Golden Filly Collection One (67 page)
“What’s the matter with you?” she scolded. “You know better than to work in that dust.” She planted both hands on her hips, still clasping the reins in one. “Just leave that and—”
“Yes, boss.” Hal touched a finger to his cap. His sarcasm cut off her tirade.
“Sorry.” Trish handed him the reins. “Why don’t you walk him out and I’ll…” She stopped again. Her father didn’t need to do that much walking right now either.
David, I need you.
“No. You put away the tack and I’ll walk him. Then you can hold him while I clean. Okay?” She unbuckled the saddle and bridle while she talked, deliberately not looking her father in the eye. She knew how much he hated to admit any weakness.
She heard him coughing when she brought Spitfire back into the barn.
D
ad? If you can hold him, I’ll finish the stall.”
Hal nodded. “The water is helping.” He took another drink and, leaning against the block half wall, held out his hand for the reins. Spitfire nosed the cup. When he started to nibble the rolled paper edge, Hal shook his head. “Not for you, old man. Yours is in the bucket.”
Trish left the two of them discussing the water cup, and attacked the dirty straw. By the time she’d loaded and trundled out a couple of wheelbarrow loads, sweat was running down her neck.
When she started to load a straw bale on the barrow, a voice stopped her. “Why don’t you let me do that?”
She turned to look into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen, except in the movies. He had curly red hair—not carrot, but deep auburn, and he was grinning at her. She couldn’t resist grinning back.
“They call me Red but my name’s Eric.” He hefted the bale and dumped it in her barrow. “Another?”
“Yeah, thanks. I’m Tricia Evanston, Trish.” Before she could pick up the handles, he had the wheelbarrow in motion. “You don’t have to do this. I
can
manage.”
“I know.”
“Stall five.” She kept pace with him.
“I know. You ride Spitfire and you’re from Washington, as in, state of. This is your first time to Kentucky, and most people think the world will end if a girl should win the Derby.”
“How…”
“I can read. They do teach us southern boys how to read before they let us up on horseback. But me, I was riding before I started reading.” He lifted the bales out one at a time and dumped them in the stall.
Trish snapped her mouth closed. She looked at her father in time to catch a slow wink.
“Gotta go. See y’all later, maybe down at the track kitchen. Only one more mount this morning.” He walked off whistling.
Hal took one look at Trish’s face and started to laugh. Even a cough in the middle didn’t make him quit chuckling.
“What’s so funny?” Trish cut the baling wires with a pair of pliers, pulled out the wire, and wrapped them together to throw away. Then she took a pitchfork and broke up the bale. Tossing the straw in the air to separate it sent clouds of dust billowing up. “Don’t know what made him think he could do this stuff,” she muttered as she worked. “There must be someone here we can hire to help.”
“Kinda takes your breath away, doesn’t he?”
“Who?” Trish pulled her leather gloves off and stuck them in her back pocket. She wiped her forehead with her sleeve. “Where’d you find that water?”
Hal pointed to a hose outside. “That jockey who helped you.”
“Jockey? He was probably just an exercise boy.” Trish downed a cup of water.
“Don’t you know who he is?”
“Red, or Eric. That’s all he said. I didn’t
ask
him for help, you know.” Spitfire rubbed his forehead against her shoulder, then lipped the cup. “Get away, your drink’s in your stall.” She pushed his nose away.
“Do you care who he is?”
“Not particularly. Right now I’d rather eat.” She squatted down and started unwrapping the thick bandages Spitfire still wore. As she finished each one, she handed it to Hal, who hung it over the wire strung between the posts. When she finished that, she checked the stall. “Dust’s down. He can go in.” She led the colt into his stall and let him loose. “Be good now.” One last pat on his rump, and she slipped out of the stall while he drank.
Trish picked up the bucket with brushes, scraper, and sponge to store in one of the wardrobe-size tack boxes. She added her pliers, gloves, and helmet, then glanced around to make sure nothing was left lying around. Her father had taught her well; loose gear meant lost gear.
In the car Hal leaned back against the headrest with his eyes closed. His breathing was shallow with an occasional wheeze. He handed Trish the keys. “You better drive, at least on the grounds here.”
Trish adjusted the seat for her shorter legs and turned on the ignition. “Am I legal in this car?”
“Not really. Should have had you sign on the contract just in case.” Hal opened his eyes. “I’ll be okay after some hot coffee and food.”
Trish found a place to park right in front of the brick building shaded by massive oak trees. Track Kitchen read the sign above the white doublewide doors. White shutters at the windows and white bricks outlining the flower beds and trees made it look more like a nice home than a cafeteria.
Trish headed for the restroom before getting in line for her food. One look in the mirror at her dirt-streaked face and she groaned. Great way to meet a new guy.
Thought you weren’t interested,
her little nagger chuckled teasingly.
“I’m not—I mean, I—” Trish stuffed the wet paper towel in the trash. She pulled a comb from her back pocket, combed her hair, and refastened the clasp holding it back. Her bangs lay flat, mashed by her helmet. She dampened her fingers and fluffed her bangs.
Of course! You always go to all this trouble for breakfast. Hee, hee,
the voice persisted.
Trish stuffed the comb back in her pocket, wishing she could stuff the voice in the trash can along with the paper.
A man with the look of a reporter had joined her father for a cup of coffee. Hal introduced him as a writer for the
Blood Horse Journal.
“How about if I get your breakfast too?” Trish held out her hand for money. “Your usual?” At Hal’s nod, she joined the line and waited to order. Trish studied the menu printed above the counter, in case there was something new she’d like to try.
“Told you I’d see you here,” a voice said behind her.
She whirled around. Eric reached past her, picked up two trays, and handed her one. “They make good hot cakes here. You need to pick up forks and stuff right there.”
“I can handle it, thank you.” Trish shook her head. Who did he think he was, telling her what to do? But his grin was easier to catch than a cold.
“My sister says I’m bossy.”
“She’s right.” Trish tried to stop them but the words just leaped out.
“Y’all gonna order or what?” The man behind the cafeteria-style counter settled back to wait.
Trish felt a blush creep up her neck. “Two orders. One egg over easy, bacon, and hot cakes.”
“Short stack or tall?”
“Huh?”
“You want two hot cakes or four?” His dark eyes laughed at her.
“Two. And put two eggs on the second order. Same way, over easy.” She reached for a carton of milk and shoved her tray along the line. Why’d she feel like these two guys were ganging up on her? By the time she paid for the orders, the two plates of food appeared on top of the stainless steel counter. She loaded her tray and headed back to the table where her father was deep in conversation. He took the plate she passed him, nodded his thanks without breaking eye contact with the reporter.
“Don’t mind Sam.” Eric set his tray down beside Trish’s. “He likes to give pretty girls a bad time. Once you get to know him, you’ll like him.” He pulled out the chair and sat down. “Actually, he likes to give everybody a bad time.”
Trish looked at him, astonished. When she opened her mouth, no words came out. She watched as he attacked the scrambled eggs and dry toast. Who’d he think he was—her big brother? She already had one of those, thanks.
Trish spread butter and syrup on her hot cakes and seasoned her egg. She bowed her head for grace, and when she looked up again she could feel Eric staring at her.
“That takes a lot of nerve,” he said softly.
“What?”
“Grace in public. That’s just one more reason why I think I like you.” He winked at her over the edge of his milk carton, then drank it half down.
Trish felt her mouth open—then close. Butterflies fluttered in her middle. As she ate her meal, she tried to both listen to her father’s conversation and answer Eric’s comments. Finally she gave up on her dad and enjoyed listening to Eric tell her about the people in the room. Famous trainers, world-class jockeys, renowned media, all were there and all were talking horses. She wished she could be a little mouse at each table, but then her mother had tried to teach her not to eavesdrop.
When she pushed her plate away, Eric stacked it on top of his, loaded the trays, and returned them to the proper place.
“Tomorrow it’s your turn,” he announced as he sat down again, a cup of coffee in hand. “You want some?”
“No, thanks. And what makes you think we’re—I mean, I’m—”
“Having breakfast together?” He took a sip of coffee. He shrugged. “We just are. You coming to the races this afternoon?”
“I—uh—I don’t know.” She turned to her father. He’d just finished his interview with the writer and heard the question.
He extended his hand. “Hi, Red, I’ve heard a lot about you.” He answered the question on Trish’s face before she could ask it. “This is Red Holloran, leading apprentice jockey in the country.”
Trish felt even more like someone who forgot to come in out of the rain.
“And about the races, I think not today. We’ve got to get licensed, and then I’d better rest awhile. Trish, you could stay if you’d like.”
Trish shook her head. She could see the tiredness around her father’s eyes. That coughing fit in the barn hadn’t helped any, and yesterday had been a rough day.
“Then how about dinner?” Eric looked right at Trish. “I could meet you back at the barn after the program is done for the day.”
Was he asking her for a date? Trish looked to her father, not sure if she even wanted to ask permission.
“Maybe another time.” Hal pushed his chair back. “After you get to know each other a bit more.”
Trish breathed a sigh of—relief—disappointment? She wasn’t sure which.
H
al slept all afternoon.
Trish slathered on sunscreen and lay out by the pool.
It would have been fun to watch Red race,
she thought.
And dinner? He probably meant hamburgers. But maybe not. Maybe it would have been a real date.
After a couple of hours of turning and toasting, she pushed herself to her feet. The spots she saw before her eyes reminded her of the last concussion, but they left as soon as she moved around some.
After changing clothes, she ambled out the door to the shopping center that surrounded the hotel. She spent an hour in the card shop, chuckling to herself as she chose cards to send home. But it wasn’t as much fun without someone to show them to.
A T-shirt caught her eye in the next store, but she didn’t have enough money along. There’d been no time to go to the bank before she left home. She’d have to ask her dad for some money.
By the time she bought a Diet Coke from the hotel pop machine and reentered the room, it was time to leave for the track for evening chores. She shook Hal awake.
“Dad? It’s time to go feed Spitfire.” She noticed the lines that had deepened around his mouth. “Dad?”
Hal groaned and blinked his eyes. “I didn’t plan on sleeping the day away.”
“Guess you needed it. I can go by myself if you want.”
“No. You’re not a legal driver for the rental car yet,” he reminded her as he swung his feet to the floor. “We’ll stop by the airport on the way back and get your name on that contract. Just in case you need to run an errand or something.” He reached for her soda can and glugged a couple of swallows. “Now, that tastes good.”
He seemed more himself on the drive back to the track. Spitfire welcomed them with nickers and head tosses. “You walk him around a bit,” Hal said as he sat down in a lawn chair. “I’ve got some paper work to do.”
