Golden Filly Collection One (59 page)

“You two are absolutely the neatest babies anywhere.” Trish rubbed Miss Tee’s ears and stroked down the brush of a mane. She kept an eye on Double D, waiting for him to tiptoe up. Miss Tee nudged Trish in the chest. “Knock it off, silly. Pretty soon you’ll be big enough to knock me over that way.” Trish stroked her baby’s soft nose and tickled the whiskery upper lip. Miss Tee tossed her head, then nibbled on Trish’s fingers. She sniffed Trish’s jacket pockets, searching for more treats.

Trish snapped a lead rope on the filly’s halter, then opened the gate to do the same for the mare that ambled up for her treat. As she walked the two of them to the barn, Double D and his mother whickered their protest. “I’ll be back in a minute,” Trish assured them.

A few minutes later, with both pairs shut in their stalls with feed and water, Trish strolled back outside. She could see David down in the pasture checking the outside stock. As she watched, he clipped a lead rope on the pregnant mare and led her up the lane. Trish turned back into the barn to prep the foaling stall.

“You think it’s tonight?” she asked as David led the mare into the newly strawed stall.

“Better safe than sorry.” David unsnapped the rope and gave the mare a pat on the shoulder as he eased by her. “Her milk’s in and she seems kind of restless. I’ll check on her a couple of times tonight.”

Trish leaned her chin on her arms crossed on the top of the stall door. She studied the mare that pulled hay from the full manger and munched contentedly. “They sure are tricky, aren’t they? To think a horse can stop labor at will, or even choose when to drop her foal.”

“Yeah, it all helps, especially if you’re wild and trying to keep away from predators.”

“I know. Adam Finley had video cameras in his foaling stall, and a sound system so he could hear if the mare started panting. You should see that spread, Davey boy. It’s unbelievable.”

“Well, things like that would make our lives easier too, but with only one or two foaling at a time, it would be mighty expensive.”

“I know, but we can dream, can’t we?”

David patted her on the shoulder. “Come on, dreamer. Say good-night to your friends and let’s get out of here.”

“See you two later,” Pastor Mort called as they came up the rise. They waved back and watched his car move down the drive.

“You think he talked with Mom?” Trish scuffed her boot toe in the gravel.

“I sure hope so. I’ve never seen her like this.” David tucked both hands in the back pockets of his jeans.

“Scary, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s Mom?” Trish asked after they’d shut the door.

Her father shrugged and shook his head.

When Trish stepped into the dark bedroom a while later and whispered, “Mom?” there was no answer. She left quietly, wishing she could say or do something that would help.

Trish had barely closed her eyes after her prayers when the nightmares rolled over her again. She felt herself flying through the air. “Oh!” She jerked upright. Blinking her eyes, she tried to clear both her vision and her head. Her mouth felt like horses had been racing through it. Her heart pounded as if she’d been the one racing.

With a sigh, she lay back down and stared up at the leafy patterns reflected on the ceiling. Shadows from the branches swaying in the breeze danced above her. Trish willed her eyes to stay open, knowing that the terrible sounds and pictures would return when she slipped into sleep.

Remember the name of Jesus,
her helpful inner voice whispered.
That worked in the fog, didn’t it?

Trish smiled to herself.
That’s right, it did.
It was nice to get some inner help for a change. “Jesus, Jesus.” When she closed her eyes, she pictured Him sitting on a rock with children around Him. He was laughing.

She slept. In peace.

When her alarm went off, Trish stretched and yawned. She certainly felt better than yesterday. The house was silent when she padded down the hall to the bathroom. Her parents’ bedroom door was still closed.

“Hi, Tee,” her father said when she peeked around the corner to the dining room table.

“Is Mom…”

Hal shrugged. He rubbed his forehead with his fingers as if he had a headache. “I don’t know.” He took a deep breath. “David’s down at the barn with the mare that foaled, so I’ll take you to school. It’s a filly,” he answered the question before she could ask. “And yes, she’s fine, and no, you haven’t time to go see her before school.”

“You could at least let me get a word in edgewise.”

“Why? Then you’d try to talk me into letting you see her.”

Trish grinned at the accuracy of his statement. She thought about her mother all the time she was showering and dressing. What was going on? Her mother couldn’t just check out like this, could she? Maybe she really was sick and not telling them. The thought stopped her toothbrush cold. Mom couldn’t be sick too. She just couldn’t. Didn’t they have enough problems with her father’s cancer? Her stomach clenched, like a bad charlie horse.

“You taking Mom to the doctor today?” she asked just before getting out of the car at school.

“We’ll see. You make sure you talk with Mrs. Olson now. You know you have to set up a homework schedule for while you’re gone.”

“I know.” Usually the thought of the Derby made her float about eighteen inches off the ground. Today her feet were encased in concrete. “See you.” She waved as she slung her book bag over her shoulder.

By afternoon Trish had a headache of her own. The doctor had warned her about trying to read, and boy, was he ever right. Sentences jumbled together, and words—well, it was like looking through a waterfall—all blurry. Besides, so many kids had asked about the accident. She felt like a celebrity in reverse. And every time she thought about Phil and his family, the tears stung the backs of her eyes.

“Bad time, huh?” Mrs. Olson patted Trish’s hand when she sat in the chair by the counselor’s desk. “I can tell you’re not feeling so great, so how can I help you?”

“We’ll be shipping Spitfire to Kentucky about the twentieth, and then I’ll fly out there on the twenty-second. The Derby is on May sixth.” Trish paused.

“And then?”

“Then, I don’t know. See, the problem is no one else can ride Spitfire, so we’ll decide about the other races depending upon what happens at the Derby.”

“So, if you win you could miss more school?”

“I guess.” Trish was having trouble concentrating. Her head had gone beyond just hurting and was now in serious pain.

“Trish, you’re turning green right before my eyes. What’s wrong?”

“I got a bit of a concussion on Saturday and…”

“And you should be home in bed.” Mrs. Olson shook her head but smiled at the same time. “Why don’t you go lie down in the nurse’s room.” She checked her watch. “The bell will ring in about half an hour. I’ll let Brad know where you are.”

Trish nodded—carefully. “Thanks.”

“And, Trish, I’ll let your teachers know about our talk so they’re ready to help you with a schedule.”

“Bad, huh?” Rhonda said, after she and Brad walked with Trish out to Brad’s metallic-blue Mustang.

“Better now than a while ago.” Trish slid into the front seat and dropped her head back against the headrest. The pain pills she’d taken seemed to be helping.

She opened her eyes when the car stopped in her yard. A strange car was parked beside the family sedan. “See you guys.”

“I’ll be back for chores in about half an hour. You aren’t riding, are you?” Brad asked.

“I was planning on it, but you and David’ll have to do the honors.” She shut the door without a slam.

She stopped as soon as she shut the door into the house. The car belonged to Pastor Mort, and he and her parents were in the living room praying. Trish added her own amen, greeted them, and headed for her bedroom. The bed welcomed her with open sheets.
At least Mom was sitting in her chair.
The thought flitted away as her eyelids slammed shut.

Dinner was another silent affair. “Your mother’s sleeping,” Hal said. Trish squelched her questions when she looked at her father’s face.

“Tomorrow’s the funeral.” Hal looked from Trish to David. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

“I’ll go,” David said.

Trish felt her stomach cramp again. “I’ll go,” she whispered.
But I’ve never been to a funeral before,
she wanted to cry out.

Chapter

04

I
can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” Trish repeated the verse over and over. “All things. I can do all things, even go to a funeral.”
But I don’t want to go. I don’t want Phil to be dead.
She stared at her tear-stained face in the mirror.

Morning had come too soon. David and her father sat in the dining room eating breakfast. Marge still hadn’t come out of her room. And Trish—all she wanted to do was hide her head under the pillow. If her mother could, why couldn’t she?

She stuffed the thought back down where she hid the questions too hard to think about. Her mother really must be sick. What if something
was
wrong and no one was telling her? Maybe her mother had a terrible disease. Why hadn’t she gone to the doctor? Another question to stuff.

“I’m so scared,” she finally admitted. Bracing her arms on the counter, she let her head drop forward. So scared. So worried.
Just like my mother.

Trish blotted her eyes and tugged the brush through her hair. Even that was harder to do now that she’d let her hair grow longer. She gritted her teeth. Obviously this was going to be one of
those
days. She
had
to talk to her mother, that was all there was to it.

When she opened the bathroom door, she could hear the men talking in the dining room. She tiptoed across the hall and knocked on her parents’ door. When there was no answer, she opened it anyway and walked into the darkened room. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she could see her mother lying on her side facing the window.

“Mom?” She padded around the end of the bed and scrunched down beside the still form. “Mom?” A little louder this time.

Marge opened her eyes.

“Are you sick, Mom? What’s wrong? Can I get you something?”

Marge shook her head. “No, just leave me here.”

“But—but—you haven’t eaten. You—you—we need you.” Trish reached out to touch her mother’s shoulder.

Marge flinched away. “I can’t—I don’t want to talk now.” She shut her eyes again.

Trish stared at the pale face framed by limp and matted hair. “But, Mom…” Her words trailed off. Trish slumped back on her haunches. What were they going to do?

Tears slipped from beneath her mother’s closed lashes and ran unheeded onto the pillow. Trish drew a staggery breath. The tears so close to the surface today burned her eyes and made her sniff. She chewed her bottom lip as she pushed herself to her feet. “I’ll talk to you later, after the funeral.” She wasn’t sure if the words were a promise or a plea.

Trish shut the door behind her and headed for the kitchen. On her way past the cold, gray ashes in the fireplace, she glanced at the mantel. The carved wooden eagle she’d given her father for Christmas had become a symbol of strength for all of them. She clutched the eagle to her chest as she tiptoed back into her mother’s room and set it on the nightstand where Marge couldn’t miss it. Eagle’s wings—if anyone needed them now, it was her mother.

“I can do all things,”
the words kept time with her feet as she mounted the broad concrete steps to the church where the funeral was being held. She clutched her father’s arm with one hand and David’s with the other. Even rolling her lips together failed to stem the tears that persisted.

Flowers of various colors banked the altar and surrounded the closed casket at the front of the sanctuary. A blanket of red roses like those presented to a winning rider covered the shiny wood. Organ music floated over and under the murmur of voices from people in the packed pews. Trish recognized owners, trainers, jockeys, and stable hands. It seemed everyone connected with The Meadows was present.

The hymns, the sermon, the words spoken by Phil’s friends, all passed in a blur as Trish fought her own battle against the sobs that threatened to break through. One verse stayed in her mind:
“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Finally, there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness….”