Golden Filly Collection Two (80 page)
The sound of her mother’s words stopped her as if she’d walked into a glass wall.
“I thought it was all over with, and here is another one.” Marge’s voice rose a notch. “Why would anyone treat Trish this way? Why?”
Why indeed? Trish felt that old familiar punch in the gut. It barely missed her ribs.
T
he Jerk! He’s at me again!
The low rumble of Donald Shipson’s voice sounded as if he was trying to calm her mother, but his words were unintelligible.
“So it’s only a letter. Next time it might be more than—” Marge cut off her cry before it became a shout.
Trish couldn’t have moved if ordered by the president himself. Her feet might as well have been nailed to the burnished oak floor. When she raised her gaze from studying the cuticles on her right hand, she caught it on Timmy’s compassionate eyes.
He took a step nearer and laid a hand on her shoulder. The warmth of it sank into one of the steel tendons keeping her from flying into a million minute fragments. The Jerk was still around, and he’d even gotten the address of BlueMist Farms. Had he sent one of his cheerful little notes to the hospital too? The thoughts sent shudders rocketing up and down her body.
“Just don’t tell Trish, okay?” Her mother’s voice had risen again.
Right!
The look she got from Timmy clearly asked if she wanted to make their presence known. Trish shook her head. Timmy tiptoed back to the front door and opened it.
“They’ll be in the office, I’m sure.” He raised his voice as if they’d just come in.
Trish picked up the cue like a seasoned stage actress. “Thanks for the ride up. If you see my mom, tell her I’m going to my room to wash for di—supper.” She caught the mistake as if it were something critical. She headed for the stairs and turned on the third riser. “See you in the morning, but probably not at the crack of dawn.” Amazing how she could project her voice if needed. All the while her jaw felt as if it were clamped in a vise.
Timmy nodded and sent her a smile and a thumbs-up before walking to the half-closed office door and tapping with two fingers.
Trish trudged on up the wide walnut stairs, turning at the landing before she took hold of the railing with her left hand. She used it to help pull herself the remainder of the way up. Each step took an effort nearly beyond her strength. And this morning she had felt as if she could climb Mt. Hood. Right.
How would she bring up the questions about this person who insisted on intruding in her life? Who was he? Could it be a she? That thought hadn’t entered her mind before. No girl would do something like this—would she?
Trish stumbled across the rose-patterned rug to the white canopied bed. Maybe if she would just lie down a couple of minutes she would feel like getting ready for dinner—supper—whatever. Knowing Sarah, the food would be terrific. But right now, the thought of food of any kind made her throat tighten. How could she possibly join the Shipsons and her mother and not let them know she knew?
She needn’t have worried. By the time she opened her eyes, pitch black night had fallen, and she felt her mother carefully removing her shoes.
“What time is it?” Trish finally recovered her alertness enough to ask.
“A bit after nine. I came up to get you for supper and you were sleeping so soundly, I just covered you and left. But I thought you’d sleep better without all your clothes on.”
“Thanks.” Trish let her eyelids drift shut again, but immediately the conversation she’d overheard from the office rang in her ears. “Mom, I want you to tell me the truth about what’s going on.” Trish sat up, swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and snapped on the lamp next to the bed. She began unbuttoning her shirt so she could keep her hands busy.
Marge stood upright. “Of course.”
“You—we’ve heard from The Jerk again, haven’t we?”
Her mother sank to the edge of the bed and helped Trish remove her clothes. “Yes, we have.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh, Tee, we felt it was so important you get better without worrying that we decided to…to…”
“Lie to me?”
“Not exactly. We just didn’t tell you.”
“How many?”
“Two cards sent to the hospital and now this one here. Amy and Officer Parks are still working on the case on the Portland end. We send them anything we get.” She retrieved Trish’s pj’s from the duffel bag and held the top so Trish could put her arms in without straining her sides. “How did you guess?”
“No guess. Timmy and I heard you when we came up to the house. I thought I’d try to let you keep the secret, but it was too hard. Besides, Dad always said the truth is easier to deal with than a lie.” She leveled an accusing stare in her mother’s direction. “I
am
an adult now, you know.”
The smile that barely lifted the corners of Marge’s mouth matched her wistful tone. “I keep trying to remember that, but to me, you’re still my baby, my only daughter, and I want to protect you from all the evil things in this world. That’s a mother’s job, you know, to take care of her kids.” She gave Trish a hug and followed it by a kiss on the cheek. “I love you, Tricia Marie Evanston, and too often you scare the livin’ out of me.”
What could Trish say? She leaned her head against her mother’s shoulder. The light from the rose-painted Tiffany lamp glowed softly, feeling warm and loving like her mother’s touch. Before she fell all the way back asleep, Trish pushed herself upright and crawled underneath the covers, shoving the white lace-edged pillows off to the side. “Night, Mom.”
Marge rose and dropped a kiss on her daughter’s forehead. “Good night, Tee. Just remember, God loves you and so do I.” For a change, the words her father always said didn’t bring a lump to Trish’s throat. She drifted off thinking,
Thank you, God,
but too far gone to voice the words.
In the morning after visiting Spitfire, Trish joined the Shipsons and her mother at the dining table. Sarah, the longtime cook for BlueMist, brought in a platter of sliced ham with fluffy scrambled eggs. A basket of biscuits already graced the center of the white-linen-covered table. An icy glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice held the place of honor above Trish’s plate.
“Any time you want to move to the West Coast, you just let us know.” Trish grinned up at the woman serving them.
“Chile, y’all couldn’t bribe me away from here. This been mah home far too long. But y’all know, you’re welcome anytime.” She plopped two slices of ham and a mound of scrambled eggs on Trish’s plate. “Now eat up and get yo strength back. Y’all lookin’ mighty puny.”
Trish stared at all the food on her plate. “You want me to get so fat I can’t ride anymore?” Her voice rose to a squeak. But all the time she was complaining and teasing, her hands were busy draping her snowy napkin across her lap and cutting up the ham. The biscuits appeared at her side, and she flipped two of them over to join the ham and eggs.
“And I have coffee cake comin’ outta the oven for when you finish with this.” Sarah handed the platter to Bernice Shipson and marched back out of the room.
“You better eat up. She’s been known to pout for days when someone refuses her food.” The twinkle in Donald Shipson’s blue eyes belied his words. “And you wouldn’t want to wish that on any of us.”
“I’ll try my best, sir.” Trish saluted and dug in.
Stuffed to the tips of her ears, Trish turned away the second piece of cinnamon-and-sugar-topped coffee cake Sarah encouraged her to take. “I can’t. You cut them like slabs for a football team.”
“Half then.” Sarah whacked the four-by-four square in two and slid one onto Trish’s plate.
Trish groaned and shook her head at the laughter from around the table. “How come she doesn’t pick on any of you?”
“You should have seen the way she mollycoddled Donald when he broke his leg one time.” Bernice leaned forward, her silver-blond hair swinging forward on her cheek. “Nearly drove him nuts.”
Marge glanced at her watch. “I better get myself on the road if I’m going to make that flight. Trish, you sure you won’t come with me?”
Trish’s “Mo-ther” conveyed all the nuances possible and then some.
“Before you go”—Donald laid his folded napkin back on the table—“I talked with Doctor Grant, and he thinks we can transport Firefly in another three or four days. That is, if Trish is up to it.”
“Of course.” Trish looked from him to her mother.
“You could get bumped around,” Marge cautioned.
“Yeah, but probably not. She’ll do just fine. You’ll see.” Trish got to her feet, being very careful not to flinch at the movement. She came around the table and gave her mother a hug. “Pass one of these on to Patrick for me, okay? And Miss Tee might like extra attention by now too.” Trish referred to her nearly two-year-old filly who’d been born on her birthday last September. All Thoroughbreds’ birthdays are officially counted as January first, so Miss Tee would be considered two in January.
The days passed quickly with Trish spending much of her time down in the stallion barn with Spitfire. Red came out to visit one evening, but he couldn’t stay long since he had to be on the track again at five the next morning.
The next morning, Donald Shipson drove Trish and Timmy into Louisville to bring Firefly back. A taller-than-normal horse van was already backed in place by the veterinary hospital. Dr. Grant met them at the filly’s room.
“As you can see, we’ve designed a walking cast that she can hobble, or rather, limp along with.” He pointed to the contraption that went from under the filly’s hoof to above her shoulder. “While we feel she would do well in the sling at least part time once you’re at BlueMist, this makes her more portable. Since the infection is cleared up and the incision’s healing well, the plates in her leg are really what protect her. The cast is just to keep her from banging it around.”
Trish walked up to the nickering filly and rubbed her face and ears. “You old sweety, you. What a difference a couple of days make. You look almost like your old self—at least you would without that rig on your leg.” Firefly scrubbed her forehead against Trish’s shoulder. “Easy. You’ll have us both on the ground if we’re not careful.” She dug in her pocket for a chunk of carrot. Firefly never hesitated for a second, just lipped it and crunched.
“Trish, I take it you are going to ride in the van with your horse?” the doctor asked.
Trish nodded.
“I’ve arranged for Kim to go along with you, sedative prepared, just in case Firefly becomes agitated again.”
“She won’t.”
“Well, I live by my mother’s oft-said ‘better safe than sorry,’ so I’m trying to cover all the bases.” He turned to Donald, who’d been standing to the side. “I’ve already talked with your own Doctor Tyler this morning, and he’ll be at the farm when you arrive. Your driver can call him from the truck.”
“I have a cellular phone, so that’s no problem,” Donald answered. “And he’d already discussed this with me.”
“Fine. Let’s begin. Getting her in and out of the trailer will be the real trick.”
Trish unbuckled the halter and handed it to Kim. With Timmy on one side and Trish on the other, they slipped a leather headstall in place and adjusted the two chain leads over Firefly’s nose and under her chin so both of them would have a strap.