Golden Filly Collection One (8 page)
“And I hate fighting.” She sniffed. “I always feel so guilty afterward, like everything in the whole world is all my fault.”
“Then go say you’re sorry.”
“I hate that most of all.” She hiccupped. “Besides, this time it was
not
my fault.”
“Tee.”
“Well…” She could feel the thoughts whipping around her brain like a gerbil on a wheel. A knock at the door brought the wheel to an abrupt stop.
“Trish.” Her mother’s voice came softly through the door.
“Yeah.”
“Can I come in?”
“I guess.”
David squeezed her hand.
“Trish—” Marge joined her children on the edge of the bed, three sets of jean-clad knees pressed together. “Please forgive me for unloading on you like that. It was totally inexcusable.” She shook her head. “I know you had a terrible day too.”
Wordlessly Trish nodded, tears brimming in her green eyes again.
When she could look at her mother, she saw tears that matched her own.
“I’m sorry too,” she whispered. “I hate fighting.”
Marge wrapped both arms around her daughter and held her close.
“Oh, Trish. I love you so.”
Trish felt the steady thumping of her mother’s heart. She nestled closer, feeling safe within those protecting arms. Her mother’s sweet perfume was somehow an added comfort. “I always say stuff I don’t want to when I’m mad.” Trish raised her face.
Marge wiped the tears from her daughter’s cheek. “I know. We all do.” She drew in a deep breath. “How about if I forgive you and you forgive me and we go on from here?”
Trish nodded. “Thanks, Mom.”
Both reached for the tissues at the same time.
“Now,” her mother went on, “how about the animals? You said you were having a problem.”
“Oh dear!” Trish leaped to her feet. “Dad never called back about the filly. I should call him.”
David looked at his watch. “You can try, but it’s nearly eleven.” David gave his sister a push out of the room. “So go call him.”
Just as she reached the phone it rang. Trish jumped liked she’d touched a live wire instead of a phone. “Runnin’ On Farm.” She tried to sound business-like instead of breathless. “Dad! The phone rang just as I touched it. Spooky.”
“As I’ve said, great minds…”
“Yeah, same circles. How are you?”
“Could be better, but the real question is how’s the filly?”
“Well, Dr. Bradshaw shot her full of antibiotics and said to keep her isolated. I’m to give her fifteen cc’s more morning and night for the next couple of days.”
“How does she look?”
“Droopy—but the doc said the ones he’s treated early like this respond pretty fast.”
“What about the rest of the stock?”
“He checked the brood mares and the two colts. All clear, but I have to keep a close eye on everything.” Trish cupped the phone on her shoulder as she leaned her elbows on the counter.
“How’s your mother?”
“Well,” Trish paused to chew her lip. “We’re okay…now.”
“Been fighting again?”
Trish forced her voice to remain calm. “Don’t worry about us, Dad. Just take care of yourself.” She drummed her fingers on the counter. “Hey, you know what? I have to wear galoshes when I treat the filly. Think what I’ll look like in your giant-sized boots. I could put both feet in one and still have room.”
“Tee, you nut.”
“I’ll look nutty, all right. Just call me hoppity.”
“Okay, Peter Cottontail, back to the filly.” Trish could feel his warm smile over the wire. “Where do you have her?”
“In the isolation stall, where else?” Surprise at his question raised her eyebrows.
“Sorry.” Her father sounded sheepish. “I should have known you’d do exactly the right thing.”
“You taught me, Dad.” Trish hugged the phone closer to her ear, as if the action would bring him closer to her. “That’s why I have to wear the galoshes, to keep from contaminating the others. I’ll check on her now, before I go to bed.”
“Tee, I’m proud of you. But let David check her during the night.
He can do the chores in the morning too. You’ve got to get to school on time for a change.”
“Dad…”
“You heard me. You can work Spitfire on the starting gates in the afternoon. And David can…let me talk to David. You get to bed.”
“But what about Spitfire’s morning workout?”
“Okay. Gallop him four miles like you’ve been doing. But leave the rest for David.”
“Yes, sir.” Trish swallowed a lump in her throat. “And please get better, Dad.”
“Keep praying, babe. All of us have to keep praying.”
“I’ll get David.” She laid the phone down on the counter and rubbed her hand across her face.
After David picked up the receiver, Trish slid the door open and stepped outside. Caesar whined for attention, then shoved his cold nose into her hand. She scratched behind his ears, all the while concentrating on her prayer.
God, make my Dad better. Bring him home to us, to me. He’s a good person and he loves you. Please make him all right again.
All the way to the barn
Please, God!
ran over and over in her brain.
Soft nickers snapped her back to the present when she reached the stable.
Quietly she opened the tack room door and felt on the shelf for the flashlight. The light helped her find the galoshes and slide her wet sneakers into the huge boots. They came nearly to her knees. To keep them from falling off, she shuffled her feet down the row to the filly’s stall.
The filly lay asleep in the straw, breathing heavily but no longer shivering. Trish flashed the light into the half-empty bucket.
“Good girl,” she whispered as she stooped and ran her hand down the animal’s neck. The filly just flicked her ears. “I’ll get you another bucket. Drink lots.”
By the time Trish’s head hit the pillow, the numbers on her digital clock had flipped over 12:00. She set her alarm for 5:30 and snuggled down under the covers.
Oh no!
she sighed deeply, feeling it through her whole weary body.
My chemistry—and that essay is due by three.
Like a swallow swooping through the spring sunshine, the thought of getting up and studying flitted through her mind and flew away again.
Tomorrow. I’ll catch up tomorrow.
D
awn hadn’t cracked the darkness yet.
Trish squashed her pillow over her ears at the buzzer. She hit the snooze button and jumped when the alarm rang again. Five minutes extra sleep was not long enough; she needed five hours more, at least.
By the time she’d pulled on her jeans and sweat shirt and fumbled for her boots, David tapped on her door.
“You about ready?” His tone didn’t sound any livelier than she felt.
“Yeah.” She ran her fingers through her hair. The hairdresser called it finger-combing. Trish called it sheer desperation. “Gotta spray these boots first,” she said as she came out of her bedroom.
She grabbed the disinfectant spray from under the kitchen sink and her down vest off the hook, and met David on the deck. “Why don’t you feed and I’ll start working Spitfire.” She looked up from dowsing her boots. “That way maybe I’ll have time to do something else.”
“Remember, Dad said school on time today.”
Trish wrinkled her nose. “I know. If I could just take a leave of absence or something.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Phew, that stuff
smells
bad enough to kill germs.” She pulled her boots on, and with Caesar trotting beside them, they jogged down to the barns.
The eastern skyline glowed a faint lemon yellow, but overhead the stars still shone valiantly, fighting off their moment of demise.
“Going to be a nice day.” Trish filled her lungs with the crisp air.
“Sure wish I could stay home.”
“Knock it off.” David lightly backhanded her arm. “I’ll help you mount up. If we hustle, you can work Firefly too. I’ll have her saddled so if you’re on your way to the house at seven, you should be okay. Mom said she’d drop you off at school on her way to the hospital.”
“She’s going that early?” Trish bridled Spitfire, ignoring the nickerings on down the line. “Stop that.” She slapped the horse smartly when he reached around and nipped her shoulder. “Have to keep an eye on you every minute,” she muttered. “Good thing you just got my vest.”
David boosted her into the saddle and waited while she gathered up her reins. “Now, you know what Dad said.”
“David.” She tapped him on the head with her whip. “You make a lousy mother hen. Besides, one mother is enough.” Trish loosed the reins enough for Spitfire to crow-hop once before he jigged sideways to the entry to the track. She turned him clockwise and kept a tight hold on his mouth. Her father had taught her well.
No matter how much of a hurry you’re in, never—but never—cheat on the warm-up time.
Strained muscles were too easily come by and too costly to cure.
After several laps at the restricted pace, Spitfire was warmed up, both from the easy gait and from fighting for his freedom every step of the way. Trish knew she’d been having a workout. Who needed free weights when she had Spitfire?
The long, slow gallop that built endurance wasn’t any more to his liking. Finally, she pulled him down to a walk. “Listen, horse. Just settle down.” She rubbed his neck, high on the crest and under his sweaty mane. “You know the routine as well as I do, so behave yourself. There’ll be no racing today.” Spitfire snorted as if in answer. “I don’t care what you think. Those are Dad’s orders. Now let’s try this again. Slow gallop, you hear me?” The horse’s ears twitched back and forth, both listening to her and checking out everything in the area.
Trish walked a final circuit, took him back to the barn, and repeated the process with Firefly. Temperament-wise, she was the exact opposite of her half-brother. Trish could relax more around her; the dark bay filly was always eager to please her rider instead of fighting her way around the track.
Trish slid off the sweaty filly at the end of the workout, threw the reins at David, and dashed up to the house. “Don’t forget the shot for the sick filly.” She back-pedaled as she shouted instructions to David.
“Fifteen cc’s and watch her.” It was 7:10.
No matter how she hurried, she couldn’t make up that ten minutes.
The frown on her mother’s face as they backed the car out of the garage at 7:55 clouded the ten-minute drive to Prairie High.
“I’m not writing an excuse.” Marge checked both ways before they pulled out onto the road.
“Fine,” Trish mumbled around her mouthful of peanut butter toast.
Don’t bother,
she thought.
If I have to stay after to make up these tardy times, I’ll just have to stay after. They’re lucky I’m making it to school at all.
“You know your main responsibility is school and your schoolwork, Tricia,” her mother reminded her.
Trish cringed. Her schoolwork. She’d really have to make better use of study hall than she had. Maybe David would have time tonight to help her with her chemistry. All the rest she could manage. She’d write that essay during history and—“How far behind are you?” Marge’s jaw had that iron look.
Trish started to say, “I’m fine,” but a look at her mother’s face made her mumble, “Not too bad.”
“What’s not too bad?”
“I’ll catch up today,” Trish stated flatly. “Don’t worry about my schoolwork.”
“Trish…” Marge laid her hand on her daughter’s knee.
“Don’t worry.” Trish jumped from the car as soon as it stopped at the curb. She leaned back in to say, “Tell Dad hi for me,” and loped away, her books caught under one arm.
The stop at the office made Trish more uncomfortable.
“Where’s your excuse slip?” The receptionist glanced up at the clock.
“You’re seven minutes late.”
“I know.” Trish chewed her lip, the desire to tell just a tiny fib uppermost in her mind. She shrugged. “I took too long at the barn and Mom refused to write me an excuse. I’d promised her I wouldn’t be late again.”
“You know this goes on your record?” The woman signed the small pink slip and handed it over the counter.
“I know. Thanks.” Trish felt like tearing up the piece of paper but knew she wouldn’t get into class without it. She slammed her fist against her locker when it wouldn’t open on the first attempt.
Boy,
she thought as she dashed across the quad,
this day is really gonna be a great one.
Trish used every spare minute, and by lunch time she had even made up one chemistry assignment. Her essay was ready to recopy. She debated skipping, lunch but her stomach reminded her that breakfast had been less than filling.
“How’s your dad?” Rhonda asked as they joined the lunch line.
“He sounded pretty good on the phone last night.” Trish glanced around the noisy room. “Have you seen Doug?”
“You going to the after-game party with him?”
“No. I won’t be going at all.”
“Won’t be going where?” Brad joined their slow shuffle to the counter.
“To the party,” Rhonda answered for her friend. “Tee, how can we help? I know you’ve got tons to do.”
“Well, you could tell Doug I’ve got mono or something. He’ll ask me why I can’t go and I hate telling people about my dad.” Trish hunched her shoulders. She hadn’t let herself think about her father and the hospital this morning. Yesterday had been overwhelming; today she had regained some of her control. Fear that her mother might carry out the no-racing threat made her concentrate on her homework. The last thing she needed was an I-told-you-so from her mother. She
would
manage—somehow.
