Golden Filly Collection One (89 page)

Tuesday morning Patrick saddled Spitfire. “Just walk him down past the stands and back. The mile and a half is too far right now.”

Spitfire walked carefully, a bit stiff-legged. But he didn’t limp. As soon as they returned to the barn, Patrick applied the ice pack again.

That afternoon Trish and Patrick schooled Sarah’s Pride. They followed the line of horses down through the underpass and up to the saddling paddock.

Shade and sunlight dappled the white-roofed, open-air stalls. Huge elm and oak trees created a park around the circular walking lane where spectators stood on brick risers to watch the pre-post parade. White metal fences with cutouts of running horses edged the tiers.

A cast-iron statue of Secretariat in full speed graced the center, surrounded by red geraniums. A white wrought-iron chair gave visitors to the legend of racing a place to rest. Beyond rose the three-story arched windows of the clubhouse.

Trish was having a falling-jaw attack again. The place was incredible. She could tell Belmont Park cost money—lots of money. Racing in New York was
big
business.

She chuckled to herself. It all compared to Portland Meadows like the sun to the moon. Sarah’s Pride nudged her in the back as if to say, “Quit gawking and start walking.”

That evening David returned from his trip to Vancouver. Trish studied again while her parents went to the airport. When David walked into the suite, he was carrying a thin package under his arm.

“How was the graduation? Did Brad get his second scholarship? Did you see Rhonda? How’s Miss Tee?” Trish bubbled over with questions. “For me?” she asked as David handed her the package.

“Open it. Then I’ll answer all your questions.”

Trish carefully untied the curled crimson and gold ribbon, then removed the brown wrapping paper. Two pieces of posterboard were taped together to make a huge card. It depicted an old, broken-down black nag stumbling across the page. A square bandage covered one haunch; the lower lip hung nearly to the sprung knees. A woman jockey sat on the swayback, her legs clapped to the bony ribs.

Trish giggled. “Did Rhonda draw this?” The caption read “On to Belmont.” Inside the card, the horse had shaped up considerably. It held a rose in its teeth and the jockey waved a trophy. The inside words read, “Trish did it her way. Congratulations!” The signatures of Prairie students covered every inch of the inside and back of the card. Trish turned it over and back again, sniffling as she read. The teachers had signed it too. In the right lower corner, Rhonda had drawn a red heart and signed her name across it.

Trish handed the card to her mother while she went to get a tissue.

“Can you believe it?” she said, sinking into a chair, her legs dangling over the arm. “Wow.” She blew her nose again.

Hal and Marge chuckled as they looked at the card, then handed it back to Trish. “You’ll need a couple of hours just to read all the messages,” Marge said. “They must have worked on it for days.”

“I wish Brad and Rhonda were here. Remember when they showed up for our first race? They were whooping and hollering; I was afraid the security guards were going to throw them out. Then I was afraid they wouldn’t.” She shook her head. “Guess I don’t embarrass so easily anymore.” She looked at the inside of the card again. Brad had signed his name on the end of the horse’s nose.

“So how was everything?” Trish asked again.

David told her everything he could remember, and then Trish prompted him with more questions. “Seems like we’ve been away from home forever,” he finally said. “Miss Tee and Double Diamond have both grown some. Poor old Caesar thinks we’ve all deserted him. He wouldn’t let me out of his sight.” David stretched both arms above his head. “I’m beat. Talk about a fast trip.” He turned to Trish. “How’s Spitfire doing?”

“I walked him today.”

“Do you think you’ll race him?” David looked to his father.

“Who knows.” Hal leaned back in his chair. “He favors the leg, even though he walked without limping. Patrick is doing all he can, packs and ultrasound. We’ll keep going like we’re in the running, and decide on Friday.”

Trish huddled in her chair. Friday. Three days away. Was there any chance they could do it?

On Wednesday morning Trish walked Spitfire again. She trotted the filly to loosen her up. Sarah’s Pride would have her chance in the afternoon.

In the jockey room, Trish studied while waiting for the race.
I must be getting better disciplined,
Trish thought.
I can study anywhere.
She glared at the new list of assignments David had brought her. She’d
better
be able to study anywhere with all she had to do. She tapped her pencil thoughtfully. Her mother had only mentioned studying. Maybe she’d given up nagging.

Or maybe you’re doing much better on your own, and she thinks so too,
Trish’s little voice reminded her.

Or she’s so worried about your dad, she doesn’t have time to think about your studies.
Her nagger had to get in his two cents’ worth.

Trish glanced up at the monitor. They were running the third race. She finished dressing, ready to walk out the door when the call came to weigh in.

Hal, Patrick, and David waited for her in the paddock. Sarah’s Pride pranced her way right into the hearts of the spectators.

“That’s Tricia Evanston!” someone exclaimed.

“Hey, Trish, how about an autograph?” A man held out his program and a pen.

Trish signed her name with a flourish. Two other programs appeared in front of her.

“Sure hope Spitfire will be ready to run.” One woman shook her head. “Shame to come so far and have to scratch.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Trish agreed. “We need all the prayers we can get.”

A tiny little lady with snow-white hair reached out and patted Trish’s arm. “I’ve been praying for him, and your father too. God hears us.”

Trish covered the woman’s hand with her own. “Thank you very much.”

At the call for riders up, Trish joined the men walking the flame-red filly around the paddock. She shook her head, amazed at the intricate ways God used to get through to her.

Patrick gave her a leg up. “Now, lass, keep in mind that ye carry that whip for a reason. Use it if you have to. This girl needs a win bad. And it wouldn’t be a-hurtin’ you either.”

Trish fingered the whip. She hated to use it. But she nodded down at Patrick. “You know best.”

Hal nodded. “He does.”

Sarah’s Pride put on a real show on the parade to post. She danced and snorted. As they cantered back past the grandstand, she kept trying to race her pony rider. But when the gate swung open and the race began, she was content to run with the field. Two horses broke away and lengthened their lead.

Trish held the filly steady around the turn, keeping her from drifting to the outside. Down the stretch she hollered in the filly’s ear and shifted her weight—anything to get the horse running harder. Finally she went to the whip.

Sarah’s Pride leaped forward at the crack and drove between the two front-runners. Trish smacked her again. Neck and neck, the three pounded for the wire. One more thwack and the filly surged forward, one long line from nose to streaming tail.

“Photo finish!” the announcer and tote board declared at once.

Trish cantered on partway around the track, then turned and trotted back to the winner’s circle. The three contenders walked around in circles while the rest of the field were stripped of their tack and led off to the barns.

“And that’s number five, Sarah’s Pride. Owned by Hal Evanston and ridden by Tricia Evanston. Ladies and gentlemen, that was the closest race I’ve ever called. Place goes to number three, with number one a show. The three were only separated by whiskers.”

As the announcer spoke, Trish turned the filly to face the grandstand for the applause. “That’s for you, girl. See how good it feels?” The filly stood, head up, accepting her due. “That’s what this is all about, you know—winning.” The filly nodded.

Patrick took the reins and led them into the winner’s circle. The aisle led past red and white baskets of flowers, and the circle was decorated with potted trees and plants, also with blooms of red and white.

“You think she got the idea?” Hal asked as they posed for pictures.

“We’ll know for sure next race, but I think so.” Trish leaped to the ground and stripped off her saddle so she could weigh in.

“You and Patrick did a fine job with her,” Hal said to Trish after David had led the filly off to the detention barn for testing.

“Thanks, but it took a special eye to choose her. You know how to pick ’em, Dad.” She tucked her helmet under her arm and rubbed carefully at the edge of her injured eye. The bruise had faded to an ugly green and yellow. “You know what’s neat? That purse paid for her.”

Hal pulled both Trish and her mother close. “How about some lunch up in the clubhouse?”

Trish looked down at her dirty silks. “Like this?”

Hal stepped back to take a look. “Okay, you get five minutes to change. We’ll go get a table. And tonight we’ll go see the Empire State Building—after dark.”

Trish trotted off happily. Why couldn’t things just stay like this?

Chapter

14

S
pectacular was too small a word to describe the view. Trish leaned on the metal railing around the top floor of the Empire State Building, looking toward upper Manhattan. Central Park lay like an oblong black hole between the lighted streets and tall buildings. Skyscrapers glittered against the night sky. A man next to them knew the city, and Trish listened as he pointed out the various buildings to his companion.

Walking around the observation deck, the Evanstons looked toward the downtown financial district. The twin World Trade towers dominated the skyline.

“There are so many buildings, and they’re all so different,” Trish commented, leaning her chin on her hands against the railing. “What do you suppose it’s like up here in a windstorm?”

“The building sways,” Hal answered.

“Wow!”

“It feels like it’s swaying now,” Marge said. “Some of these tiles move when you step on them, and I’m sure the building is moving.”

“Awww, Mom,” David teased her. “You just need something to worry about.”

“Well, worriers have
very
vivid imaginations,” Marge acknowledged. She clung to Hal’s arm. “So I’m entitled. Don’t you think we’ve seen enough now? We’ve been around three times.”

“In a minute.” Hal laid his hand over hers. “Listen. You can hear the roar of the city clear up here. Just think of all the people crammed on this small island.”

“Think I’ll stick to the country,” David observed. “I thought Portland was a pretty big city, until now.”

Trish looked up. White moths danced in the spotlights. Higher up, the spire flashed red lights. A helicopter clattered past, then swung out over the Hudson River. Trish dragged her feet back to the first elevator. The building was so tall it took two elevators to return them to street level.

On the way out they read the signs and studied displays that told the story of the Empire State Building. For many years it had been the tallest building in the world. Now the Sears Tower in Chicago was the largest. A plaque listed the names of construction workers who had won awards for their skills.

“What a nice thing to do,” Marge said. “It’s easy to forget the contribution that everyday people make in this world.”

“Our name is on a trophy or two,” Trish said. “And Spitfire will be famous forever.”

“That’s true,” Marge agreed. “And your name has gone down in the annals of Thoroughbred racing too. How does it feel to be world-famous at sixteen?”

Trish tipped her head to the side and rolled her lips together. “I don’t
feel
any different than I did before the Derby. I’m still the same old me.” She raised her arms and twirled in a circle. “Do I look any different?”

“Nope. Just as dopey as ever.” David ducked before Trish could punch his shoulder. “I know one thing that’s different.”

“What’s that?” Hal asked as he guided them all toward the exit.

“We have a lot more money than we did. Those purses we’ve won take the pressure off, at least for a while.”