Golden Filly Collection Two (7 page)

Darkness had fallen long before the truck turned onto New Circle Road, the highway that encircled Lexington. Stokes followed the signs to Old Frankfort Pike, right in the heart of bluegrass country. Headlights flashed on both black and white board fences as the road narrowed.

The BlueMist Farms sign leaped into the headlight glare. White board fences lined both sides of the long curving drive. A magnificent white house in traditional southern plantation style graced a knoll off to their right. The road to the barns crossed a creek and passed a pond before ending in a graveled parking area.

Trish rubbed her eyes and stretched. While she’d only slept for a couple of hours, she felt as if they’d been in the truck for days. “What time is it?”

Red looked at his watch. “About ten-thirty. We made good time.”

“Let’s get them out and walk ’em around.” Patrick stepped out of his car and arched his back. He and Stokes opened the doors to the van and slid out the ramp. The clanging of the metal sounded extra loud on the soft night air.

A pickup pulled into the paddock, its headlights trapping them in the intensity. As soon as the truck stopped, Donald Shipson stepped out and came forward to greet them. A short, wiry man, obviously an ex-jockey, joined him.

Trish tried to escape by ducking into the van, but Adam Finley took her arm and drew her back into the circle. She watched as Patrick and the new man slapped each other on the back.

“Can ya beat that?” Patrick beamed, his teeth gleaming in the car light. “Me old buddy, Timmy O’Ryan. Trish, meet the best man in the world to take care of Spitfire for you. Why, if I’da known…” He shook his head and slapped the man’s back again.

Trish tried to swallow around the rock in her throat. Even she knew the name Timmy O’Ryan. While other kids collected baseball cards, Trish memorized racing times and the jockeys that set them. “I’m glad to meet you.” Her voice came out strangled. “Ummm, excuse me, I need to see to Spitfire.”

“Can I help you, miss?” Timmy O’Ryan spoke with the same soft lilt as Patrick. And he had the same steady, blue-eyed gaze. “Maybe he’ll take to me better if you introduce us.”

Trish nodded. Now she knew what a mouse caught in a trap must feel like.

Spitfire nickered his special welcome when Trish entered the van. He tossed his head, impatient to be free.

Timmy followed Trish as she patted her way up the horse’s side to his head. “Hey, old fella, I have someone new for you to meet.” She stroked the black’s cheek and rubbed his ear.

Spitfire reached to sniff the hand the new man held out. He smelled the shirtsleeve and up to the porkpie hat, then down the other arm. Timmy stood perfectly still, but his voice seemed to whisper a love song as he and Spitfire became acquainted. At last he palmed a carrot and held it for the colt to munch.

“You’ve made a friend for life.” Trish felt as if her forced smile would crack and her with it.

“Your father included suggestions like this in his letter of instructions. He wanted to make the transition as easy as possible.”

Trish nodded. She turned to jerk the lead knot loose. “Come on, fella, back up.”

Spitfire stopped in the doorway and trumpeted his arrival to any other horses who might be in the area. “Come on.” Trish tugged on the lead. “You can quit showing off anytime.”

Two answering whinnies came from the barn just past the gate. Spitfire raised his muzzle and sniffed the slight breeze to acquaint himself with the area. Then he followed Trish through the gate and around a second grassy paddock. Timmy loosely held the other lead and paced along with them.

“That’s the stallion barn right over there.” He pointed to a huge barn, shadowed now by the night. “He’ll have his own paddock, and better care than most people give their kids. While I’m in charge of him, there’ll be grooms helping me.”

“He only lets me ride him.”

“I understand. No one will ride him. We’ll hand walk him or gallop him around the training track on a lead. You’ll see, he’ll get fat and sassy, but next spring when he goes to work, that’ll change. I’ll take care of him, miss. You needn’t worry.”

Trish felt like the horses must feel as Timmy’s gentle voice soothed her fears. Spitfire even drooped on the lead between them. “Come on, fella, let’s see what your new home looks like.”

She knew her eyes were big as tennis balls as she stared around the softly lit interior of the stallion barn.
People don’t live this good,
she thought as she took in the glistening woodwork, the shiny brass fittings, and the gleaming name plates on spacious stalls. “There’s yours.” She pointed Spitfire’s head toward the large box stall with
Spitfire
lettered in brass on an oval blue sign. “I can’t believe this.”

Timmy stopped beside her. “You think he’ll be comfortable here?” Trish could hear the teasing in his voice before she saw the light dancing in his eyes.

“Most people wouldn’t believe horses could live like this.”

Timmy nodded. “His stall opens onto his own private two-acre paddock. There’re shade trees down on the lower corner, and deep grass.”

Trish looked up to see a huge picture of a blood bay, about a quarter of life-size.

“That’s Shenandoah, the first stud here, and grandaddy to three Derby winners and countless others who did their share of winning on tracks all around the country.” O’Ryan walked forward and swung open the door to Spitfire’s stall. “Come on, let’s see how he likes it.”

Spitfire inspected every corner of his new home before returning to Trish for an ear-scratching. He draped his head over her shoulder, as if moving into a new stall was boring.

Trish felt the now familiar boulder clog her throat. She wouldn’t feel his head on her shoulder anymore, not after tomorrow morning. She blinked hard and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.
No! You can’t cry now!
She sniffed once and felt herself gaining some measure of control.

“See you in the morning,” she whispered in her horse’s twitching ear. “You be good now.” She gave him a last pat and closed the lower part of the stall door behind her. Spitfire hung his head over the door and whuffled his soundless nicker. Trish brushed past Timmy O’Ryan and headed for the exit. She was nearly running by the time she caught up with Red, who was still walking Sarah’s Pride.

“Whoa, you okay?” Red stopped Trish with a hand on her arm. The filly threw her head up and danced sideways at the interruption. “Easy now.” His soft voice worked for both the filly and Trish.

“H-have they said where we’ll keep her?” Trish stammered before she got her voice under control.

“Yeah, there’re stalls over there.” Red pointed to a low building on the other side of the graveled area. “John and Adam went into the stallion barn just as you came out. Come on, let’s put this girl away.”

Sarah’s Pride inspected her new quarters just as Spitfire had. She drank out of the tub in the corner and nibbled at the hay in the mesh sling. Trish and Red leaned on the closed stall door, watching her.

“Spitfire’s going to be fine here, you know,” Red broke the silence.

“I know.”

“You can come and see him—and me.”

“I will.” Trish took a deep breath and turned around to lean against the wall. She studied the faint outline of the cupola-crested stallion barn. “Sure different than home.” Her voice faded away on the slight breeze. She heard a frog chirp in the distance; a bullfrog answered. Sarah’s Pride dribbled water on Trish’s shoulder and in her hair. “Thanks a heap.” Trish brushed it off and gave the filly a cheek scratch.

She pushed herself away from the wall, and she and Red walked out to join the men clustered around the pickup.

“Tim, you show Patrick and Red where they’ll be sleeping, and, Stokes is it?” The driver nodded. “And Adam and Trish’ll come with me.” Donald Shipson waved toward the house Trish had seen when they drove up. “Breakfast will be served on the veranda from six to nine. Just come and help yourself.”

“See you in the morning,” Red whispered for Trish’s ears alone as he squeezed her hand.

Trish nodded, then followed John and Adam to the car. Too tired to even appreciate the grand staircase to the upper floor, or the bedroom filled with antique furniture, it was all Trish could do to say good-night to Mrs. Shipson without yawning. She fell down that long black tunnel she’d come to appreciate.

A rooster crowing woke her in the morning. She slipped from the lace-draped four-poster bed and went to stand in front of the open window. Sheer white curtains drifted over her bare feet in the slight breeze. The sun arced high enough to jewel the dew on the manicured lawns and paddocks. Newly mown grass perfumed the air. Someone whistled a friendly tune off to the side of the grand house, and downstairs a bass voice sang the words. She could see the roof of the stallion barn through the trees.

Trish turned from all the peace and beauty to dress. Today she had to leave Spitfire.

“I’ll drive you over to the barn if you’d like,” the silver-haired Mr. Shipson said after greeting her at the bottom of the stairs.

“I was hoping to ride him, ahhh—” Trish swallowed her lump. “Uhhh…before we leave, if that’s okay?”

“Of course. Timmy will ride with you and show you the way to the track. I think you’ll be pleased when you see everything in daylight.”

“You have an awesome place here.” They stopped between the two center pillars on the front porch. Trish looked up at her host. “I’ve only seen spreads like this in pictures.”

“Thank you. My family’s owned this land since before the war.”

“The war?”

“The Civil War.” His smile twinkled in his eyes. “We forget the rest of the world doesn’t count time from the War Between the States. My great-great-grandaddy founded the stud here.” He stepped down to the first stair. “I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”

Trish followed her host out to the pickup, surprised at how easy she felt with him. It was as if they’d known each other for a long time. She shook her head. And here she’d been all ready to dislike him—intensely. But she’d reminded herself that it wasn’t his fault Spitfire was coming here and not back to Vancouver.

It was my father’s fault, actually.
He had started the syndication. Trish suddenly felt betrayed. Why had he done this to her? Her vision blurred so she could hardly see the sweeping drive, the stream, and the glass-like pond. She sank back into the seat.

“Trish? Are you all right?”

“Uh, yeah.” She shook her head, trying to clear away the fog.

“I know leaving Spitfire here must be terrible for you. I wish there was some way I could help—”

You could let him go home with me.
The words were so clear in her head Trish was afraid she’d shouted them.

“I want you to understand that you are welcome to visit here any time you’d like. If you want to come to Kentucky to race, I’ll do whatever I can to help you. Spitfire is still your horse, you know.”

Only part of him.
Again Trish bit down on her tongue so as not to verbalize the words.

“Our home is yours. Both my wife and I would love having you here.” Donald braked the truck and turned off the ignition. “I mean it, Trish; this isn’t just southern hospitality talking.”

“Thank you.” Trish took a deep breath. “I’ll remember that.” She could feel her smile tremble at the edges. “Thanks.”

Timmy and Patrick had Sarah’s Pride and another horse saddled, and Patrick slipped a bridle over Spitfire’s ears just as he whinnied his welcome to Trish.

“Right in my ear,” Patrick grumbled. The next instant his hat went bowling across the floor. “Had to get one in, didn’t you?”

Trish stooped down to pick up Patrick’s stained and wrinkled fedora. “I keep telling you to watch it.” She handed the hat back to Patrick, her grin securely in place. Spitfire’s clowning made everything easier. “Had to get him, didn’t you?” She rubbed under Spitfire’s forelock and got a grainy lick for her efforts.

Red walked up with three helmets. He handed one to Trish and one to Timmy, then put on his own. “Hi, how d’ya like the summer morning? No other place like this on earth.”

“You’re prejudiced. You haven’t seen a sunny morning in Washington yet.” Trish walked between the two men, Spitfire tagging behind her.

Patrick gave her a leg up. “Now, don’t be takin’ too long,” he said softly. “We need to be loading the girl here and heading for the airport.”

“I know.” The sun seemed to dim.

“This way,” Timmy said from the back of his bay as he led the way through an open gate and between two white board fences. He pointed out the other four stallions and a field of mares and foals. While Red asked questions, Trish grew more quiet, savoring each moment. She listened with one ear, and planted each tree and fence post in her memory so she could visualize Spitfire being worked on this track. Spitfire’s stall, his paddock, his barn, the smell of the grass, the song of the birds.

How could she leave him here? It was too much to ask.

Chapter
06

W
hat was left of Trish’s heart felt twisted and torn.

“Y’all come back now,” Mrs. Shipson said, giving Trish a warm hug. “As Donald said, our home is yours—any time.” She stepped back and shook hands with Patrick and Adam Finley. “Y’all take care now.”