Golden Filly Collection One (85 page)

The morning papers ran banner headlines: “Spitfire, Son of Seattle Slew!” The first line read, “Can he follow in his daddy’s hoofprints?” Another article mentioned the recurring leg problem.

Trish read them all. The last winner of the Triple Crown was Affirmed in 1978, the year after Seattle Slew took it. There’d been only eleven winners in all the years of racing. Could Spitfire really do it? Could he win at a mile and a half, the length of the Belmont track? Trish’s butterflies took a flying leap.

On the limo ride back to the track Sunday morning, a thought kept nagging at the back of Trish’s mind. Maybe they should forget the Belmont and just ship home. In the long run it might be better for both her father and Spitfire. Both of them would get the rest they needed.

She resolved to bring it up when both Patrick and her father were together.

“How is he?” Trish asked as soon as she saw Patrick.

“Not good, lass.” The usual twinkle was missing from his eyes. “But I’m not sure it’s real bad either. From what your father says, the lad pulls out of this pretty fast. It’s just that every incident may damage that muscle more.” He stroked Spitfire’s shoulder while he spoke. “I don’t know what to recommend.”

“Will shipping him make it worse?” Trish stroked Spitfire’s nose that was already draped over her shoulder.

“Not to my thinkin’. As your dad says—”

“I know,” Trish interrupted, “we’ll take it one day at a time.”

Patrick shrugged and nodded.

Dad looks so terrible.
Trish’s thoughts kept pace with the filly’s slow gallop. As if she sensed a problem, Sarah’s Pride settled into the pace and maintained it without her usual fits and shies. As she rode, Trish’s thoughts continued. She should be on top of the world, and instead she felt as if she were under it—holding it up.

“We sure enjoyed watching you win yesterday,” Hank Benson told her on the ride back to the hotel. “My Genny was screaming, jumping up and down. I thought she’d burst her buttons when you entered the winner’s circle. Says she wants to be just like you someday.”

“You should have brought her out to the barn afterward.”

“We knew you’d be busy. All those reporters and important people. I know what it’s like for the winner.” He smiled over his shoulder.

“Would you like to bring Genny along when you come to take us back to the track later this afternoon? She could meet Spitfire, maybe have her picture taken with him.”

“You sure about that?”

“Sure. I’d love to meet her too. I remember when I was twelve. I thought Bill Shoemaker was—well, movie stars have never been a big deal to me, but that man was.”

“Yeah, he was the greatest. Shame about that accident. Just after he retired too.”

“I know.” The limo stopped in front of the hotel entrance. “Tell Genny I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

Hal was asleep again.

“He ate a good breakfast, though,” Marge said. “He wanted to wait for you kids but he was too hungry.”

“That’s a good sign.” Trish flopped in a chair. “How is he otherwise?”

“Yesterday wore him out.”

“Yesterday wore us all out,” David added. “I think I could sleep all afternoon.”

After they’d finished breakfast, that’s just what they did. Trish was amazed when she opened one eye to check the clock.
Four!
She stretched and yawned. So much for studying. The limo was due back in half an hour.

“Your dad says you take riding lessons,” Trish said to Genny after they’d been introduced. “Tell me about them.”

Genny sat in the seat with her back to the driver. She had long dark hair, held back by a red headband, and she wore jeans and a red turtleneck. She leaned forward as she spoke, her hands on her knees. After telling about her classes, she asked, “How do I get to be a jockey like you?”

“You keep riding, and when you’re older start asking if you can exercise horses for one of the farms. You may have to clean stalls to get in, but keep asking. One time they’ll need someone, and if you’re good, you’re on your way. There’s one thing though—do you like to get up early in the morning?”

Genny flinched a bit and wrinkled her nose. “Not really.”

“Well, morning works start at four-thirty or five, you know.”

When they arrived at the track, Patrick was measuring the horses’ evening feed. Trish handed Genny a couple of pieces of carrot from the bag in the cooler.

Spitfire nickered as soon as he heard Trish’s voice. He reached his nose out as far as he could to greet her, a soundless nicker fluttering his nostrils.

“You old silly.” Trish rubbed his nose and smoothed his forelock. With one hand gripping his halter, Trish motioned Genny closer. “Spitfire, meet Genny.” Spitfire reached out and sniffed Genny’s arm and up her shoulder. He inspected her hair, then down to her palm, where he lipped his carrot and munched.

“I think he likes you,” Trish said.

“He likes anyone who brings him carrots.” David leaned on the handle of his pitchfork. With a quick motion, Spitfire sent David’s crimson and gold baseball hat floating to the ground. “Spitfire, you—you!”

“You should have brought him a carrot,” Genny said innocently, a gleam dancing in her eye.

“Thanks.” David grinned at her as he bent over to pick up his hat. “Just be glad you’re not wearing a hat.”

“How about if your dad takes a picture of you and Spitfire?” Trish asked.

“And you?” Genny wondered.

Trish nodded. “If you like.” Trish turned her back so Spitfire could drape his head over her shoulder. Genny stood on the other side of the horse. Hank took several shots, reminding them each time to smile.

Genny’s grin dimmed the lights. “Thank you, Trish. And Spitfire.” She fed him her last bit of carrot. “You’re the neatest.”

On the way back to the hotel, Genny asked Trish to sign her program from the day before. By the time they parted, Trish felt almost as if she had a little sister. “You write to me now,” Trish said, “and keep up your lessons. Maybe we’ll be riding in the same race someday. You never know.”

Trish let out a sigh as she and David entered the hotel. Spitfire hadn’t gotten any worse. Maybe they should go on after all.

“You did good.” David tapped her on the shoulder.

His praise flew straight to her heart. “Thanks. I needed that.”

Hal listened carefully that night when Trish suggested they might all be better off if they flew back to Portland rather than continue on to Belmont.

“What do you think, David?” Hal asked.

David paused, his forehead wrinkled in thought. “I’m not the one that’s sick. We won’t know about Spitfire’s leg, but it could be fine in the next couple of days. It’s you we’re worried about.”

That word again,
Trish thought.
From now on the W word should be outlawed in our family.

“Marge, what about you?”

“You’re awfully close to your dream to quit now.”

Trish stared at her mother. She could feel her mouth drop open—and stay that way.

“Patrick?” The trainer had joined them for dinner.

“I can’t be walkin’ in your shoes. Who but God can know the future?”

Hal leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin. The light from the lamp slashed deep shadows in his face. Trish shuddered. He’d lost more weight, she was sure of it.

“One day at a time,” he finally said. “We’re in God’s hands—one day at a time. We’ll make the final decision on Tuesday night.”

It rained all day Monday. Trish spent the time studying. David and Patrick kept doctoring Spitfire’s leg. Hal slept. Marge stayed busy knitting a sweater.

Before she went to sleep that night, Trish finished reading
War and Peace.
Now she just had to write the report and the assignment list was finished. Her prayers remained the same. “Please make my dad better. And Spitfire too.”

On Tuesday the rain continued. Hal polled them all that evening. After listening to everyone’s comments, he announced, “We leave for Belmont at nine a.m.”

Trish wasn’t sure if she was happy or sad.

Both horses loaded without any trouble in the morning. Spitfire wasn’t limping but the leg was still warm to the touch.

Trish felt that old familiar lump in her throat as she said good-bye to Mel Howell and their limo driver, Hank Benson. “You made me really feel good here,” she said. “You sure you don’t want to come along to Belmont?” After shaking hands, she climbed up in the cab of the horse van. The driver wasn’t friendly like Hank or Fred Robertson.