Golden Filly Collection One (6 page)
“Trish?” David touched her shoulder.
“What!”
“Brad and I’ll feed. You go get the horses off the walker.”
“Okay.”
By the time the feeding was finished and the two Anderson horses were clipped to the hot walker, Trish had calmed the battle in her head. Instead of screaming, she felt numb, like a jaw full of novocaine.
“Does Dad have a phone in his room?” she asked as the three of them walked up to the house.
“Sure, but you can talk to him when we—”
Trish ignored him. “I’ve got to ask him about a mare that’s coughing, and the gray filly is droopy.”
“Trish, we’ll—”
“No, David. You don’t understand.” She turned as they reached the steps. Pain clouded her green eyes. “I can’t go there…to that—that place.
At least not tonight.” She shook her head. “Not now.”
“But…but Mom said…” David stuttered in his disbelief. “Trish, Dad needs you.”
“I’ll talk to him on the phone.” The sound of the opening door punctuated her sentence. “Brad, you coming in for cookies and a Coke?”
Brad glanced at his watch. “No, think I’ll pass for tonight. You gonna need help in the morning?”
“What do you think, David?” Trish stroked Caesar’s golden muzzle.
The dog whined, low in his throat, always sensitive to her moods. Then he glued his haunches to her leg.
“We’ll try to handle it tomorrow. If we can’t get all the chores done, we’ll call you. Okay?”
“Okay. But you know I’m available for whatever you need. Besides, I haven’t gotten to do much riding for a long time. I’m sure Rhonda will pitch in too.”
“Somehow…” Trish pledged, “somehow we’ll get those horses ready.
This is our year to win.”
“Catch you later.” Brad trotted off to his parked car, then turned.
“Hey, David. When do you leave for school?”
Trish and David stared at each other.
“Oh my gosh,” he muttered. “I’d forgotten all about that.”
“Next weekend,” Trish whispered. “You’re supposed to leave next Sunday.”
“What’d you say?” Brad leaned across the shiny roof of his car.
“It
was
next weekend,” David called back. “But now? Who knows?”
Groaning, Trish threw herself down on the padded lounge chair.
Caesar laid his head on her knee, brown eyes pleading for her to cheer up.
“What are we gonna do, old man?” she whispered, scratching his ears. “We just can’t make it all alone. There’s so much to be done around here.” Her jaw tightened. “Well, we can if we have to. That’s what Dad always says. God gives you the time and energy to do what you have to do. Right, David?”
Trish looked up from the dog to see her brother’s stocky form propped against the house, his gaze staring across the pastures.
“Yeah, I guess so,” he replied absently. David blew his nose again, dug in his pocket, pulled out a nail clipper, and began clipping his nails.
Trish knew nail-clipping was David’s way of buying time. Often she teased him about having the best manicure in Clark county. Today was not the time to mention that. Trish leaned over and rested her cheek on Caesar’s warm head. His tongue flicked the tip of her nose. Before she got a full face cleaning, Trish turned away. Caesar thumped his feathery tail and dug his muzzle under her chin.
“Good old dog.” She gently pulled his ears. “Always gotta get the last lick in.”
Caesar put both front paws on her knees. As he stood looking her right in the eye, Trish laughed. “Get down, you big horse. What do you think you are, a lap dog?” The collie dropped to the deck, his nose and forepaws down, haunches and waving tail in the air.
“Can’t play now.” With one leap she reached the door. “Gotta get the phone.” Caesar stopped patiently at the door. “It’s for you,” she called back to David.
Trish ignored her brother on the phone as she opened a large can of chicken noodle soup, poured it into two bowls, added water, and popped them into the microwave.
“What was that all about?” she asked as she punched the timer.
“Getting rides back to Pullman.”
“Sounded like a girl to me. I thought your rider’s name was Danny.”
“Yeah, short for Danielle. She’s nice—blond hair, an education major. I’ve gone out with her a couple times. Anything else, nosy?”
“Yup. How come you haven’t invited her out here to meet us?” Trish leaned against the kitchen counter.
David shook his head. “She’s just a friend, for pete’s sake.”
“Oh sure, just a friend,” Trish mimicked his tone. The timer rang. “Ah, saved by the bell. Get the bread out while you’re standing there. And the peanut butter.” After setting the steaming bowls on the table, Trish returned to the fridge for milk and the raspberry jam. “Want anything else?”
“No, this is enough.” David hooked the chair out with one foot.
Trish blew on her soup as she spread peanut butter and jam on her whole wheat bread. “So, what did you tell her?”
“Who?”
“The awesome blond, Danielle.” She licked a drip of jam off her finger.
“Knock it off! I said I’d get back to her, but she better look around for another ride, just in case.” David slurped a spoonful of soup.
“Just in case what?” Trish stopped chewing and stared directly at David.
“In case I don’t go back.”
“But, David…”
“I mean for right now. You need me here. Mom needs someone with her. And how can I leave Dad? I can make it up later, no big deal.”
“But what about your scholarship?”
“They’ll have to hold it for later, I guess. Trish, none of that is important now.” David shrugged. “It’ll all work out, somehow.”
“Mom’s gonna be mad. Your college comes first with her.”
“Not now it won’t. All she needs to think about is Dad.” David took a deep breath. “Besides, what else can we do?”
Trish went back to eating her soup. “I’m just glad it’s not me telling her.”
“Not to change the subject or anything, but hustle. We’ve gotta get to the hospital.”
Trish choked on the mouthful of soup. “But I told you, I’m not going.”
“Trish!”
“No! I’ll call Dad as soon as I finish the horses.” She shoved her chair back from the table. Stuffing the last of her sandwich in her mouth, she ran out the door, ignoring David’s demands. Caesar bounded across the lawn after her.
Dusk was deepening into dark by the time Trish had returned all the horses to their stalls, wiped down and put away the tack, and headed out to check on the coughing mare. She seemed well enough, so her next stop was the young stock pasture.
“Come on, Caesar,” she called as he sniffed around a Scotch broom bush. “Leave the rabbits alone and let’s find the filly.”
As she climbed the board fence into the yearling pasture, the two colts raced up and skidded to a stop. Both tossed their heads and nosed her for a treat.
“No treats.” Trish pushed them away. “You haven’t done anything to earn one.” Both horses turned and followed her across the field, her flashlight playing out in front, searching for the missing animal.
Tricia crisscrossed the pasture from one end to the other. She checked the fences in case boards were down. The filly lay in the farthest corner. If it hadn’t been for Caesar, Trish might have overlooked the animal. Her shivering body blended into the shadows of the slight hollow.
Trish dropped to one knee beside the animal’s head. “Oh no,” she whispered.
The gray head bobbed with a wrenching cough. Another shiver spasm rippled down the heaving sides. Trish searched her pockets. Not even a lead rope. Nothing.
W
ith a groan, Trish leaped to her feet. Her mind raced as fast as her pumping legs.
First, get the filly up and walk her to the barn. No. First get a lead rope. Do we have an empty stall away from the other animals? Yeah, I’ll fork some straw in after I get her there. Then take her temperature and call the vet. Oh, if only Dad were here. I don’t want to make these decisions. What if the filly dies? Oh, God, no—no! I won’t think of dying. Please, God, you said you’d help…all the time. Why are you so far away when I need you?
When she reached the stable, Trish flipped on the light. Nickers and rustlings in the stalls told her she had surprised the sleeping animals.
The thud of hooves on a wall warned her that Spitfire didn’t take kindly to the interruption.
“Easy, fella,” she called as she grabbed a lead rope off the nail and dashed back to the pasture. Caesar raced beside her.
“Dear God,” she pleaded between harsh breaths. “Help me get her up and into the stall.”
The filly still lay shivering in the hollow. When Trish petted the gray neck, her hand came away wet.
“Dew or sweat?” she muttered. “I’m not sure. My feet are soaked enough to make me think it could be dew. Let’s hope so.”
All the while her soft murmurings seemed to calm the shivering horse. With the lead rope snapped in place, Trish stood and leaned against it. The gray shook her head but made no effort to regain her feet.
“God, please.” Trish wiped a hand across her forehead and wrapped the lead rope around her fist. “Come on, girl.” The command rang across the hollow. “Get up!” Once more she leaned against the rope, her heels digging into the wet turf.
Caesar barked. The command sharpened when he nipped the filly on the rump.
The horse scrambled to her feet.
Trish scrambled to keep from landing on her seat.
“Wow!” She shook her head. “God, when you answer a prayer, you don’t fool around.”
“Thanks, Caesar.” At his name the dog left his self-assigned position at the animal’s hocks and nuzzled his slim nose into Trish’s hand. “Good boy,” she whispered. “Good job. Now let’s get her up to the barn.”
Slowly the three made their way to the lighted stables. Every time the filly stalled, a sharp bark from Caesar reminded her of the nip on the haunches. Trish led the droopy animal into the stall farthest away from the stabled horses, one kept for sick animals but rarely used. She clipped the lead rope into one of the barn rings, then snapped the crosstie in place.
“I know you want to lay down,” she stroked the sick animal. “But that will have to come later.”
When she unlatched the door to the tack room, Spitfire nickered for attention. “Later, fella,” she said as she reached inside the medicine cabinet for the thermometer and petroleum jelly.
The filly was too miserable to even flinch as Trish lifted the horse’s tail and inserted the rectal thermometer. Her gray head drooped as far as the lead ropes permitted. The two minutes back-pedaled into what seemed like an hour while Trish’s mind flipped pages in the medical dictionary searching for possible diseases.
“Whew! A hundred and four,” she read after wiping the glass tube on her pant leg. “No wonder you’re shivering, old girl. You’ve got a fever. Let’s see what else.” Swiftly she checked the animal for other symptoms.
Droopy eyes, sweaty, can’t hear any strange breathing,
mentally she checked them off.
“Be right back,” she patted the steamy neck. “Come on, Caesar. Let’s call the vet.”
The phone was ringing as Trish slid open the back door. “Runnin’ On Farm,” she could barely get the words past her gasps for air after the run to the house. “Trish speaking.”
“Hi, babe. What’s happening?”
“Oh, Dad!” Trish swallowed past the boulder that had suddenly lodged in her throat at the sound of the familiar voice. “How did you know how much I needed you?”
“Hey, we’ve always said great minds run in the same circles.” Her father’s voice rasped from a throat raw from coughing. “Now, what’s our great minds’ problem?”
“It’s the gray filly. When I went back out to last-check the stock, she was down. Caesar and I—no,
God
, Caesar, and I got her up and into the barn. Her temp was one-oh-four.”
“Slow down. Slow down. Why don’t you call the vet, then call me back. Then you can tell me what you mean by God, Caesar, and you.
Sounds like a good story.” He paused, his voice deepening, reassuring his daughter. “Take it easy, Trish. Everything’s going to be all right.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Trish forced her hand on the receiver to relax. “I’ll get right back to you.”
Amazing,
Trish thought when the phone at the vet’s was answered on the first ring.
“Bradshaw here.”
“I’m so glad you’re home. This is Trish from Runnin’ On Farm. I’ve got a yearling filly with a temp of one-oh-four. She was down, sweaty and shivery. She didn’t want to get up.”
“First, get her up into the barn.”
“I’ve already done that.”
“Good, good. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“Oh…and Trish?”
“Yeah?”
“Sorry to hear about your dad.”
Boy, news sure travels fast,
Trish thought as she said thanks and hung up the phone. Then she turned the yellow pages for hospitals.
Ah, St. Joseph’s.
She wrote the number on a pad by the phone.
“Hal Evanston’s room, please,” she responded to the operator.
“That’s room 731. I’ll ring it for you.”
“Thanks.” Trish scribbled the number down by the other as she switched the receiver to her other ear. “Dad?” Trish leaped in before he could give a hoarse hello.
