Golden Filly Collection One (72 page)

“Can you believe we’re all really meeting in Kentucky? I’m so glad you came.” She stepped back to give them the once-over. “You look great.” While her grandfather seemed a bit more stooped in the shoulders, Trish didn’t see any sign that he had been sick. Actually the two of them looked more alike than ever.

“Hello, David.” The slender woman with snow-white hair leaned over to kiss his cheek.

By the time Hal had introduced Patrick, Trish had brought a tray with coffee for everyone.

“Are any of them decaf?” her grandmother asked. “I really must be careful, you know.”

“I remembered. Those two on the outside are for you two.” Trish handed one to her grandfather. She caught her father’s wink as she handed him a cup. Careful was the operative word. When she thought about it, Trish knew where her mother got the worries—from
her
mother.

When Patrick excused himself, Trish followed suit.

“We’ll be down later,” her father said.

That afternoon was the running of the Oaks. Trish leaned on the iron rail around their box and watched both the spectators and the race. Tomorrow she would be up in the jockey room—waiting.

A chestnut filly with two white socks won by a length. The jockey riding her, Jerry Jones, would be up on Nomatterwhat the next afternoon. He was known to bring in winners.

“Firefly would have taken it,” Trish said to no one in particular. “Sure wish we could have brought her.”

“She’ll have her chance.” Hal tapped her on the shoulder with his program. “And so will you.”

Trish wondered later what he meant by that. As she flipped to her other side—for the third time—in bed that night, she couldn’t quit thinking about the coming race. What if someone fell? What if Spitfire got hurt? What if they lost? What if they won? The what-ifs were driving her right out of her mind.

She tried to pray. The questions paraded across her mind instead. She recited her Bible verses. Ahhhh, she felt a little calmer.
Relax,
she ordered her muscles. They ignored her.

Maybe they should have gone to one of the parties they’d been invited to. Then she wouldn’t have so much time to think. She turned over—again.

Finally Trish sat up in bed and turned on the light. The soft glow burnished the curve of the carved eagle wings. Trish smoothed a finger over the intricate carving. Her song “Raise you up on eagle’s wings, bear you on the breath of God…” drifted through her restlessness.

What would it be like to catch the air currents and spiral higher and higher? To feel the wind in your wings? She sighed. She knew what it felt like to be held “in the palm of His hand.”

“Thank you, Father,” she breathed. “Thank you.”

The peace of sleep was shattered by screams and groans. By sirens and shock. By dirt and blood. The nightmare rocked through her with a vengeance.

Trish jerked upright, gasping for air. She’d felt as if someone were sitting on her chest. She propped her shoulders against the head of the bed and waited for her heart to stop pounding. It was just a nightmare. And nightmares were always worse than reality.

You’re scared!
her little nagger whispered.
You have the big race tomorrow—no—today, and you’re scared to bits. Look at you shake. You shouldn’t be afraid.

Trish clapped her hands over her ears, but it didn’t help. She
shouldn’t
be scared. But then, who wouldn’t be. The Kentucky Derby was a
big
deal. Half the world would be watching.

That thought didn’t help at all. Instead, she got up and went to the bathroom. She got a drink of water and climbed back into bed. This time she painted and repainted a picture of Jesus on her mental screen until she slipped off to sleep.

Her butterflies leaped into life with the buzz of the alarm. It would have been nice if they’d overslept.

As usual, Patrick had already fed the hungry black colt. He hummed a happy tune as he polished their racing saddle.

After greeting him, Trish whistled softly. Spitfire, his head already over the web gate, nickered his happiness at seeing her. He nuzzled her cheek and whiskered her hand, begging for his carrot treat. Trish didn’t disappoint him.

The sky was overcast as Trish trotted him out onto the track half an hour later. The forecast was for possible thundershowers.

“And you don’t like thunder, do you?” Trish carried on a conversation with his ears. They twitched backward and pricked forward again, keeping track of everything around them. Trish rose in her stirrups as they trotted around the track. When he settled to a slow jog, she sat down again and enjoyed the ride. A pounding trot hadn’t helped her stomach any.

Her father was answering questions again when they returned to the stall. Patrick and David washed the colt down, getting their own steam bath in the process. Trish washed Spitfire’s face with a soft sponge. He nibbled at the sponge, then shook his head, spraying her with water.

“Knock it off.” She raised an arm to keep the drops out of her eyes. Spitfire curled his upper lip, as if he were laughing at her. They scraped him dry, blanketed him, and then Trish took the lead shank to walk him out. David had already cleaned the stall and spread new straw.

Trish missed her messed-up conversations with her two Spanish-speaking helpers. They’d called Spitfire
muy cabrillo,
beautiful horse.

“How you feelin’?” Red fell into step beside her.

“Scared. You just startled me.”

“You were kinda off in dreamland.”

“No, I wasn’t.” But Trish knew her mind had been somewhere else. That was dangerous. She needed to concentrate on Spitfire in case something spooked him.

“You going for breakfast?”

Trish shot him a pained look.

“Oh. Butterflies?”

“A belly full.”

“You better eat something. I’ll see you later up in the jockey room. You play pool?”

Trish shook her head. How would she get through all those hours up in the jockey room?

“How about Ping-Pong then? We’ll find something to make the time pass. See ya.” He trotted off.

“Do you think he ever walks?” Spitfire shook his head.

Trish managed to get down a piece of toast. She bypassed the milk and drank apple juice instead.

“You’ll be fine.” Her father had his mind-reading skills in gear.

“Wish I could stay down at the barn with you guys. At least I’d have something to do there.”

“I know this is different and difficult. But the day’ll be gone before you know it.”

Trish nodded, but this time she doubted her father was right.

Spitfire shone from all the brushing. His hooves gleamed, mane and tail waved, flowing free just as Trish liked. Neither she nor her father cared for the decorative braiding some stables used. The tack was soaped and polished.

It was quiet around the stalls. Once in a while a visitor dropped by, but horses and people were both getting a rest. Trish leaned back in the lawn chair. If only she could stay here.

“You want me to walk you over?” David asked.

Trish glanced at her watch. It was time. Why did she feel like she was being walked to the execution block?

Patrick clasped her cold hands in his warm ones. “Don’t be worryin’, lass. Just give it your best.”

Trish nodded. She was afraid if she opened her mouth, the butterflies would strangle her.

In spite of the lowering sky, the infield was fast filling with spectators. All the grandstand and bleacher area had been reserved weeks before, but crowds had poured into the infield since the gates opened at eight.

“Did you see the car?” David nudged her arm. They were almost at the tunnel.

“The red one?”

“Yeah. Just think, it’ll be yours when you win. A red Chrysler Le Baron convertible.”

“I can’t think about that now.” Trish chewed her lip. Her swallower was too dry to work.

David handed her her sports bag at the bottom of the stairs to the second-story jockey rooms. “See you in the saddling stalls.”

Trish stepped on the escalator. She turned once and waved to David, who waited at the bottom.

Frances Brown was the only one in the women’s jockey room. She sat at her desk, reading a coffee-table-size book. “Hi, Trish. I brought this in for everyone to look at.” She turned to the front cover. The title,
Kentucky Derby,
was lettered in white above a racing Thoroughbred. “The pictures are fantastic. I’ve never seen a better book.”

An hour later Trish was still reading it. The pictures were great but so was the text. She learned things about the history of the track and racing she’d never heard before.

Since the first race of the day was at eleven-thirty, several other women came in. Trish was the only female riding in the Derby. She put the book down when she heard someone call her name.

“Trish, Red’s in the other room asking for you.” Frances smiled at her. “Glad you like my book.”

“Where did you get it? I want one.”

“At the museum gift store. You go eat something if you can. You’ll feel better.”

Trish wasn’t so sure. At the roar of the crowd on the monitor, her butterflies thought the applause was for them. They added new routines to their show. Trish wrapped both arms around her middle.
Please, God, help me.

Chapter

15

I
t was raining.

Trish stood at the window looking out over the rooftops of the grandstand. The rain looked like sheets of gauze blowing in the wind. She’d watched race number two on the monitor. It had finished just before the rain veil hit.

She heard the click of pool balls from the table behind her.

“What’s a five-letter word for dog?” asked a jockey who was working a crossword puzzle at one of the tables.

“Hound.”

“Thanks.”

Trish didn’t turn around until Red handed her a Diet Coke. Then she leaned her hips against the windowsill and looked up at the monitor. Another previous race was running.

“I watch those all the time.” Red gestured toward the screen. “Helps to understand each jockey’s style.”

“Where do you watch, here?”

“Over in the museum. It’s a big screen too, so you can see more. Plus the track has a video library.”

“Wish I could be down at the barn. At least there’s something to do there.”

“Pretty quiet yet. Spitfire’s probably sleeping. With the all-night partying on the streets around the area, the horses need some extra sleep too.”

“I suppose.” She rotated her neck. “Usually I have at least a couple of mounts, more like three or four. That keeps me hustling. Or I help David on the backside.”

“Trish.” He paused. “How long you gonna be around after the race?”

She shrugged. “Depends on how we do. Dad just says wait till after the Derby, then he’ll decide.”

“But you’re entered in all three races of the Triple Crown?” She nodded. “Why?”

It was his turn to shrug. “I’d like to spend some time with you. Maybe a drive or a movie. Something.”

“Oh.” Trish took a long swallow of her Coke. She looked up to find those blue-blue eyes studying her. “I’ll ask my dad.”

“Good. See you later. Gotta get ready for my next ride.” His grin made her feel good.

“Good luck.”

Trish returned to the women’s room to find Frances swapping tales with one of the jockeys. They broke off to watch the fourth race. Red brought his mount up on the outside, hanging back with another horse until the stretch.

“Now!” Trish joined in the hollering, cheering him on.

Red went to the whip and bore down on the leader. He won by a length. When the camera showed the winner, you could hardly recognize horse or rider for the mud. But Red’s grin was contagious even over the television.

The rain had quit but the track was now officially listed as muddy. From the looks of the last riders, muddy was an understatement.

Maybe the rain lulled them to sleep.
Trish suddenly realized her stomach was butterfly-free. She sprayed furniture polish on her five pairs of goggles and wiped them off, stacking them together, ready to snap over her helmet. Then she buffed her boots.
When did the butterflies disappear?
She didn’t know, but didn’t really care either. The peace she’d prayed for had crept right in. She felt good. It wouldn’t be long now.

She was all stretched and ready when the call came.

“Give it all you’ve got,” Frances told her. “It’s about time we had a woman in that red horseshoe.”

“Thanks.” A couple of butterflies tried to break out, but Trish swallowed them down. On the scale, her total weight with saddle and lead registered 126 pounds, like every other Derby jockey. She followed the others down the stairs and through the lines of waving and shouting spectators to the paddock. It wasn’t raining.

Trish breathed in deeply of the fresh-washed air and rotated her shoulders. Her parents and grandparents were dressed in their best. David and Patrick waited with Spitfire. The colt nickered when he saw Trish.

“You ready?” Hal asked.

At Trish’s nod, David punched her lightly on the shoulder. “You can do it.”

Trish kissed Spitfire on his nose. He wuffled in her ear as she hugged him. “This is it, fella. You ready to show them what we can do?”