Golden Filly Collection Two (45 page)
Trish shot her a surprised glance. “How’d you figure that out?”
“Easy. No one else to fight with at your house, and you’re wearing your don’t-mess-with-me look.”
Trish muttered something under her breath.
“Well?”
“Well what?” Trish waited for traffic to pass and turned into the Prairie High parking lot.
“What happened?” Rhonda enunciated carefully as if Trish were hard of hearing.
“She’s telling me not to get involved with this mess at Portland Meadows.”
“So.”
“So what?”
“So, are you involved? And what does she mean?”
Trish parked the van by the back fence. “You know we went to the TBA meeting last night.” Rhonda nodded. “I met a reporter there, Curt Donovan, from
The Oregonian,
and he got all interested when I asked him if he’d heard about anything wrong going on over there. Said he’d call me.”
“Is he cute?”
“Rhonda Seabolt, for pete’s sake, you got guys on the mind all the time?”
Rhonda rolled her eyes and shook her head. “No, dummy, but face it, if you’re gonna be working with this Curt guy, you’ll have more fun if he’s cute.”
Trish shoved her door open. “Forget it.” She grabbed her gear and stepped down, locking the doors in the same motion.
Rhonda fell into step beside her as they crossed the parking lot, trying to dodge between the raindrops. “Face it, now you’re not so bummed out about your mom, are you?”
Trish just glared at her. Bummed out fit the bill, all right.
The drippy rain hadn’t let up and neither had her mood by the time Trish returned home that afternoon. Sure she’d laughed and joked with the guys at the lunch table, but she could have been someone else for all she cared. She let Rhonda talk nonstop all the way home about Jason, the exchange student. That way she didn’t have to answer any questions.
The truck was gone when she got home—and so was her mother.
After changing into her work clothes, Trish grabbed an apple from the bowl on the table and walked past the bubbling fish tank and into the living room. As if drawn by a magnet, she sank into the comforting arms of her father’s recliner. When she closed her eyes and tipped her head against the cushiony back, thoughts chased each other through her mind. She needed to talk to her mother—that was a sure thing. She wished she could talk with her dad—that was impossible. And talking to God—why bother?
If she opened her eyes, Trish knew she would see that old black pit yawning before her.
You’d think you’d have learned all this by now.
Her nagger took this moment to come out of hiding.
You know we’ve been over and over this.
Trish laid her arm across her eyes.
Yeah.
She thought she’d learned the lessons too. But it was so hard to praise God when things were in such a mess again.
“And I had such good intentions.” She opened her eyes and let her gaze drift around the room.…The fieldstone fireplace where they’d toasted marshmallows and burned hot dogs. Her mother’s rocking chair. Trish’s gaze skittered past that item. Her father’s Bible on the end table beside the chair.
It was as if he could come back at any moment; everything was waiting for him. She closed her eyes again.
She
was waiting for him. Before the burning could swell into tears, she pushed herself to her feet and headed for the barn. At least down there she wouldn’t have time to think.
“Hi, Patrick, sorry I’m late.” Trish pasted an almost smile on her face. It was the best she could do. And she didn’t look the trainer in the eye.
“Not to worry.” Patrick brought out the saddle and settled it just behind the gelding’s withers.
“Where’s Brad?” Trish fetched her helmet from the tack room.
“Had some errands to run before work today. He should be along any minute.” Patrick checked the girth and cupped his hands to give her a leg up. “You want to tell me what’s wrong now or later?”
Trish paused with her knee in the air. “How’d you know?” Patrick just shook his head and tossed her into the saddle. Trish stared down at the top of his grungy fedora. “Mom and I had a big fight.”
Patrick nodded his head. “Sure and she’s hurtin’ too.”
“She tell you?”
This time the old trainer shook his head. He looked up at Trish, laying his hand on her knee. “No. Just these old eyes see more’n I want them to sometimes.”
“She said I had to stay out of the mess at The Meadows.” Trish stroked her mount’s black mane and down his shoulder.
“And yer sure there’s something wrong there, then?”
“I don’t know. What do you think? What have you heard?”
“I think you should walk this son once around and then gallop him nice and easy for another two.” He took hold of the reins and turned the bay gelding toward the fenced oval. “Be watchin’ him for any weakness in that right fore.”
Trish started to say something but thought the better of it and nudged her mount forward instead.
“So what do you think I should do?” Trish asked when they’d finished the schedule Patrick had set. Brad had left for the day and no lights showed at the house yet.
“I think you know what to do. Your mother has good reasons for what she asks. The two of you will work something out.”
Trish shut the tack room door and shoved home the latch. “What have you heard?”
Patrick shook his head. “I’m thinkin’ I shouldn’t be tellin’ you this, but I know you’ll hear it some where. A couple of bug boys were laughing about how Smithson, the assistant manager, must have won the lottery or something.”
“The lottery?”
“He’s driving a brand-new, loaded Corvette XR1. Cherry red.”
“Smithson?”
“Now, it may be that his uncle died and left him money…”
“Or he’s in debt to his armpits.”
“So I’m just a’tellin’ you what I heard.”
“Thanks, Patrick.” Trish whistled for Caesar and trotted past Patrick’s mobile home up to the house. She had homework to do, and maybe she’d put dinner in the oven.
“How come a house can feel and even smell empty?” she asked Caesar after sliding open the glass door to the deck. “Yes, you can come in.” A quick yip and a doggie grin was her thanks.
Trish turned on the lights, retrieved a frozen casserole from the freezer out in the garage, and slid it into the heating oven. The collie padded behind her down the hall to her room and curled up on the rug by her bed. She was on the second chapter in her American government book when she heard the truck return.
Trish’s gaze locked on a card on the wall. “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” That one was in her handwriting. She muttered the verse for a second time before shoving the chair back. This wouldn’t be easy.
“Mom, I’m sorry—”
“Tee, we have to talk.” Their words mishmashed together into cords that drew the two of them into each other’s arms.
Marge brushed Trish’s bangs to the side and kissed her daughter’s forehead. “I think I let the worries get to me again. I keep telling myself you’re about grown-up, but something in me doesn’t believe it.”
“Where were you?”
“At my grief group, and then I stopped to talk with Pastor Mort. He said to remind you that the one for teens meets on Mondays at the Methodist church right after school.”
Trish let that pass. “I hate fighting. Please forgive me?” She leaned her cheek against her mother’s chest. Somehow the words weren’t as hard to say as she’d feared.
“Of course.” Marge leaned her cheek against her daughter’s thick hair. She sniffed and dug in her pocket for a tissue. After blowing her nose, she sniffed again, this time in appreciation. “You started dinner. And here I was trying to figure out what we’d eat.” She hugged Trish one last time. “How soon till it’s ready?”
After dinner, Marge lit a fire in the fireplace and settled into her chair with her knitting. Trish brought her books in and curled up in her father’s chair. Music drifted from the stereo, playing a countermelody to the snapping and hissing of the burning wood.
“We need to lay some ground rules for this year,” Marge said when Trish closed her books.
“Okay.” Trish felt a tug of resentment but reined it down.
“School has to be your first priority, and good grades are—”
“Mom, I’ll maintain a B or better, I promise.”
“Thank you. I want you to be able to choose any college you want, and grades count.” Marge leaned forward. “And no more than one road trip a month.” The words fell into a shocked silence.
“But, but what if The Meadows doesn’t open? I can’t—I need—M-o-t-h-e-r.” Trish put all her pleading into that one word.
“We’ll just have to deal with that when and if the time comes. Dad always said to take one day at a time, and that’s what we’ll do.”
Trish leaned back in her chair. One road trip a month. Why, the trip to Kentucky would take care of October. And she was heading for San Francisco on Friday. So much for September. She raised her hands and then dropped them in her lap.
They
had
to get racing back at The Meadows. They just had to.
The ringing phone brought her to her feet. “I’ll get it.”
“Trish, I’ve decided to let you attend the city council meeting with me tomorrow night.” Her mother tossed the comment at Trish as she passed.
Trish nearly lost her voice to the shock. “R-Runnin’ On Farm,” she stammered into the kitchen phone.
“Can I speak with Trish Evanston, please?” a strong male voice said in her ear.
“Speaking.” The voice sounded familiar.
“Hi, this is Curt Donovan, the reporter from
The Oregonian.
You remember me?”
“Sure.” Trish propped the phone between her shoulder and ear. “How can I help you?”
“I think I have some information you might be interested in.”
Trish sank down to her corner, propped in the V of the cabinet and wall. “Really?”
C
an I meet with you after school tomorrow?”
Trish fumbled for an answer. “Ummm, I really don’t have time. I start working with our horses here as soon as I get home from school.”
“I could come there.”
Trish thought hard. What if he had something important to ask her? Shouldn’t she tell him what Patrick had said? He needed all the available information to conduct a decent investigation. “Just a minute, okay? I’ll be right back.”
She crossed her legs and rose to her feet. Placing the phone carefully on the counter, she walked back into the living room. “Mom?” Marge raised her head from counting stitches. “That’s Curt Donovan on the phone. He’d like to come talk with me tomorrow after school.”
“About Portland Meadows?”
Trish shrugged. “I guess.” What else would he want to see her for? She kept her pose relaxed, nonchalant, like this didn’t really mean much to her. Inside she was screaming
please, please!
Marge laid her knitting in her lap. “If he comes, I want to be there, along with Patrick. And I need your promise that if I tell you to back out down the road, you’ll do it without an argument.”
Trish sucked in her breath. That was a tall order. “You mean…”
“I mean that Runnin’ On Farm will do all we can to make sure there’s racing at Portland Meadows this year, but we will do this together.” She stared at her daughter, as if assessing Trish’s honor. A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “After all, three heads are better than one.” She picked up her knitting again. “And besides that, he’s too old for you.”