Golden Filly Collection One (71 page)

“Breeze him five furlongs,” Hal said as Patrick boosted Trish up on Tuesday morning. “Trot once around to warm him up, then let him loose in front of the wooden stands.” He pointed to the wooden bleachers constructed for owners and trainers by the gate to the track. “Patrick and I’ll clock you from there.”

Spitfire seemed to sense this morning was different. He played with the bit and danced sideways on the far turn. Trish snapped her goggles into place. As they came around the near turn, she angled him to the rail and let him extend to a gallop.

“Okay, fella, let’s get ready,” she crooned into his twitching ears. At the furlong marker she gave him his head and shouted, “Go, Spitfire!” She crouched high over his withers as he exploded under her. With each stride he gained speed, like a sprinter off the mark. She remained in the high position, hands firm and encouraging. She almost missed the fifth marker, and the sixth passed before she could bring him down. They cantered on around the track.

The grin on her father’s face told her all she needed to know. But her internal stopwatch already knew the colt had run well. The only question—could he last the mile and a quarter? Santa Anita had been a mile and an eighth. An eighth of a mile, one furlong, didn’t seem far, unless you were running on pure heart by then. Races could be won or lost in the last stride.

“Here, lass, I’ll walk ’im.” Patrick reached for the lead shank.

“No, that’s okay, I need something to keep busy. You guys are doing all the hard stuff.” Trish relaxed after walking Spitfire out. His knee stayed cool to the touch, as if there had never been an injury. One more big relief.

Each day her internal aerial troupe took to practicing new routines. Anytime she thought of the coming race she could feel the butterflies leaping, fluttering, and diving.

“You okay?” Red asked her Wednesday morning at the kitchen.

“Why?”

“’Cause you’ve been stirrin’ those eggs ’stead of eating them.” He pointed to her plate.

“Guess I’m just not hungry.”

“She always like this?” Red asked David. The two had become good friends in a short time.

Now Trish had two big brothers bossing her around. Except that when her hand touched Red’s, it didn’t feel the same as when she brushed David’s.
Think about that later!
she ordered, after her shoulder tingled from Red’s casual touch.

Thursday morning arrived either too soon or not soon enough—Trish wasn’t sure which. This was
the
day for choosing post positions. She woke up to a mist hovering just above the ground. At the track, horses seemed to float in and out, like phantoms in a ghostly dance.

Marge and Hal attended the breakfast for owners, but Trish, David, and Patrick stayed with Spitfire, finishing morning chores. They went through the routine without talking, grabbed a quick bite to eat, and headed for the museum. Red had advised them to get there early, since the place would be packed.

The statue of Secretariat with its blanket of roses had been moved, and a podium with microphones was set up in its place in the oval room of the museum. Stage lights made the area brighter than day. TV crews were setting up their cameras, with cables snaking across the carpet.

As the time drew nearer, the room filled with spectators, owners, trainers, officials; and reporters with tape recorders, camcorders, and clipboards. Everyone was handed a sheet of paper with the twelve horses running listed.

“Here.” Hal handed each of them a gold baseball cap with “Spitfire” lettered in crimson. “I meant to give you these before you left this morning. How’d everything go?”

“Fine.” Trish bent the brim and settled her cap in place. “How was the breakfast?” She grinned at her mother. Even Marge, dressed in her navy silk suit, wore the crimson and gold hat.

Just then the lights went out. A multi-projector slide show set to music and narration sprang to life on a continuous screen that circled the room just under the second-floor railing. Trish felt a lump in her throat as she watched the life of a Thoroughbred from foaling to the Derby. She kept turning to watch the scenes unfold as heroes of past Derbies galloped across the screen. A field of red tulips around the entire screen brought an “oooh” from many spectators. Haunting strains of “My Old Kentucky Home” faded away as the screen flashed names of this year’s contenders. Spitfire, Going South, Nancy’s Request, Nomatterwhat, First Admiral. Trish had to turn to keep reading. Dun Rovin’, Equinox, Waring Prince, Who Sez, Spanish Dancer, That’s All, and Sea Urchin. One of those names would be added to the list of greats.

The lights came back on. Now all Trish could see was the broad back of the man standing in front of her. The ceremony began. A horse’s name was called, a number drawn from a container. The race secretary then placed that number beside the horse’s name on a board for all to see.

Trish watched the people around her mark their papers. She didn’t even have a pencil. A group cheered when Who Sez drew position one. Number twelve for Spanish Dancer didn’t thrill his owners. Spitfire’s name was halfway down the list. What would his number be?

Trish’s butterflies went berserk.

Chapter

14

S
pitfire, position six.” The waiting was over.

Trish listened with only half an ear as the remaining numbers were called. Number six meant they’d be right in the middle of the field.

As soon as the last number was posted, a reporter shoved a microphone in front of her father. Hal smiled at the question.

“You’re right, the weather could indeed be in our favor. When you come from the Pacific Northwest, your horse better not mind the rain. Our colt runs well on a wet track. And position six can be either an asset or a handicap, depending on how fast he breaks.”

He turned to answer another question. “No, there’s been no problem with his knee for the last couple of weeks. Running at Santa Anita caused only a mild inflammation, nothing to be concerned about.”

Nothing to be concerned about!
Trish caught herself before she made any noises.
She’d
been concerned, that’s for sure. If the press only knew all that had gone on.

She’d just thought about leaving when a young woman asked her a question. “That fatal accident out in Portland, you were involved in it, weren’t you?”

Trish thought fast. “Yes. But I wasn’t hurt much, a mild concussion.”

“Do you feel that affected your riding? How about if you get caught in the middle during the Derby?”

Trish took a deep breath. Should she tell them she lost two races after that and considered backing out of another? No, this wasn’t the place for total honesty.

“How can it
not
affect you when a friend is killed? But you go on. You ride each race as it comes. And you do your best. Guess that’s about all you can do. Spitfire and me—we’ll do our best.”

“Good answer,” David whispered in her ear as the reporters left to talk to others.

Hal was answering a man with ABC lettered on his microphone. Marge had a smile pasted on her face. Trish could tell the glue was wearing thin and the smile might slip off. She signaled David and the two of them took their mother’s arms. “Let’s go look at the trophies.”

They could identify the owners and trainers by the groups gathered around them. The crowd was thinning out now, and the television crews were dismantling the cameras and rolling up their cables.

“How was the breakfast?” Trish shifted her attention from the humongous silver bowl in the trophy case to her mother.

“Huge. Hundreds of people.”

“How about the trainers’ dinner?” David asked.

“The hotel was beautiful and the food great but…”

Trish and David waited for her to go on.

“But—well, we met some very nice people.” She paused, thinking. “I guess things are just different here.”

Trish looked around the room. “I guess.”

“Like back in there. It’s a fashion show. We just don’t do things that way at home.”

Trish grinned. “That’s why I like it better down at the barns. Horses are easier than people. Did you see that woman all in white?”

“If those rocks she wore were real—” David shook his head.

“And the broad-brimmed hat. Why y’all don’t know how na-ahce it is to see ya he-ah.” Trish copied the accent and the gestures perfectly.

“Trish.” Marge strangled on the laugh and bit her lip to keep from choking.

“We better get outta here before you get us in trouble.” David appeared to be suffering from the same choking problem as his mother. He took both their arms and walked them past the visitor’s information desk and out the front doors. When they reached the sunshine, they looked at each other and let the laughter spill. Hal found them a bit later, still giggling.

“Okay, what’s going on?”

Trish and her mother looked at each other and started in again. Finally Trish took a deep breath and forced herself to look at her father, her face serious. “Y’all just don’t dress us ra-aght, Daddy de-ah.”

“The woman in white?”

“Oh, you noticed.” Marge slipped her arm through Hal’s.

“How could I not?” Hal shook his head. “Let’s go check on Spitfire.”

More reporters and writers crowded around them when they arrived back at the stable. Trish was beginning to understand what famous people meant when they talked about living in a fish bowl. She was scratching Spitfire’s cheek with his head draped over her shoulder in his favorite position when someone asked if they could take her picture. Spitfire flinched as the flash blinded his eyes.

It was a relief when they headed back to the hotel.

“That slide show was the neatest thing I’ve seen.” Trish popped the top on her can of Diet Coke and drank deeply.

“It really was.” Marge leaned back in a chair. She slipped off her shoes and flexed her toes. “I’d love to see it again.”

“The schedule is posted for showings.” Hal stretched his arms over his head. “There any coffee left?”

David poured a cup for himself and one for his dad. “What a mass of people. This whole week is just one big party.”

“No, it’s lots of parties. Speaking of which, we have another one to attend tonight. The Churchill Downs Derby party.” Hal looked at Marge.

“Do we
have
to?”

“We don’t
have
to do anything. I’m sure they won’t miss us, since I’ve heard there are usually about five hundred people at this one. Besides, according to our daughter here, I don’t dress you right. For dinner at the famous Galt House, that is.”

Trish scrunched her eyebrows at him. “You don’t say it right either.”

“By the way, Red was asking for you.”

Trish felt the heat blossom on her neck. “Oh?”

“Said he’d see you at evening feed if not before.” Hal had a knowing twinkle in his eye.

Trish felt the blush spread to her cheekbones.

“Seems like a right nice young man.”

“Da-ad!” She held her Coke can to her cheek. This was crazy. She didn’t
like
him—did she? Did he like her? Her father certainly seemed to think so. She threw a decorator pillow at David to wipe the smirk off his face.

“Just think, less than forty-eight hours.” David shook his head. “And it’s Derby time.”

“Thanks a bunch.” Now her butterflies leaped into life. A swallow of soda sent them into a frenzy. “You guys are really a big help.”

“You kids want to go to the parade?” Hal set his coffee cup on the table.

Trish thought a minute. All those people. “How can we? Spitfire needs to eat about that time. The parade is late afternoon. I’d rather go somewhere for dinner that has great food, just us.”

And that’s what they did. By the time they were stuffed with hush puppies and babyback ribs, Trish was ready for bed. Mornings came so early.

“You and that black colt, lass, you’re some pair,” Patrick said the next morning as Trish leaped to the ground. “You both seem to know what the other’s thinking. That’ll be hard to beat out there.”

“That means a lot, coming from you,” Trish said. It was the first real compliment Patrick had given her. “I sure hope you’re right.”

They’d just finished breakfast when Hal and Marge ushered the two newcomers into the track kitchen. Trish leaped from her seat and threw her arms first around her grandfather, then her grandmother. Her grandmother’s familiar lavender perfume lingered in the air.