Golden Filly Collection Two (85 page)

Chapter
08

T
rish waited by the phone for Parks to call back.

Brad hovered beside her, nibbling on the brownie clenched in his hand. “It’ll probably take a while.” He too jumped when the phone rang.

Trish left it until she heard the detective’s voice on the machine, then picked up the receiver. “What’d you find out?”

“Bad news, or rather no news, Trish. He called from a pay phone located over by Lloyd’s Center. We had a squad car out in that sector so they swung by. No one around.”

Trish felt as if someone had just let out all her air, leaving her flat and wobbly, a balloon lying inert on the floor. “Oh.” She’d had such high hopes. Now they were back to square one. When would they catch him?

“What is it?” Marge cupped her coffee mug in her hands.

Trish shook her head and covered the mouthpiece. “Pay phone.” She took up her conversation with Parks again. “So we just keep on like before?”

“Don’t panic, Trish. We’re going to find him. He’ll get cocky and make a mistake. I know he will.”

As Trish hung up she wondered if Parks had been trying to convince her—or himself.

The next morning at the track, Trish was greeted like returning royalty by everyone, from the bug boys and the jockeys giving their morning charges a good workout to the kids cleaning stalls. Trainers shouted greetings, and every time she returned to the barn, more people came by to shake hands and welcome her back.

“Can’t get nothin’ done this way.” Patrick went about checking the horses, all the while grumbling around the half-smile on his rounded face.

Trish figured that today he looked more like a leprechaun than ever. “Would you rather I stayed home?” she asked, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth no matter how hard she tried to sound serious. “Maybe Genie Stokes is a better rider.”

“Leastways she don’t have half the track hanging around, swapping lies and such.” He gave her a boost up on her waiting mount.

Trish grinned down at the old trainer her father had hired after he’d become so sick he couldn’t do it himself. “Patrick O’Hern, if someone didn’t know you and heard you talking like that, they’d think you’re an old grouch.”

“I heard him and I know he’s an old grouch.” Genie Stokes, who always rode for Runnin’ On Farm when Trish wasn’t available, came striding up the walkway, sidestepping buckets and blankets as she came. “Welcome home, Trish. You’re looking good for scaring us all half to death.”

Trish leaned over and grabbed her friend’s hand. “Feeling plenty better, let me tell you. But then you know what busted ribs are like.”

“At least I didn’t try dying on the doctors while they patched me up.” She patted the horse’s shoulder and looked up at Trish with a wobbly smile. “I’ll tell you, there were a lot of prayers sent up from around here.” She squeezed Trish’s hand another time. “You take good care of my horses, you hear?” She turned to Patrick. “See she stays out of trouble now.”

Patrick shook his head. “Takes the Almighty himself to do that, or leastways He bails her out again.”

“Well, while you two figure out my life for me, think I’ll take this old boy out on the track.” Trish touched a finger to her helmet. “See ya.”

Trish huddled into her down jacket, grateful she’d worn her long johns. Even when it wasn’t raining, the wind blowing off the Columbia River managed to penetrate down to the bones. The gray overcast hung low enough to blur the top of the glass-enclosed grandstands. The thought of winter racing in Florida was sounding better and better.

During the change of mounts she took a moment to blow her dripping nose and drink half a cup of hot chocolate. Feeling somewhat warmer, she left the office to find Patrick holding Gatesby’s head while Brad finished the saddling.

“I see you haven’t broken him of his favorite habit.” Trish stayed just out of mouth range.

Brad glared at her from under the bill of his baseball hat. “Anytime you want to try.…”

Trish copied Patrick’s hold on the steel D-ring bit and rubbed Gates-by’s black ears. “Stubborn old boy, aren’tcha?” The gelding leaned into her ministering fingers. “Who’s his latest victim?”

Brad cupped his hands to give her a knee up. “Need you ask?”

Trish buckled the chin strap of her helmet and gathered her reins. One never took a chance with Gatesby. He’d dumped her more than once. “Okay, joker, let’s go see what we can do.” As usual, he wanted to go at his own pace—fast. However, Patrick had scheduled him for a slow gallop—two times around the track, after a warming-up half-lap. By the time they returned to the barn, Trish’s side had set up a complaint department.

“I’m ready for breakfast any time you are—and since this is my first day back, I’ll even buy.” Trish stripped her saddle off the now-docile gelding and walked past him to put it away, but Gatesby got a nip in anyway. “Owww.” She dumped her saddle on the trunk in the office and rubbed her shoulder. “You let him do that on purpose.” She glared at Brad, who wore the same sheepish “gotcha” expression as Gatesby. “See if I buy
your
breakfast.” She grabbed Gatesby’s halter. “And you know there’s always the glue factory for horses like you.” Gatesby rubbed his head against her chest. “No, I know you’re not sorry, not one bit.”

While she scolded the horse, Brad started washing the gelding down. Within a few minutes they had him washed, blanketed, and snapped to the hot walker, where Gatesby followed the other three horses around the circle.

Trish hardly found time to eat with so many people coming by. Bob Diego, head of the Thoroughbred Breeders Association and one for whom Trish frequently rode, slung an arm about her shoulders.

“Welcome home, mi amiga.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Good to see your shining face.” He took the chair across the table from her. “What a scare you gave us! Have they found the man who has been troubling you yet?”

“You coulda gone all year without bringing that up.” Trish’s heart took a sudden belly flop. “The answer is no. He called again on Friday.”

Diego mumbled a few unmentionable names for the stalker.

“I call him The Jerk.” Trish forked the last bit of ham into her mouth and gathered up her dishes. “Gotta run or I won’t get back in time for the afternoon program. I’ve a term paper to research first.”

“Will you be riding soon?” Diego rose to his feet when she did.

“Saturday.” She glanced at Patrick. “We have one then, right?” Patrick nodded around a mouthful of pancake.

“For your amigo too?”

“Sure’nough. See you guys.” Trish crossed the noisy room, shaking hands and answering greetings as she tried to get to the door. She’d just reached for the door handle when emanuel Ortega stepped to her side.

“excuse me, please,” the young jockey asked, his dark eyes flashing, “but could we talk for a moment?”

“Of course, what is it?” Trish stepped out of the doorway and next to the wall.

“You know for when I hit your horses last year, I was very sorry.…”

“I know.”

“Well, the police have been questioning me about the person who is, what they say, horsing.…”

“Harassing?”

“Yes, that is the word. I do not do that. I tell them but I think they do not believe me.” He stepped closer, waving a hand to make the point. “I do not call you and send you bad letters. I want to be great jockey here in America.”

Trish nodded. “I understand, but, emanuel, the police are talking to everyone, not just you. Don’t worry about it. But if you have any idea who it might be, please tell them.”

“I know nothing.” He shook his head again. “All I know is I do not do such a thing.” He turned to leave but swung back, a smile now lighting his thin face. “Gracias, señorita. Buenos días.”

“You too, hombre.” She watched him cut his way across the crowded room without looking back. Had he talked with her because he really wasn’t guilty or because he was? She shook her head once to clear it.
You can’t think things like that!
she ordered herself.
It’ll drive you nutsy.

Curt Donovan, the sports reporter from the Portland
Oregonian,
met her at the door. “Trish, I was hoping you’d be here today, or else I was coming out to see you.” He gave her a hug that left no doubt about his concern. “Did you see that article by the reporter in San Mateo?”

Trish shook her head. “The one who dubbed me the Comeback Kid?”

“That’s the one.” Curt kept pace with her. “He says there’s some company thinking of making a movie about you. Called it a ‘real heartwarming story.’”

“You’re kidding. He predicted the endorsement with Chrysler long before it happened too.” She raised one eyebrow. “You think he’s serious?”

“I’d bet on it. He seems to have better sources than I do.” Curt waved to the guard at the gate, who gave Trish a thumbs-up sign. “You got a quote for me?”

“Sure. I’m glad to be home, will be riding Saturday, and don’t believe everything you read in the newspapers.” Trish slid into her car and grinned up at him. “And if anyone knows who’s harassing me, they can call Officer Parks. He’d love to hear from them and so would I. See ya.” She watched him walk back across the road to the back entrance to Portland Meadows. Rhonda was right. Curt Donovan
was
one good-looking guy.

Trish spent the morning researching her term paper at the Fort Vancouver Library, then after grabbing a burger, she headed back for Portland Meadows. Since—wonder of wonders—the sky had cleared, she pushed the button to lower the top of her convertible. What a treat, to enjoy the sun, feel the wind in her hair—except her teeth clacked together like drummer’s sticks by the time she drove into the parking lot. Sun and blue sky or not, November in Oregon definitely wasn’t convertible weather.

“Bet David doesn’t have to worry about freezing to death down in Tucson,” she muttered as she punched the button to raise the top. “Bet he’s wearing shorts instead of long johns too.” With the other hand she shoved the heater to high. She clamped both hands over her frozen ears and waited for the temperature to get somewhere near warm in the car. Her face and hands felt the blast of hot air long before her feet did.

“Well, my girl, you learned a good lesson there. No convertible tops down until summer, no matter how cool you want to look.” She snapped down the sun visor to look in the mirror while applying lipstick. Her hair stood out all over, in spite of the braid, her cheeks looked as if someone had painted them red—bright red—and her mouth wouldn’t stop jiggling long enough to put on the proper “paint,” as her father had called it.

She flipped the visor back up. “And if cool was what you wanted, you sure did get that.” She shoved the heater controls off and climbed from the car.

“Welcome back,” called the woman at the side gate.

“Thanks. Good to be back.” And it was. The sun still shone, and without the draft from a moving vehicle, Trish even thought about taking off her red jacket. The tan down vest and green wool turtleneck sweater would be warm enough.

You’ve been known to lose jackets that way.
Sometimes her nagger could be real helpful.

So instead of veering into the women’s jockey room, she headed for the track side fence where most of the trainers and many of the owners watched the races. Since it was her father’s favorite place, she liked it best too.

“Hi, guys.” She slipped into place between Bob Diego and his trainer. “You got one running soon?”

“Couldn’t stay away, huh?” Bob moved down a bit for her to have more room. “I have one in the third. Wish you were up on her.”

“Me too. But I promised Mom another week off. She gets the worries, you know.”

“How is your mother?”

Trish liked the way he said his
s
softer than American-born people. “Fine, I guess.” She looked up at the tall, broad-shouldered Hispanic gentleman. “Gentle man” was a good way to describe Bob Diego. And honorable. She felt proud to be his friend. “Why?”

“I just think about her sometimes. She has been through much.”

“You too, my friend.” The sound of the bugle floated across the track and rose above the snapping flags in the infield. The sound of it caught in her throat, as usual. That was one of the things she remembered from the day they buried her father, the bugle singing the parade to post. She lifted her chin and rubbed her lips together.

The roar of the crowd at the sight of the horses dancing onto the track drove back the pending tears.

Bob Diego laid a hand on her shoulder. “You so rarely see from this angle anymore. It is different, no?”

Trish smiled up at him. “Sure is.” She glanced down at her program to see who was running and who was riding. Genie Stokes had the number one slot. Trish waved as they trotted past. “Go for it, Genie.” The jockey in black-and-white silks touched her whip to her helmet.

A voice calling her name behind her caught Trish’s attention. She turned around to drown in the most gorgeous hot fudge eyes she’d ever seen. The smiling mouth below them wasn’t so bad either. “H-hi.”

“Hi, yourself. Welcome back to Portland.” His voice made her think of warm maple syrup.

“Do I know you?” Trish left off staring into his eyes long enough to catch a fleeting glimpse of jacket, sweater, and shirt with the look of Italy, probably by way of Nordstrom’s.

“You’ve signed my programs a couple of times.” His smile showed teeth an orthodontist would hire for an advertisement. That same smile crinkled a dimple to the left side. Wait till Rhonda heard about
this
fan. “My name is Taylor Winthrop.”

“Good.” Trish tried to think of something clever to say. Where was her brain when she needed it?

“I’m glad you’re better.”

“Thanks.” Her brain finally kicked in. “Do you come to the track often?”
Wow, some conversationalist!

“Usually on the weekends. My classes take up too much time during the week.”

Classes? You’re too old-for-high school.
Trish could feel her mind working, so why didn’t it give her something clever, cute, or funny to say?

“I’m a junior at the University of Portland.”

College, not high school, you idiot.
“That’s nice.” She felt like smacking herself in the forehead like they did in the movies.