Golden Filly Collection Two (11 page)

Brad had heard the commotion and swung open the gate to the corral by the barn. Miss Tee dodged away from his waving arms and into the corral.

Trish leaped to the ground as David slammed on the brakes.

“I’m going back to thank those people who helped us,” David called as he backed out the driveway.

The filly stood spraddle-legged in the center of the dirt pen. Her head drooped, sides heaving as she struggled to catch her breath.

Trish and Brad slowly walked up to her on either side, both talking gently. Lather flecked both flanks and chest of the weary filly. Only her ears flicked back and forth to show she knew they were there. When Trish caught the lead shank under Miss Tee’s chin, she trembled but stood still.

“I’ll get another,” Brad murmured when Trish had the horse secured. He returned in seconds with another shank to clip on.

All the while Trish crooned her song in the filly’s twitching ears, scolding, but soothing. “You crazy horse, you’ve seen rabbits before. Boy, are we in for it now.”

“What happened? How’d she get loose?” Brad stroked Miss Tee’s sweaty neck.

“Don’t ask.” Trish shook her head. “Hang on tight, okay?” When Brad had the strap secure, she squatted down to run her hands over the filly’s legs, checking for any strains.

David joined them in the corral. “She okay?” At Trish’s nod, he let out a breath.

Trish looked up. A thundercloud was perched on David’s forehead; she knew lightning was about to strike.

“If you two lead her, I’ll drive in front to protect you. I don’t think we need to bring the trailer over.”

“That okay with you?” Trish asked Brad.

“Sure.”

Miss Tee released a huge sigh and nuzzled Trish’s pocket for a carrot. While she munched the treat, she rubbed her forehead against Trish’s shoulder.

The trek home passed without incident. Brad didn’t let go until the filly was safely housed in one of the stalls.

“For crying out loud, Trish!” David slammed his fist against the wall. “You know better than that. I told you not to take her out. Where’s your head? You could have gotten her killed; yourself too.”

Patrick handed Trish a bucket of warm water. “Let’s get her washed down and blanketed.”

“She’s not hurt,” Trish snapped back. “And you don’t have to tell me how stupid I was; I already know that.”

Brad took the bucket from Trish, and he and Patrick each took a side of the filly and went to work.

“You don’t know she’s not hurt, and now she’ll probably be scared to death of cars and everything else. She could be wind-broken for all we know.”

“Quit yelling at me! You’re not perfect either.”

“You deserve to be yelled at. You were totally irresponsible. Dad woulda had your hide.”

“If you two are going to fight, move it away from here,” Patrick inter-rupted. “You’re scaring her again.”

“Fine.” Trish spun on her heel and jogged up the rise to the house.

“We’re not finished yet!” David called after her.

“Oh, yes we are.” She pounded up the stairs and burst through the door.

“What happened?” Marge turned, her face in a frown.

“Ask David. He has all the answers.” In her room, Trish pulled her suitcase off the closet shelf. She threw in jeans, T-shirts, and underwear. She was pulling blouses off hangers when her mother entered the room.

“Where are you going?”

“Kentucky.” Trish rolled a sweat shirt and stuffed it in a corner of the case.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean I’m going to see Spitfire. The Shipsons invited me to come anytime, and I’m going.”

“Trish, this is crazy.” Marge stood between her daughter and the suitcase. “You’re not going anywhere. That college class starts next week, and you’ve work to do here besides.”

“Mother, listen to me. I cannot stay here another minute. I’m going stark-raving mad. Today I did something so stupid it almost cost us a horse. Everywhere I look I expect to see Dad, and he’s not here. Right now, I wouldn’t even want to see him.”

“Well, you’re
not
going to Kentucky. We can work this out.”

“No.” Trish shook her head. “I can’t stand to stay here. Let me go see if Spitfire is all right.”

“You don’t have a ticket. It’ll cost a fortune.” Marge sank down on Trish’s bed.

“You’ve forgotten, I have money now. More money than any girl needs.” Trish dusted off her riding boots and added them to the bag.

“No. I just can’t see it, Trish.” Marge covered her face with her hands. “Not now, anyway.”

“Running away? Great.” David stood in the doorway.

“What’s it to you? I’d think you’d be happy to have such a stupid person out of your way.”

“Trish, David.” Marge raised her voice.

“I’m going, and that’s it!” Trish snapped the locks on the suitcase.

Marge rose to her feet. “Enough!” The word sliced the air.

Trish and David stared at their mother.

Marge took a deep breath. “Now…” She looked to Trish, then David. “I know you mean well, David, but you’re not helping things right now. Let me deal with your sister.”

“Right.” David turned and retreated down the hall.

“Trish, I don’t want you to go to Kentucky right now. Running away never solved anything.”

You should know,
Trish thought, glaring at her mother.
You checked out when things got too tough, remember?
But nothing came out of her mouth; she just gritted her teeth. Then, “Mom, I’ll be back in time for school, I promise. Maybe this trip will help me. It can’t hurt anything.”

Marge pulled the desk chair out and sat with her arms resting on its back. She took a deep breath and sighed, watching Trish pace from the bed to the window.

Trish sank down on the end of the bed. “Mom, I feel like I’m going crazy. What am I going to do? What’s happening to me? To us?” Her voice faded into a whisper.

Marge shook her head, then rested her chin on her rolled fists. “It’s called grief, Trish. We all have to work through it.” She looked out the window, seeming to study the leaves rustling in the slight breeze. Then she smiled at Trish, as if returning from a faraway place. “I know how much you love that horse. Maybe seeing him
would
help. But I have one condition—” she paused “—that you go see Pastor Mort first.”

Trish fell back across the bed. “I can’t, Mom. I just can’t. Not now, anyway. I—I’ll go when I get back.” She chewed on her thumbnail. “Please don’t make me go. Not now.”

“What about Patrick’s training schedule?”

“David can ride for the four, five days I’m gone.”

Marge pushed her hair off her forehead. “You promise you’ll see Pastor Mort when you get back?”

Trish nodded. “Yes. I will. I really will.”

“Call the Shipsons, then, and ask if it’s all right with them.”

“Thanks, Mom!”

Chapter
09

T
rish wondered if Spitfire would look different.

She stared out the plane window as the aircraft approached the Lexington airport. She still had a hard time believing she was in Kentucky. Only yesterday she’d had the incident with Miss Tee on the road. It seemed as if her telescope were playing tricks on her, putting home at the small end, far away.

She’d called Rhonda last night to say she was leaving for a few days. It was strange, but she hadn’t told her best friend about the fight, if you could call it that, with her mother and her brother. Was she losing contact with Rhonda too?

Mrs. Shipson had promised to meet the plane, even seemed offended when Trish talked about renting a car.

Trish chewed on her knuckle. She hadn’t called Red. Did she want to see him too? Why were there so many questions buzzing around in her head? She wished things could go back to the way they used to be.

Bernice Shipson, silver-haired and stylish as ever, greeted Trish with a quick hug. Her soft accent was musical and friendly. “Do you have other luggage to pick up?”

“Yes, I couldn’t fit it all into my carry-on.” Trish dug out her tickets to show the baggage claim. “I really appreciate your letting me come on such short notice.”

“We meant it when we said you are welcome anytime, Trish. I found myself feeling a little jealous when Martha Finley talked about you going to California. We haven’t had young people in our home for a long while.”

“I don’t remember hearing you speak of children.” Trish switched her bag from one shoulder to the other.

“No, our only son was killed in Vietnam,” Mrs. Shipson said softly.

“Oh…I—I’m so sorry,” Trish stammered. “I didn’t know.”

“Not many people do. It was a long time ago. The pain has eased considerably…” She smiled at Trish. “That’s why I can tell you with all honesty that you will get through this time of grief for your father. Right now it hurts so badly you don’t know how you’ll ever make it, but God lives up to His promises. Someday the pain will be bittersweet—blended with all the good memories.”

It was hard for Trish to hear this.
Wasn’t it God who had let her father die?

As if reading her mind, Mrs. Shipson laid her hand on Trish’s arm. “Right now you are so angry with God, you’re certain you’ll never have anything to do with Him again.”

Trish stared at her. “You felt that way too?”

The woman nodded.

“What did you do?”

“I decided to trust God—and rest. There was nothing else I could do.”

A hurrying traveler bumped into Trish and apologized.

“We’ll talk again, if you like. I just wanted you to know that I understand what you’re feeling. And I’m glad Donald and I could be here for you.” She smiled through misty eyes. “Now, let’s get your things. A certain black horse will be thrilled to see you.”

As they were loading Trish’s bags in the trunk, Trish said, “Mrs. Shipson…”

“Please call me Bernice.”

“Bernice, thank you.”

Conversation flowed between them all the way to BlueMist Farms as though they were old friends. Bernice pointed out the sights and shared bits of local folklore.

Trish felt as if she were in a whole new world. Even the soft leather seat of the Cadillac they were riding in seemed to wrap comfort around her. And the gentle, cool air blowing through the air vents refreshed her.
If only Dad were here, it would be perfect
flitted through her mind.
If only there were no more if only’s.
She tried to concentrate on the story Bernice was telling her.

They drove straight down to the stallion barn. Trish whistled her two-tone call to Spitfire as soon as she stepped out of the car. A sharp whinny and pounding hooves was her immediate answer. Inside the barn, Spitfire waited impatiently at the door of his stall. He nickered again and then again, as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Trish leaned her forehead against his and rubbed both his satiny cheeks with trembling hands. “I’ve missed you so, fella; you just have no idea.”

He bumped her gently with his nose and nuzzled her pocket. Trish pulled out a withered bit of carrot, but Spitfire didn’t seem to mind. He munched once and blew in her face, ruffling her bangs. Trish rubbed his ears and smoothed his forelock.

“I think he missed you as much as you missed him.” Bernice stood back to let the two of them talk.

“I see you made it, lass.” Timmy O’Ryan sounded so much like Patrick that Trish did a double take. “Like I told you on the phone, he was off his feed for a few days at first. Kind of moped around here, but I can see you’re the medicine he needed.”

“And you for me,” Trish murmured into the colt’s twitching ears. Spitfire shook his head. Her breath tickled. He draped his head over her shoulder, cocked a back foot, and sighed. His eyes closed in contentment as Trish kept stroking.

Timmy laughed, a low, musical chuckle. “What a baby he is. One of the grooms wouldn’t believe this unless he saw it.”

“Why, did something happen?”

“Spitfire was living up to his name one morning. Jumping around and backing his groom into a corner. Then he grabbed the guy’s hat and threw it across the stall.” The trainer rocked back on his heels. “You can be sure that Nick is real cautious around the big black now.”

“Up to your old tricks, eh?” Trish jiggled Spitfire’s halter to wake him up. “Hats are his favorite toy. I think he just likes to see how people react. Huh, fella?” Trish tickled the colt’s whiskery upper lip.

Spitfire twitched it back and forth and licked her hand.

“Why don’t you exercise him every morning while you’re here,” Timmy said, a grin creasing his leathery face.

“I’d love to.” Trish smoothed one hand after the other down the black’s long face.

“Dinner’s waiting up at the house,” Mrs. Shipson said, after checking her watch. “If you can bear to leave him, that is.”

Trish gave Spitfire a last pat. “See you in the morning, fella.” The colt nickered when she walked away, then let loose with a shrill whinny. “I’ll be back.” Trish waved from the door.

“There’s no doubt he’s your horse,” Bernice said as she slid into the driver’s side of the car.

“Yeah, I know.”

At the house, Mrs. Shipson led Trish down the hall to the same lovely, antique-furnished room. “I’ve been calling this Trish’s room ever since you were here,” she said. The sheer curtains billowed in the evening breeze as she opened the door. “I hate to rush you, but dinner is ready to serve. Just wash and come down. You can put your things away later, if that’s all right.”