Golden Filly Collection Two (57 page)

To Elaine Aspelund
who shared her near-death experience
with me and who has been sharing
the special love, joy, and peace she found
with those around her
all her life.

Chapter
01

W
inning races is better than…than
…Trish Evanston struggled to think of anything better. Hot fudge sundaes…Miss Tee, the filly born on Trish’s sixteenth birthday…riding her Thoroughbred, Triple-Crown-winning colt, Spitfire—well that rated number one. No contest there. She waved again at the racing fans who’d packed Portland Meadows Racetrack for the opening program.

A solid block of teenagers wearing crimson and gold, the colors of both Prairie High School and Runnin’ On Farm, whistled and shouted back at her. Even her government teacher, Ms. Wainwright, whooped and hollered with the best of them.

On the edge of the winner’s circle, Trish accepted the congratulations from the fans pressing in around her. “Well, winning the Hal Evanston Memorial Cup is not quite as big as winning the Triple Crown, but it’s right up there.” She grinned at the woman who asked the question. “Thanks for coming and for supporting racing in Portland.”

Someone else handed her a program. “For my daughter, Becky. She’s a real big fan of yours.”

“Tell her hello for me.” Trish signed the program and handed it back to the man.

“She wanted me to tell you how sorry she is your father died.” The look on his face conveyed his own sorrow.

“Thank you. That means a lot.” Trish shook his hand. “It really does.”

“Trish!”

She looked up to see Doug Ramstead, all-American guy and Prairie High’s quarterback, waiting his turn.

“Hi, Doug. I could hear you whistling above everybody.”

He lifted her clear off the ground with a breath-snatching hug. “You were great, little one. I’m so proud of you.” He set her back down and tapped the tip of her nose with his forefinger. “Now you just get the next two, okay?”

“I’ll do my best.” Trish watched the Big Man on Campus of Prairie High make his way through the crowd. No wonder half the girls were in love with him. He was just as nice as he was good-looking.

“Your father sure would be proud of you, Tee. I know, because I sure am.” Trish’s mother, Marge Evanston, put an arm around her daughter’s shoulder.

“Thanks, Mom.” Trish blinked a couple of times. So did Marge.

It was one of
those
moments—when her father seemed so close that she knew if she turned quickly enough, she’d see him standing right behind her, his face split by a smile to dim the sun. Hal Evanston had loved racing, but he’d loved his Lord even more—and was never afraid of telling the world so.

Trish vowed to always follow his example.

She followed the others out of the bronze and gold chrysanthe-mum-bordered winner’s circle only to be confronted by a cluster of reporters, already shouting questions. She answered as best she could. “Yes, God willing, I’ll be riding in the Breeder’s Cup. Our filly Firefly will run in the Oaks the day before. No, I’m fine after all that mess over The Meadows. After all, they never shot at me.”

She tried to edge her way toward the jockey room, but the reporters refused to budge. “Yeah, I miss my dad every day, but especially at times like this.” She kept the thought
dumb question
from showing on her face. Finally she threw her hands in the air. “Hey, I’ve got another race to ride. How about we meet after I’m done and I’ll answer any questions you have?”

They grumbled but good-naturedly backed away.

David walked beside her, back up the tunnel to the saddling paddock, and opened the gate so she could cross to the jockey rooms.

“Thanks, David. I thought you’d headed for the barn.”

“Patrick and Brad can take care of that end. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

Trish stopped and looked up at him. “Huh?”

“Well, with what’s gone on and all—” He stopped and took a deep breath. “I worry about you, you know.”

“Hey.” Trish patted his chest. “That’s Mom’s job. She’d be the first to tell you.”

David nodded, a rueful grin tugging at the corners of his wide mouth. “She gave up worrying, remember? I guess I just realized this world is full of kooks and I don’t want them hurting my sister.”

“It’s over, David. And we’re no worse for wear.”

“Really?”

She could feel the depths of his caring clear to the center of her heart. “Really. God says He’ll take care of us and He did.” She started up the hall to the silks room, then stopped and turned. “It’s over, brother of mine. All but the court stuff.”

David nodded, but she could see the concern still reflected in his dark eyes.

He settled his Runnin’ On Farm cap more firmly on his head and, with a flick-of-the-wrist wave, trotted off to the backside.

Trish headed once more to pick up Anderson’s silks. How good David’s caring felt! She was lucky to have a big brother like him.

“Some ride!” Genie Stokes raised her hand for a high five. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer person.”

“Thanks. You didn’t do so bad yourself. You ever seen a three-way photo finish before?”

Genie shook her head. “But then I haven’t been in the winner’s circle as much as you. I think that filly of yours just reached farther with her chin. Gotta get Patrick to teach me how to get my mounts to do that.”

“Right. He keeps a secret book of tricks that he shares only with his friends.” Trish pulled her helmet off and shook out her dark, shoulder-length hair while dropping the helmet on the bench and plunking down beside it. She waved and acknowledged the comments of the other women jockeys. Drawing in a deep breath of the steamy, liniment-scented air, she dropped her head forward and rotated her neck, then shoulders.

“Takes some reconditioning, doesn’t it?” Genie sank down beside Trish after pulling her own silks over her head. She massaged her temples and up into her hair with her fingertips. “Man, no matter how much I work out, nothing is the same as riding in the races.”

“I know.”

A squall from the black box-speaker up in the corner cut into the locker-room buzz.

“We better get moving.” Trish hung her silks on a hook and dragged the Anderson pink and gray colors over her head. “If I sit here much longer, I’ll tighten up.”

“Go ahead, see if I mind.” Genie walked over to the long mirror and winked at Trish. “More for me that way.”

“You want Gatesby?” Trish joined her at the counter, one eyebrow raised.

Genie shook her head. “He’s still up to his old tricks, isn’t he?”

“Let’s just say I’ve learned to duck fast.”

But Gatesby seemed on his best behavior when she joined Patrick, David, and owner John Anderson in the saddling paddock. The bay gelding stood calmly while Patrick tightened the racing saddle one last time. After Gatesby rubbed his forehead on her silks, the horse blew gently and tipped his head slightly for her to scratch his other ear.

When Trish looked at Patrick with a question, he just shrugged and shook his head. “He’s feelin’ up to snuff, waren’t he, David?”

“Don’t trust him for a minute.” David glared at the animal in question. “He’s just setting you up.”

John Anderson conveniently stayed out of tooth range.

But when David gave Trish a leg up, the gelding pricked his ears and tossed his head. After pawing with one front hoof, he lifted his nose, snorting drops of moisture right in David’s face.

“I know this horse hates me.” David wiped his face with his sleeve. “Get him outta here, Tee.”

The parade to post bugled across the grassy infield and echoed in the tunnel.

“Right.” Trish chuckled again while Patrick led them out to the pony rider.

“Bless ye, lass.” Patrick handed the lead to the pony rider and grinned up at her before stepping aside.

“Thanks.” Trish patted Gatesby’s deep red neck and would have leaned forward to hug him if they’d been at home. Even loving Gatesby was easy right now.

In fact, with the students chanting along the walkway, a race to run, and the light making her blink when they cleared the tunnel, loving the entire world was easy. As number one, they led the parade past the grandstands and back again.

“See over there, fella?” Trish murmured in her horse-calming sing-song. “Your owner is here to watch you for a change. You gotta do good for him.” Gatesby danced from one side to the other, tugging against the lead. He snorted with each stride when they broke into a canter, strutting his stuff for the crowd.

Trish rose in her stirrups, glorying in the wind against her face and the powerful animal beneath her. “Yeah, this is your day, fella. I can just feel it.”

Gatesby argued with the handlers for a moment when they started to lead him into the number one slot, pulling against the lead and swinging his rump to the side.

“easy, easy,” Trish sang to the twitching ears. “Watch him!”

The assistant clamped his hand down hard right under Gatesby’s chin.

“Did he get you?”

The man gave her a rueful grin, rubbing his shoulder with his free hand. Having had his say, Gatesby walked into the stall as if he’d never dreamed of causing a ruckus.

“You rotten horse, you.” Trish couldn’t keep the chuckle out of her voice. “You just have to show off, don’t you?”

Gatesby tossed his head and turned to look at the horse in the stall on his right.

“You should warn those guys about him,” Genie Stokes said over the noise of horses and humans.

“Yeah, make him wear a name tag that says ‘I bite.’” Trish patted Gatesby’s neck one last time and settled herself for the break. The number seven horse had to be brought in a second time, giving Gatesby a few added seconds to settle down. He took in a deep breath, just like Trish, and let it all out.

“Okay!” the call came. A brief silence. Trish relaxed her clenched fists. The shot! The gates sprung open and with a mighty thrust they broke free.

Gatesby never liked being on the rail, so Trish let him set the pace as they thundered into the first turn. Halfway through, the horse running shoulder to shoulder with them crowded the turn and, in the instant between one breath and the next, slammed Gatesby against the rail.

Trish fought to keep his head up and at the same time remain in the saddle. With things happening too fast to think, only refexactions saved her from catapulting over the rail.

At the same time all her senses were tuned to the horse beneath her, checking to see if he was injured. But Gatesby pulled against the reins, gaining his rhythm again and extending his stride.

The field now ran a furlong ahead of them.

Trish settled back to ride. Had the bump been intentional?

Gatesby stretched out, each stride carrying them closer to the solid wall of rumps in front of them. By halfway up the backstretch, the wall disappeared as tired horses fell back, giving Gatesby room to maneuver. He surged past the laggers as if they were pulled to a stop. Around the far turn he gained on two more.

Trish rode tight on his withers, head tucked, making herself as small as possible. Down the stretch he paced the second-place horse and drove past it.

“Give it all ya got, fella,” Trish crooned in his ear. “You can do it, come on.” Gatesby thundered on, stretched out so far he seemed to float above the ground. Nose to rump, even with the stirrup. The finish line loomed ahead.

Genie Stokes laid on the whip. Her horse surged—and faltered.

Neck and neck. Over the line.

Trish had no idea who won. “What a run, Gatesby! You did fantastic!” She looked over at Genie, who kept pace with her as they slowed their mounts down. Both girls shrugged and swapped grins.

The second photo finish of the day and the two jockeys had been contestants in the earlier one.

“I don’t know how you did it,” Genie said as they walked their horses in circles in front of the grandstand. “How far back did you fall?”

“I’m just grateful we didn’t go down. That was a close one. I wonder if we should turn in a grievance.” She flexed her fingers to help stop the quivering that stretched from her hands to her shoulders.

“Did you see what happened?”

“Not really.”

Trish looked over the spectators at the fence to see her mother’s frown. David and Patrick were striding across the track toward her. When she circled again, she looked at the scoreboard, recently painted for the new season and still flashing “photo finish.”

She waved her whip at the Prairie students and patted Gatesby’s sweaty neck one more time.

“And the winner of the ninth race today is number one, Gatesby, ridden by Trish Evanston, owned by John Anderson, and trained by Patrick O’Hern.”

“Congratulations.” Genie vaulted to the ground. “You earned that one.”

“You okay, lass?” Patrick and Marge wore matching concerned looks. At Trish’s nod, the old trainer took the reins and led Gatesby through the gate into the winner’s circle.

“Fine job, Trish.” John Anderson reached up to shake Trish’s hand. At the same moment, Gatesby reached over and, before even Patrick realized what was happening, nipped his owner’s shoulder. The camera caught the gelding’s “who, me?” expression for all time.