Golden Filly Collection Two (20 page)
While he added the first two elements, her mind flipped back to the beach. “And then what?” Kevin’s sharp voice brought her back.
“Then heat until the color changes to…”
The compound fuzzed, smoked, and smelled atrocious.
“What are you trying to do—kill us both?” Kevin dropped the test tube in a deep sink, where it shattered.
“Clear the room, everyone,” the teacher’s assistant ordered, turning the fans on high.
When Trish finally quit coughing, along with everyone else, lab time was over and she was still further behind. An F sure wouldn’t help her grade any.
It was a miracle she was able to reach the condominium with her eyes streaming like they were. She dragged herself up the stairs and, after closing her bedroom door, threw herself across the bed. She buried her face in a pillow to muffle the heart-wrenching sobs. Trying to pray only made her cry harder.
“Trish,” Martha Finley, wife of breeder/trainer Adam Finley, and Trish’s “other mother,” poked her head in the doorway after knocking several times. Without another word, she crossed the room and, sitting down on the bed, gathered the sobbing girl into her arms. She murmured soothing sounds and stroked Trish’s hair, allowing her to cry.
“I—I’m so tired—of cry—ing.”
“I know. But tears are necessary when you’ve been wounded like you have. Only by crying and talking through your grief and confused feelings will you ever begin to heal.”
“I want my d-a-d.”
“I know you do, honey. I know.”
When the sobs finally lessened, Martha handed Trish a tissue.
“everything is such a mess. I can’t think straight. I can’t concentrate on anything. It’s like I live in a big black fog.” Trish reached for another tissue and Martha handed her the box.
“I just want to run away—and keep on running.”
“But you’ll take yourself with you,” Martha answered wisely.
“That’s the pits.”
“Ummm.”
Silence but for a hiccup and sniffs.
“Martha, I want my dad back.” The tears flowed again. “I
need
my father.”
Martha held Trish close, rocking back and forth and crooning the songs that mothers have used through the ages to comfort their children.
When Trish finally crawled between the covers, she felt like a wrung-out stable rag. Swollen-shut eyes, raw, burning nose, and a heart that weighed two tons didn’t make her feel any better. While she feared another night of tossing and turning, sleep crept in before she could turn over even once.
The song—that was it. Trish opened her eyes to check the clock. Had the song come before she slept or just now as she awoke? It didn’t matter. It had come—and not only at the beach.
She threw the covers back and leaped from the bed. This was sure to be a better day. The song had come. She flew into the bathroom and turned on the shower. As she stepped under the pelting water, she was humming.
Fog swirling about the streetlights and blanketing the ground made driving to the track an exercise in concentration. Trish squinted through the windshield, driving slow enough that she could stop before hitting anything—or anyone. Morning sounds at the track seemed muffled by the gray miasma.
She left her car in the parking lot and trotted through the gate, lifting a hand in greeting to the guard. She dodged to the side as a bug boy, the fringe of his leather chaps dangling in the breeze, sped past on his bicycle. A pony rider on a bay quarterhorse plodded past on his way to escort another high-strung Thoroughbred out to the track. Trish knew that watching her feet instead of the traffic around her could cause an injury, so she kept her head upright. This morning that wasn’t difficult.
Gatesby tossed his head and whinnied a greeting as soon as she turned the corner into the Finley stalls. Firefly, in the stall next to him, added her welcome. Trish kept a careful eye on the gelding; she didn’t feel like getting nipped today—or any day for that matter. Gatesby harbored the genes of a natural rowdy, not malicious, but a bite in fun hurt just as much as one in anger.
Trish scratched behind his ears, always keeping one hand on his halter. “You old goof-off. Been buggin’ anyone yet today?”
“Sí, elestúpido caballo me mordió,”
Juan, one of the grooms, told her. He pointed to a spot on his arm, shaking his head.
Firefly nickered again.
“Your turn, I know.” Trish left the gelding and ducked her shoulder under the filly’s chin. Standing like this, his head draped over Trish’s shoulder, was Spitfire’s favorite position. Trish swallowed a lump at the thought of her big black colt, now a stud at BlueMist Farms in Kentucky. Oh, how she missed him! But when a colt has won the Triple Crown, he goes into syndication and retires to stud. The money from that transaction would keep her family comfortable for years to come.
But that knowledge didn’t make things easier for Trish. She gritted her teeth and, giving the filly one last scratch, moved on to the next stall.
Adam Finley and Carlos Montanya, the head groom, stood inside discussing the problems the colt was having as they wrapped his legs for the morning work.
“Who’m I doing first?” Trish asked after waiting for a pause in the conversation.
Adam turned, a smile creasing his apple cheeks. “Morning, Trish. Think we’ll go with Diego’s. Juan is saddling him now.” Finley unhooked the canvas gate across the stall door and stepped outside. “How you doin’ this morning?” He peered into her face and nodded. “Better, I can tell.”
“Martha blabbed.”
He nodded again. “Yes, and we’re grateful.”
“For what?”
“You.” He reached inside the tack room and brought out her whip. “Be careful out there this morning. Everyone’s kinda antsy.”
How could such a simple comment, that the Finleys were grateful for her, make Trish want to bawl, she wondered. She raised her knee for the mount.
Two horses later, Adam’s advice paid off. A horse galloping beside her spooked at something and leaped sideways, crashing into her mount’s shoulder. Her horse stumbled badly and within a few paces pulled up limping. Trish dismounted and led him back to the barn.
“If I’d just paid closer attention,” she grumbled to Adam when she reached the row of stalls.
“Lass, for crying out loud, you can’t foresee everything. You kept him from a bad fall. Coulda done a lot more damage, and hurt yourself on top of it.” He stripped the saddle off so the stable hands could wash the animal down and pack the injured leg in ice.
But the near-accident ruined the morning for Trish, knocking her right back into her pit of despair.
A black horse galloping by reminded her of Spitfire—the way he held his head, the way he begged for a run, his deep grunts when he ran hard. It seemed like months since she’d seen her horse. Would he still remember her?
Thoughts of Spitfire brought thoughts of home. How were the babies, Miss Tee and Double Diamond, coming along? How she needed a hug from her mother, and a good old bad time from her brother, David. She watched out for the other working horses and paid attention to her own mount, but one part of her mind visited Runnin’ On Farm—and home. When could she go back?
I’ll call as soon as I’m done with these beasts,
she promised herself.
The rising sun had burned off all but stray wisps of the morning fog, which hid in the lowest places by the time the last horse was worked according to Adam’s schedule.
“You got any mounts this afternoon?” Adam asked when Trish had dropped down into a faded-green director’s chair. When she shook her head, he said, “Good. I’m taking you out for lunch.” When she started to object, he raised a hand. “No, I know you have homework, and you’d probably rather head for the beach, but we need to talk.” He looked up as Carlos stuck his head in the door with a question. After giving the needed answer, Adam turned back to Trish. “Someplace without so many interruptions.” He grinned at her. “Besides, it’s still overcast at the beach and will stay so all day.”
Trish glanced at her watch. “Can I go home and change first?”
“If you want. I’ll meet you at the Peking Gardens at noon.”
When Trish entered her bedroom, the first thing she did was dial home. The phone rang and rang. “You’d think they’d have the answering machine on at least,” she muttered as she dropped the receiver back in the cradle.
She tried her best friend, Rhonda. At least they had the answering machine on.
When she looked in the bathroom mirror, she saw that tiny spatters of mud had given her freckles. She washed them away and scrubbed her hands. The face in the mirror didn’t smile back. A smile was too much effort.
She shucked off her clothes and tossed them into the hamper. Damp mornings messed up her jeans. Maybe she should wear chaps like some of the others. She looked in the mirror again.
Maybe I should just quit.
The thought scared her. It was coming too frequently lately.
“All you need is one good win.” She pointed her hairbrush at the grim face.
And that’s about as likely as you acing a chem test,
her little nagging voice rejoined.
You know, if you’d…
Trish slammed the hairbrush down on the counter and left the room. All she needed was one more person telling her what to do, even if it was her own head.
Adam waited for her in a corner booth. While the restaurant had many patrons, the tables around them were empty for the moment. Trish slid into the red vinyl booth seat across from him. An icy Diet Coke stood in front of her.
“Thanks.” She sipped and set the glass back down. A sigh escaped from deep within.
Adam reached across the table and covered her clenched hands with his own. “How can I help you, Tee?”
Tee,
her father’s pet name for her, did it. Trish covered her brimming eyes with her hands.
Would she ever stop crying?
O
h, lass, I’m so glad for you.”
Trish heard the words, but they didn’t make any sense. Here she couldn’t seem to quit crying, and Adam said he was glad for her! Her thoughts tumbled over each other, shutting off the tears like a faucet.
She mopped her eyes with the napkin in front of her, then dug in her purse for a tissue. After blowing her nose and wiping her eyes again, she took a deep breath and blew it out. She stared at the face across from her.
“How come you and Martha both say you’re happy to see me crying? Seems kinda mean to me.” Trish sniffed, and sipped her Diet Coke.
“Well, Trish, these weeks since your father died, you’ve been all frozen up inside. And that’s not healthy.” He shook his head. “Not at all.”
Without looking up, Trish said, “It didn’t hurt as bad that way. Now I hurt all the time.”
“Maybe, but the healing has begun. You have to let the feelings out, cry them out, express them, in order to deal with all that has happened.”
“But my dad is still gone.”
“I know. And nothing can bring him back. But you
will
be able to go on, and one day you’ll look around you and life will be good again. Not the
same,
but good again.”
Trish let the tears spill over and stream down her cheeks. When she could speak, she took courage and brought up the question that was scaring her: “Do you think I’ll be any good as a jockey again?”
“Oh yes. You have been given a wondrous gift with horses, and that hasn’t been taken from you. It may be put under wraps for a while, but it will come back.”
“You really think so?”
“I don’t just think, I
believe
so.”
