Golden Filly Collection One (81 page)

Coming out of the turn on the outside, Trish relaxed her hold on the reins. The gray pulled ahead one stride, then another. Number four picked up the pace and drew even again.

“Okay, fella, let’s get this over with,” Trish sang to the flicking ears. This time Johnny pulled away, and kept pulling away. Each stride drove them farther ahead until they won by two lengths.

Trish gave the gelding his moment in front of the crowd. “See, fella, that’s you they’re cheering. You ran a fine race.”

Jennifer grinned up at Trish as she led the horse into the winner’s circle. “He’s good, isn’t he?” She scratched under Johnny’s forelock. “You rode him well.”

“He was easy,” Trish said as she smiled for the photographer. She leaped to the ground and stripped off the saddle.

“You can ride for me anytime,” Mrs. Bovier told Trish. “I like your style. You didn’t need the whip and you didn’t use it.”

“Thank you, my pleasure.” Trish felt a warm glow in her middle. It was nice to be complimented on something she believed in so strongly. She never went to the whip unless she was forced to.

The next race wasn’t so easy. She found herself boxed in right from the beginning. Rather than drive between two horses that yielded only a slight opening, Trish pulled back and to the outside. She was still off the pace going into the final turn, but her horse lengthened his stride and drove down the stretch like a runaway locomotive. They passed two horses with one leading and with a furlong to go.

“Come on, you can do it!” Her words seemed to fly off on the wind. With all her encouragement, they pulled up to the stirrup, then the neck, and with one stride—Trish wasn’t sure who won. Had his whiskers been over the wire first? Only the camera would tell.

“And that’s number three, Hot Shot, owned by Springhill Farms and ridden by Tricia Evanston.” The speaker sounded tinny but the message rang true. She’d won two at Pimlico. And this one surprised everyone.

“That was some ride,” Patrick said when she joined him and David at the rail for the running of the seventh race.

“Cut it kinda close.” David shook his head. “I think you’ve made your mark here at Pimlico.”

The Saturday morning papers agreed.

“Kinda nice, wouldn’t you say?” Trish asked Spitfire during their long gallop a bit later. Spitfire snorted. “All the publicity; you’re famous now. How does it feel?” Spitfire shook his head. “Wish Red were here,” Trish spoke her thoughts. “He’s more fun to talk to than you.” Spitfire snorted again. At the thought of their first kiss, Trish felt tingly in her middle. It
would
be nice to see Red again.

There wasn’t much time for conversation on the gallop with Sarah’s Pride.

“Tomorrow we’ll run her with blinders.” Patrick pushed back his hat and scratched his forehead. “She pulled out on you when that sorrel came up beside you. She always do that?”

“Seems to.” Trish helped David finish scraping the sleek red hide. “Let’s get done here. I’m starved.”

That afternoon’s program didn’t go as well. Trish again had two mounts, but she only pulled off a place. In the other race not only was she boxed in, but the horse got bumped and finished second to last.

“Mom and Dad in yet?” Trish asked after a quick change in the jockey room. “I made reservations at a restaurant down at the inner harbor. The woman at the hotel desk said it was a really great place to eat.”

“They’re here,” David answered. “But Dad’s already gone to bed. Trish, he doesn’t look good at all.”

Chapter

07

N
ot good” didn’t begin to cover how bad Trish’s father looked.

“Go ahead, wake him,” her mother said. “He wants you to.”

Trish crammed her fist against her teeth to keep from crying out.
How can he look so much worse? He hasn’t even been gone a week.
She tiptoed forward to stand next to the bed. “Dad?” She touched the bruised hand lying on top of the covers. When Hal didn’t respond, she turned a questioning look to her mother.

Marge nodded.

“Dad.” Louder this time. Trish gently shook his shoulder.

Her father’s eyelids fluttered. His eyes seemed sunken back in his head, and the skin of his face looked gray against the sharp cheekbones. He had lost weight again. It was obvious by the creases from his nose to the corners of his mouth. Slowly, as though moving against a heavy weight, Hal’s eyes opened.

“Trish.” He turned his hand to take hers. “Sorry I’m so tired.” His voice faded in and out like an out-of-tune radio. “David, we—we’ll talk in the morning, okay?” His eyes closed again before anyone could even answer.

Trish watched him breathe. Each breath seemed a struggle, yet the effort hardly raised the blanket.
Where has my strong, dark-haired, laughing dad with the broad shoulders gone?
Trish thought.
The one who tossed me into my racing saddle as if I were a featherweight. The one who used to race me up from the barns at home? The man who knew God and trusted Him—my father.

She stroked the back of his hand where an IV had infiltrated and left terrible bruises. His hands had always calmed both Trish and the horses. Now they looked too thin for any kind of strength. He coughed, but even in sleep he’d learned to be careful not to cough too hard.

Trish wiped her cheeks and eyes with her other hand.

Marge handed her some tissues.

Trish had almost forgotten her mother and brother were there. All her love and strength focused on her father. She drew in a deep breath that snagged on the lump in her throat.

Then Trish heard the others leave the room. “God, you promised to hear our prayers, and we prayed for my dad to get better. You promised. You promised.” Her whisper faded away as the tears chased each other down her cheeks.

Trish quietly left the room, then leaned against the door frame of the connecting living room. She crossed her arms and braced her fists under her armpits to keep from shaking.

“What’s going on?” she pleaded with her mother.

“The doctors are trying a new method of treatment and your father reacted to it. He couldn’t keep anything down for two days, but insisted we come ahead anyway. Then we couldn’t get a direct flight, so the trip wore him out more than it should have.”

“He looks terrible.”

“I know. But a lot of that is because of exhaustion. He never sleeps well in the hospital.”

“Why are they trying a new treatment?” David asked.

“I promised your father I’d let him tell you about this last week.”

“Promises don’t mean much,” Trish blurted, then turned to her bedroom and closed the door behind her.

After changing into pajamas, she climbed into bed. Who cared about dinner? She didn’t want to talk to anyone. With pillows propped behind her, Trish leaned against the headboard.
If Dad is getting better like we all thought, why the new treatment? If he isn’t getting better, what’s going on? Is he worse?
She thought back to the weekend before. He hadn’t seemed worse. No coughing to speak of. He’d handled all the Derby stuff.

Trish tried to distract herself by examining her fingernails. None of this made any sense. Was God letting them down? She chewed on a torn cuticle until it bled. “Ouch.” She pressed her thumb on the skin to stop the bleeding.

What Scripture verses would help now? None came to mind.

Trish picked up
War and Peace.
Maybe reading would calm her mind. Half an hour later she dumped the book on the floor. She couldn’t hear anyone in the next room. Her watch read 8:30. She snapped off the light and snuggled down under the covers. The Jacuzzi from Kentucky would be real welcome about now.

After rolling over and smashing her pillow for the umpteenth time, Trish turned the light on again. She glared at the ceiling where she was sure her prayers were floating. Where had God gone? Picking up the eagle, she smoothed the carved wings. Suddenly she threw back the covers and, carrying the eagle, tiptoed into her parents’ room. She carefully set it on the nightstand where her father would see it when he woke up.

The door to their parents’ room was still closed when she and David left for the track in the morning. Drizzly skies matched Trish’s mood. A stiff wind blew the cold right through her as she galloped Spitfire and then Sarah’s Pride. Even the horses seemed glad to get back out of the weather. It felt more like Portland than Baltimore. She couldn’t have been prepared for weather on the East Coast. She’d never been there before.
And we probably shouldn’t be here now,
she thought.

Trish finished her chores without speaking to anyone. Patrick gave up after one look at her face. David never tried. He didn’t seem any better off than she was.

But by the time Hank Benson drove the limo through the gate, the sun and the clouds were playing a fast game of peek-a-boo. On the ride back to the hotel, Trish thought about Sundays at home. Chores, a good breakfast, and church. Then time to play with Miss Tee in the afternoon when the racing season was finished in Portland. She and Rhonda would probably go riding. The four musketeers would hang out somewhere.
Whatever we did, we would have fun. Even if it was studying together.

Her last thought reminded Trish of finals. She’d better get in and hit the books again. She was only about three-fourths through the list, and all her assignments had to go back with David so he could bring her more. She shook her head.

“You okay?” David asked when they reached the door to their hotel suite.

“Yeah, sure.” Frown lines deepened on her forehead. How could she be okay when her father looked so awful?

When they entered the suite it was like going through a time warp.

Hal had showered and shaved and was sitting up in a chair reading the newspaper.

“Good morning. Breakfast should be here any minute.” His smile hid the lines Trish had seen the night before.

“D-Dad,” Trish stammered in shock.

Hal teasingly touched his cheek, chin, and nose. “I think it’s me. Last time I checked the mirror anyway.” He laid the paper aside. “Haven’t you a hug for me, Trish? I came a long way to get one.”

Trish flew across the room and threw herself into his arms, with David right behind her. “But last night you—you looked—” She laid her head on his chest and soaked his robe lapel with her tears.

“I know, Tee. I know.” He patted her back with one hand and reached for David’s with the other. “I had hoped to get some rest so we could talk last night, but that trip wiped me out. Your mother and I really needed the sleep last night.”

“The time change didn’t help either.” Marge stood beside them, her hand on David’s shoulder.

There was a knock at the door. “That’s breakfast. We went ahead and ordered for you. I knew you’d be starved.” Marge went to open the door.

A waiter wheeled a white-clad table in, placed it in front of Hal’s chair, and raised two leaves, turning it into a larger round table. He skillfully arranged the place settings, poured ice water in the glasses, and pointed out the items. There was a basket of rolls and muffins, two carafes of coffee, fresh-squeezed orange juice, milk, and plates of pancakes, bacon, eggs, and hash browns.

“Looks great,” David said enthusiastically as he moved chairs into place. He walked the waiter to the door and tipped him.