Golden Filly Collection One (90 page)

“True,” Hal acknowledged.

David flagged down a cab. After they’d all climbed inside, Hal continued. “We’ll do things like pay off the mortgage on the farm, make some investments, set money aside for college for each of you…”

Trish flinched at the mention of college. She wanted to race, not study.

“Just think, you can go to whatever college you wish.” Marge settled back against the seat. “And not have to worry about money.”

“What would you like?” Hal took Marge’s hand. “As a sort of reward for all the stress we’ve put you through?”

Marge thought a moment. “A new car, I guess. The poor old station wagon has seen a lot of miles.”

“How about a red convertible?” Trish muttered under her breath. David snorted, and Hal swallowed a chuckle.

A smile tugged at the corners of Marge’s mouth. “Sure. Three red convertibles sitting in our front yard…” She laughed lightly. “The neighbors will think we’ve gone into the car business.” She shook her head. “No, make mine something with a solid top. I don’t want to have to worry about water dripping in during the winter. One of those minivans would be nice.”

Trish tried to hear the conversation without missing all the sights. They’d just crossed the Brooklyn Bridge.

“And what would you like, Tee?” Hal asked.

“More horses,” she answered without a thought. “We could go to the January yearling sale at Santa Anita. And breed all the mares to better stallions.”

Hal raised his hand. “Okay, okay. We get the picture.”

“What about you, Davey boy?” Trish asked.

“I already have what I wanted—thanks to you.” He tapped Trish’s knee. “A decent car. College was my next dream. What can I say?”

Trish felt a warm glow of pride and deep happiness surround her family. “What about you, Dad?”

“Having money has never been a big issue with me.…” He put his arm around Marge. “With us. But knowing that all of you are provided for takes a big load off my mind. I think I’d like to buy something for the church—maybe a bus or a van. David, why don’t you look into that when we get home.”

Trish rested her head on her father’s shoulder.
What we need most can’t be bought. God, please make my dad better.

Hal leaned on David and Marge for support on the way up to their suite. While he made a joke of it, Trish could tell by the way his steps faltered that he was exhausted. And the post position draw was in the morning.

Patrick had Trish walk Spitfire around the entire track at morning works.

“I don’t think he’ll make it,” she heard one railbird say. “He ain’t run all week.”

Trish leaned forward to rub Spitfire’s neck. “A lot he knows about it,” she whispered in the horse’s ear. She relaxed in the saddle and let her feet dangle below the stirrups. “You just keep getting better. We’ll show ’em.”

Reporters asked the same question they always asked. “Will he run?” One of the more ambitious ones walked beside Trish on their way back to the barn. “What do you think your father will do?”

“We’re just taking a day at a time. We have up to the morning of the race to scratch if we have to.” Trish had made the comment so many times she felt like a stuck needle on a record.

When she walked into the dining room for the post position draw, Trish had a surprise. Adam and Martha Finley stood talking with her mother and father.

“Hear you brought that filly in by a whisker,” Adam said after he greeted her. “I didn’t think you could do it.”

“Patrick suggested the blinkers. I think she’ll do all right now. She found out what winning is all about, and she liked the applause.” Trish turned to greet Martha and found herself enveloped in a warm hug.

“I knew you could do it,” she whispered in Trish’s ear. “You’ve got that magic touch.”

“Thanks.” Trish hugged her back. “You always make me feel so good.”

The crowd quieted as the officials filed to the front of the room. Each person had been given a list of the seven horses entered in the race. By now Trish could pick out the owners, trainers, and jockey for each horse. The groups huddled together, waiting for the program to begin.

Nomatterwhat drew the post position. A cheer went up from his group. Equinox drew number six. Others were called; number two, number four.

Spitfire’s name was next to last. “Number seven. Spitfire in gate seven.”

“Right next to Equinox again,” Trish mumbled. “At least we won’t have to wait in the gate while the rest of them calm down.”

With the drawing of the last number, the ceremony was over. Before the officials had left the podium, a reporter had his mike in front of Hal’s face.

“Will Spitfire be well enough to run?”

His question lacked originality, in Trish’s estimation. She mouthed the words along with her father. “We are taking…”

“Has the colt been limping? Will you breeze him tomorrow?”

Hal shook his head to both questions. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. We just don’t know for sure.”

“Tough break, to come so far and have an accident on the turnpike.”

The Shipsons joined the group, and the reporter left. “I hear congratulations are in order for you, young lady.” Mr. Shipson extended his hand. “Both for winning with the filly and bringing ours in too. Have you thought about racing in Kentucky next year?”

Trish looked to see if her mother had heard the comment.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Finley put in. “We asked her first. And California is closer to Washington than Kentucky is.”

Trish caught Patrick’s eye and he winked at her. She glanced at her father. He was slumped in the chair, and looked as though his shoulders were too heavy to hold up.

When her mother, Martha Finley, and Bernice Shipson suggested a shopping trip, Trish turned it down. Although the idea of shopping in New York City was tempting, Trish had something she had to do and this would give her the opportunity.

“I need to study, and Patrick may have me walk Spitfire this evening,” she said. “But thanks anyway. Have fun, Mom. Why don’t you buy yourself something nice—like a new dress for the winner’s circle.” She smiled. “You haven’t had a new dress for a long time.”

Marge studied her daughter suspiciously. “Take care of your dad, then. And study hard. We probably won’t be back until late.” She kissed Hal. “Get some rest now, okay?”

Hal nodded. “You have a good time, Marge. And take your daughter’s suggestion.”

Trish drove her father back to the hotel and helped him to his room.

“Thanks, Tee.” Hal sank down on the bed. “I know I’ll feel better after I sleep awhile.” He reached for his pills and took a couple with a glass of water from the nightstand.

He lay down, and Trish untied his shoes and slipped them off. “Are you hurting bad?”

“Just staying on top of it.” He stretched out, and Trish pulled the sheet up. “Right now I could use those eagle’s wings.”

Trish smiled, but said nothing. Within seconds Hal was asleep.

He looks like an old man.
The thought struck Trish with the force of a mule kick.
Where has my real father gone?

Later that afternoon, when Hal was awake, Trish went out and bought fried chicken and took it back to the hotel.

When she and her father were seated at the table, she cleared her throat and began. “Remember last night in the taxi when you asked what I wanted to do with some of the money?”

Hal nodded. “Yes?”

“Well, what I really want—” She paused and looked her father straight in the eye. “Is there any place—like a hospital—that you could go for some other kind of treatment? Maybe some experimental stuff—something that would work better for you? We can afford it now. Even another country, if necessary.” She finished quickly before the tears choked her up. “Have you thought about that?”

“No, not really. Since they found the new tumors all I could think of was getting back to you—to the tracks. How about if when we get home we talk to the doctors? They’ve had time now to study my situation, and may have some new recommendations. Actually, they weren’t too happy with me when I walked out on them.”

“Walked out on them?”

“That’s right. We had to get back here.”

Trish nodded. “But you’ll really look into it then?”

“Yes, Trish, I promise.”

Trish fell asleep that night with one thought on her mind. Tomorrow they would decide. Would Spitfire race on Saturday or not?

Friday morning dawned with a drizzle. Trish alternately walked and trotted Spitfire around the track. She could feel a difference in him. He seemed to both walk and trot on his tiptoes. He was ready to run.

When Trish brought Sarah’s Pride back to the barn after an easy gallop of the entire track, she could feel water dripping off the end of her nose. She sniffed as she leaped to the ground.

Before she knew what was happening, strong arms circled her waist and whirled her around in a strong hug.

“Red!” She looked into his face. “You came!” She hugged him again. “What took you so long?”

“Is that all you can say”—Red nearly squished her hand—“after I drove most of the night to get here?”

Trish looked at David and Patrick standing nearby. She could feel the heat begin to rise from her toes up. By the time her neck and cheeks were hot, she felt as if she could light up the barn. Somehow the day didn’t seem gray anymore.

Patrick winked at her, and David rolled his eyes.

Red broke the tension by asking, “You about ready for some breakfast?”

“Uh—yeah—maybe—” Trish took a deep breath and looked at David. “I’d better help with the chores first, though.”

“Aw, go on. We’re almost done. Catch up with you over at the kitchen.”

Trish couldn’t ignore the fact that Red was still holding her hand. The tingle up her arm made her throat dry. But that didn’t keep her from talking. And laughing—for no reason at all. By the time they walked into the cafeteria they’d caught up on each other’s news, and Trish felt back to normal—sort of.

After breakfast Hal met them all back at the barn. “Well, what do you think, Patrick? Is it a go—or no?”

Trish felt as if her heart were in her throat. At least it was pounding about five times faster than normal. She watched Patrick’s face, trying to out-guess him.

“Well, we haven’t galloped him. I don’t know what that might do to his leg.” He paused, as if studying something on the wall.

Trish wanted to scream at him to hurry.

“But there’s been no heat or swelling for the last couple of days. The lad walks like he’s on top o’ the world.”

Hal studied his hands. “If we run him, we could lame him for life, right?” He raised his head and looked at Patrick.

Patrick started to shake his head, then frowned. “Not sure I’d go quite that far. Could take him some time to heal though.”

Trish chewed on the cuticle of her thumb. She felt sick to her stomach. Would they
ever
make the decision? She glanced at David. He was clipping his fingernails—a sure sign he was worried.

Looks to me like running in the Belmont is more important to you than Spitfire’s leg,
Trish’s little nagger spoke out of nowhere.

Trish gritted her teeth.
I just want to know what we’re going to do. That’s all.

Right?

She heard a nicker down the long, sandy aisle. Spitfire stuck his head over the gate and answered.

“If you want my true, gut opinion,” Patrick broke the silence, “I say go for it. I think he can do it.”

Hal let out a sigh that sounded as if he hadn’t breathed for the last five minutes. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

Thank you, God! Thank you, thank you, thank you!
Trish jumped up and down and ran the few steps to stand in front of Spitfire. She placed her hands on both sides of his face and looked him straight in the eye. “We’re gonna run tomorrow, old man. And it’s gonna take all we got.”

Spitfire blew in Trish’s face, then dropped his head against her chest. Running was tomorrow. Right now he wanted a good scratching. Trish obliged him.

That night Hal took their extended family, which included Red, Patrick, and the Finleys, out for a steak dinner. “We have lots to celebrate,” he told them as they sat around the table. “Whether we win or lose tomorrow, we’ve given it all we’ve got. What more can anyone do?”