts—in this.”
“Nobody said life was easy, or dry.” David tugged on the filly’s reins. “Come on, horse.” He stopped after they’d taken only a couple of steps. “You be careful, Tee. All those horses aren’t mudders like this one here.”
“Yes,
Mother
.”
David shook his head and trotted off to the testing barn with Firefly.
“He’s right, you know.” Hal fell into step beside his daughter.
“Da-ad.”
“I’m not being over-protective, Tee. I’ve seen some pretty nasty spills on days like today. Just keep your guard up.” He stopped at the entrance to the dressing rooms. “And, Tee, that’s not a bad idea.”
Trish replayed his last comment in her mind as she entered the steamy room. She knew he’d been referring to her suggestion about Santa Anita. She and her father had that kind of mutual understanding. Sometimes it seemed they could almost read each other’s mind.
Trish pulled her crimson and gold winter silks over her head. Her long-sleeved insulated underwear top was wet around the neck, but the waterproofed silks kept her body dry. She toweled the edges of her dark hair and, grabbing a brush out of her sports bag, gave it a good brushing. The longer length felt good.
Trish stared longingly at the steamy shower room where someone was singing as she soaped. A quick glance at her watch settled it. No hot shower. She put on the black-and-white diamond-patterned silks and headed out for her next ride. On her way out the door she applied a thick coating of lip balm and grabbed a handful of tissues to stuff up her sleeve. She would need them for her runny nose.
Rain blew over the track in sheets as they entered the gates for the sixth race of the day, Trish’s third. The race was for maidens under four, making it this colt’s first race. And he didn’t like the rain.
“Don’t worry, fella, the rest of us don’t like this any better than you do, so let’s just get the job done.” A horse two stalls over reared and backed out of the gate.
“Not now, you crazy thing.” Trish kept her mutterings in the singsong cadence that always soothed her mount. She tightened her shoulders up to her ears.
Man, it’s cold
, she thought.
As the gates swung open, her mount slipped before regaining his footing. Trish kept his head up and let him gather himself together before urging him on. They were already two lengths behind the field.
