Golden Filly Collection One (80 page)

In the morning reporters were waiting for Trish. When Hank eased the limo to a stop, she noticed a woman with a tape recorder, and a man leaning against the stakes barn wall with a camera slung around his neck. They seemed to be together.

Trish wished she could slip down and disappear through the cracks in the seat. Maybe she could make a quick exit out the opposite side of the car and go directly to Spitfire’s stall.

Reading her thoughts, David jabbed her with his elbow. “Come on, chicken liver. You’ll do fine.”

Easy for you to say,
Trish thought.
You’re not the one to look like an idiot if you say the wrong thing.
She took a deep breath and followed David out the open door. Hank Benson winked at her, giving her the high sign with his thumb on the door.

Trish pasted a smile on her face. She could hear her father’s voice in her ear:
“Smiling makes you feel better about yourself, even if you don’t feel like it. And it always makes other people think better of you.”
So keep on smiling, she ordered her face.
And knock it off,
she commanded her inner aerial troop.
You can do your acrobatics later.

“Good morning, what can I do for you?” she heard herself say.

That’s the way, girl,
her inner voice cheered her on. For a change, the nagging twin must have been sleeping.

“Just a few questions,” the female journalist said. She clicked on the recorder. “You don’t mind, do you?” She nodded at her equipment. When Trish shook her head, the woman continued. “How does it feel to be the first female to win the Kentucky Derby?”

“Probably the same as the guys feel. Happy, excited, like a dream come true. Most of them have worked longer for it than I have. So I guess that makes me appreciate the honor even more.”

“They say the only reason you won is because you were on your father’s horse.”

Trish could feel the hair bristling on the back of her neck. “I know that’s what some people are saying, but I helped raise that horse and I trained him, with my dad’s instructions. We’re a team, all of our family.” She unclenched her fists. “And I’ve won a lot of races when I wasn’t riding Spitfire, even in Kentucky.”

“I hear your father is very sick. What will you do if he can’t make the trip?”

Trish gritted her teeth. A quick
Father, help!
winged skyward as she scrambled for an answer. “Then Spitfire and I will race like my dad taught us. You can’t do more than your best. And we don’t do less.”

Trish glanced up to see David’s arm raised in victory. The approval made her bolder. “You see, we believe God is with us and guides us, around a racetrack or…” She took another deep breath and lifted her chin a fraction. “In a hospital.”

The reporter seemed at a loss for words. “Why—uh—thank you, Tricia. I’m sure you have plenty of work to do this morning. And good luck here at Pimlico.” She put her microphone away and gestured to the cameraman to follow her.

Luck, schmuck.
Trish kept the words inside while her smile stayed in place. “It was nice meeting you.” Feeling as if she had the last word, Trish stuffed her hands in her pockets and went in search of Patrick.

“I tried.” Trish plunked down on a bale of hay in the tack room.

“I’m sure you did fine. Ya needn’t be worryin’ yerself.” Patrick’s brogue always thickened when he felt deeply about something. “Besides, most o’ the time, them reporters don’t get half what you say. Get yerself up there on that colt. You’ll feel better.”

“You’re right.” Trish nodded, slapped her hands on her knees, and nodded again. “At least Spitfire doesn’t ask questions.”

The dirt road to the track seemed long as Trish and Spitfire passed by the rows of barns. While the buildings seemed shabby, the morning orchestra was the same as on tracks everywhere—metal jangling, horses snorting and nickering, stable folk laughing, a shout or whistle thrown in for counterpoint. It was comfortable music, the kind that Trish planned always to be a part of.

When they turned left on the track, Spitfire continued making inspection with his eyes and ears. His long, loose-limbed walk ate up the mile-long track. Trish pointed to the infield at a small yellow and white building with a red roof, topped by a curious weather vane of a jockey mounted on a horse.

“Bet that’s the winner’s circle.” Trish stopped her horse so they could get a better look at the circle of low, perfectly trimmed shrubbery. Two rows of white picket fence led from the track to the circle. “We’re gonna be in there a week from Saturday, ya hear?” Spitfire snorted and went back to walking.

The glassed-in grandstand reminded Trish of Portland Meadows, but it was in better shape. Morning sun reflected off the huge panes. Die-hard spectators trained their binoculars on the working horses.

Trish nudged Spitfire into a trot for the second circuit. His easy attitude seemed to say, “A track is a track. Nothing to get excited about.”

Sarah’s Pride didn’t agree with him. When Trish took her out, she tracked every shadow and shied at a few of her own imagination. And she didn’t want to walk. Her stiff-legged trot forced Trish to post and finally rise in the stirrups. The filly even shied away when another horse came up beside her.

Patrick had walked to the track with them so he could watch the work. He shook his head when Trish brought the sweating filly to a stop in front of him.

“I’m not sure who got more of a workout, her or me,” Trish grumbled, but her smile and the way she stroked the filly’s neck showed she didn’t mean it. “You gotta settle down,” she crooned to the filly’s still-twitching ears. “You can’t win any races if you use up all your energy before the gate opens.”

Patrick stroked his chin with one hand. “I’m thinkin’ we’ll do blinders on her. And lots of galloping.”

Trish nodded. “Hear that, girl? Patrick will turn you into a winner yet.” She turned out the gate and followed the fence line back to the barn. Patrick remained behind to watch some of the other horses work.

Mel Howell met them after breakfast. “You ready for the grand tour?” His beeper squawked and he raised a hand while he spoke into the small black box. Then he smiled again. “Sorry for the interruption. Now, where were we?”

An hour and a half later Trish felt as if she’d been toured by a walking, talking, Thoroughbred-racing encyclopedia. Mel showed them the grave of Barney, the track dog, in a corner near the stakes barn. Then he led them up and down, around and through the grandstand complex, all the while sharing anecdotes from Pimlico history. When he walked them out to the infield area that Trish had admired earlier, Mel confirmed her guess. This was the winner’s circle for the Preakness. The yellow and white building was the remaining cupola from the old grandstand that had burned years before.

“The blanket of flowers for the winner is woven of chrysanthemums, actually,” Mel continued his flow of information. “We have to dye the centers to match the traditional black-eyed Susans, because that flower doesn’t bloom till later in the summer.”

Trish shook her head. “At least no one has to worry about thorns like on the roses at Churchill.” She remembered getting stuck by one the trimmers had overlooked. “Do you have bands and guards like they do there?”

“Of course. And extra guards around the stakes barn as soon as the entries begin to arrive. Safety’s my job, besides making sure all you celebrities feel comfortable here, and welcome.”

Trish and David smiled at each other and then at him. “Celebrities?” Trish still didn’t think of herself as one. At Mel’s nod, she shrugged and grinned again. “Whatever. But thank you for all you’ve done for us. We’ve never had a limo and driver before.”

“You suppose this is what rock stars feel like?” David asked after they returned to the barn and told Patrick about their tour.

“I don’t know.” Trish stretched her arms over her head. “But I kinda like it.” She wrapped her arms around Spitfire’s neck as he leaned his head over her shoulder in his favorite position. “How about you, fella?” Spitfire bobbed his head, his usual plea for more scratching. “All right. All right.”

Trish had just bemoaned the fact of having to return to the hotel to break open
War and Peace
again, when a man introduced himself as an agent. “I talked with Jonathan Smith,” he said, “and he told me to get you some mounts if I could. One of my boys cracked a collarbone yesterday and can’t ride for the rest of the week. Would you be interested in two races this afternoon?”

Trish felt a jolt of excitement. “Sure. I’m not licensed in Maryland yet, though. Is there time?”

“If you hustle. Come on, I’ll walk you through the process. Or run you through, in this case.”

“But I don’t have enough money with me. Do I have time to go back to the hotel?”

“Not really.”

“Here.” Patrick dug out his wallet. “You can pay me back later.” He handed her several twenties.

“Thanks, Patrick. Bet you didn’t know you’d have to be my guardian angel when you signed on for this job.” Trish blew him a kiss as she walked backward beside the trotting agent. Together they jogged back toward the grandstand where the offices were located.

At least this way I’ll get to race this track before the Preakness,
Trish thought as she slipped into the unfamiliar blue and black silks. She hadn’t had a chance to meet either the trainer or the horse but it wouldn’t be long now. She watched the first race of the day on the monitor.

At the call for the jockeys, Trish trotted up the stairs to the men’s jockey room where the scale was located. A valet there handed her the saddle and weights to bring her up to the required 121 pounds. Off to one side she could hear a couple of guys talking—about her. Even her ears blushed as she felt the warmth spread all the way up from her toes.

“Good luck,” the steward told her. At least he had a friendly smile on his face.

Trish sighed.
Oh well, this is probably what it will always be like at first. I’ll have to prove myself at every track in the country, no matter how many races I win.
She trooped back down the stairs with the other jockeys for race two.

She felt at home in the saddling paddock, because like Portland Meadows it was located under the grandstand. She was in stall five.

Trish introduced herself to both the trainer and the owner. “I’m pleased to have you ride for me,” the older woman of the two said, her accent definitely sounding south of the Mason-Dixon Line. “We’ve been following your career with interest.”

“Thank you,” Trish replied. Strange wasn’t the word for this situation. Usually, even if a woman partly owned a horse, a man was either in charge or was the trainer.

The younger woman grinned at her. “My name’s Jennifer Hasseltine, and contrary to my appearance I’ve been training for the last eight years. Mrs. Bovier is one of my favorite owners. And Johnny Be Late”—she stroked the gelding’s gray neck—“is one terrific fella. The boards out there show him the favorite, but we don’t need the numbers to tell us how great he is.”

The horse nuzzled Trish’s hand for more after munching her proffered carrot. Trish looked the horse in the eye and saw both desire and a calm spirit. The gray held his head proudly, as if he knew what they were saying and agreed completely.

“He reminds me of old Dan’l at home. That gray horse taught me a lot about racing and horses in general.” She scratched his cheek and up behind the ears. Johnny Be Late blew in her face.

“Riders up!”

After a knee up, Trish settled herself in the saddle and smoothed a stubborn lock of gray mane to the right side. She patted Johnny’s neck in the process.

“He’s a sprinter,” Jennifer said, “and with six furlongs you better take him to the front and let him go. Watch out for number four; he should be your main contender.”

Trish nodded. It
really
seemed strange to be taking orders from a woman, but she liked it.

The parade to the post gave her the same thrill here as at home. When the bugle blew she and Johnny were ready to perform. Her horse was all collected power as they cantered back past the grandstands and out to the starting gate. He walked into his assigned gate and waited like a true professional.

Trish slipped into her normal singsong that calmed both her and her mount. She felt him gather under her, and when the gate clanged open he was ready. He surged forward neck and neck with number four, and the two of them set the pace. Down the backstretch and into the turn, this was definitely a two-horse race.