Golden Filly Collection Two (40 page)
Thursday night Trish closed her Bible after reading a couple of psalms where David moaned and groaned. But he always praised God somewhere in them. She hadn’t been in the top four in either race. Moaning looked good.
But her heart felt overflowing with praises. Tomorrow she would see Spitfire.
In the morning Gatesby nearly left her a painful reminder to pay attention, but his teeth closed only on her shirt. “Whew. That was close.” Trish jerked on his halter and shook her finger at him. “You want to be sent home, you dopey horse? I thought you were my friend.”
“He’s laughing at you,” Juan said, his Mexican accent more pronounced around his giggle.
“I know. And you are too because this time you weren’t the target.” Trish tried to glare at him, but her mouth wouldn’t stay straight. The corners kept tipping up in a grin.
“Sí.” Juan rubbed his shoulder. “From yesterday.”
Trish kept her eyes and ears open wide for the rest of the morning. She sure didn’t need any accidents to mess up this day. Their flight left at one. She said good-bye to all the horses, with a special reminder to Firefly to keep improving. Her big chance was coming up in October.
“I’ll see you all next Friday night.” She paused in the door to the office. “You want anything from Kentucky?”
“Get outta here.” Adam shooed her out the door. “And you be nice to that certain redheaded jockey. He might not know how to handle a California girl.”
Trish felt the blush start flaming on her neck and explode to her cheekbones. She shook her head as she jogged out to the parking lot. Would she be a blusher for the rest of her natural life? The wind in her face felt especially good while she drove back to the condo.
Trish stared out the window of the 727, the words “California girl” stuck on continuous replay in her mind. She leaned her head back against the seat, listening to the roar of the plane’s engines, and tried to relax. Had she changed this summer? Would Red still like her as much as he said in the cards he wrote? Would she still like him?
D
ark had overrun dusk by the time they landed in Lexington.
Donald and Bernice Shipson met them with hugs and laughter when they came off the plane.
“He’s fine,” Donald Shipson answered Trish’s question before she could ask it. “I’d have brought him along if there were any way possible.” He took Marge’s carry-on bag and led them off to the baggage claim.
The drive to BlueMist Farms seemed like a transcontinental trip. Trish could feel her foot pressing against the floorboard as if she could make the car go faster by sheer willpower. They drove directly to the parking area near the stallion barn. A mercury light cast a blue-white sheen on the crushed gravel, but it was no rival for the moon riding high in the sky. The cupolaed stallion barn threw its own hulking shadow. A carriage lamp glowed golden against the white barn wall.
“Do you think he’ll remember me?” Trish voiced the doubt that had crept in when she wasn’t looking.
“The horse that tips all but Runnin’ On Farm hats? You watch. He’ll be as excited as you are.” The tall, elegantly slim horse owner shook his head. “That is one smart stud we have there. He figured out how to open his stall one day. Followed Timmy right out the door. So now we put a horse-proof fastener on it.”
Trish felt like skipping and twirling down the wide path. Not too long now till she saw Spitfire. As they neared the barn, Trish whistled the high-low tone with which she always called her horses. She waited for only a breath before she heard a stallion’s penetrating whistle followed by Spitfire’s whinny. She would recognize it anywhere. He called again. She could hear him banging a hoof against the stall wall.
“I think your friend is calling you.” Donald Shipson beckoned toward the barn door. “Come on, I’ll turn on the lights.”
Trish whistled again as she reached the door, this time softly. Spitfire’s nicker brought tears to her eyes. It felt like years since she’d seen him, even though it had been less than two months.
Spitfire blinked in the sudden light, but he tossed his head and nickered again as if Trish couldn’t get there quickly enough. His nostrils quivered in a soundless love call. Trish buried her face in his thick, coarse mane and hung on, letting her tears wet the shiny black coat.
Spitfire heaved a sigh as if he too had come home. He rested his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes when her fingers found all his favorite scratching places. Trish stroked his ears and down his cheek. After her tears dried, she turned around so she could really look at him. “How ya doin’, big guy?” Spitfire raised his nose so she would scratch under his chin. Trish tickled his whiskers and giggled when he whiskered her hand.
“I don’t even have a carrot for you.” She stroked her hands down his face and rubbed up around his ears.
Spitfire leaned against her and closed his eyes again.
“Not keeping you up too late, am I?” Trish used her fingertips to tickle his whiskery upper lip. Spitfire licked her hand and whuffled at the familiar scent. When Trish raised her head, she caught the gleam of tears in her mother’s eyes.
“Guess he remembers me, huh?” Trish swallowed the last of her own tears and hugged her horse again. “Tomorrow we’ll go for a ride, okay?” But when she stepped away, he nickered and pawed the straw in his huge box stall.
“You may have to spend the night down here,” Bernice Shipson said with a smile. “And here I have your room all ready for you.”
Trish stepped back and let Spitfire rub his forehead on her chest. “Now you go back to sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.” She shoved his head away. “Go on now, you heard me.” Spitfire tossed his head, his forelock swinging in the motion. But this time when she moved away, he just stood there, dark eyes alert, nostrils quivering.
“It’s okay. I’ll be here to feed you in the morning.” Trish backed away. Spitfire pawed once, then stood perfectly still, the tips of his ears nearly touching as he watched Trish leave. He whinnied again after they closed the door, and then silence.
“Seems he knows every word you say.” Donald Shipson shook his head. “You two are some pair.”
“My dad always said Spitfire and I were soul mates from when he was foaled. We just understand each other.” Trish took her place in the backseat of the car.
Thank you, God.
Her prayer wafted silently upward. She’d mentioned her father without tearing up. That had to be a first.
Trish fell asleep counting her blessings. Today had been easy to find three things—last count she remembered was eleven. But then, who was counting?
Early morning in Kentucky fell soft on her skin as Trish jogged down to the stallion barn. A bright red cardinal serenaded her from a stately elm tree, then flitted across the sloping drive and sang the chorus to his mate. The rising sun cast glittering diamonds on the grass bent with dew. Off in a manicured paddock, two babies kicked up their heels and raced the fence line. Trish inhaled a breath of pure joy. While later in the day it would be hot and muggy, right now felt soft like thistledown.
She heard a stallion trumpet, but it wasn’t Spitfire’s voice.
Someone whistled a happy tune from the barn ahead of her. Trish stopped and threw her three-tone whistle into the air, a gift to the horse she came to visit.
Spitfire answered immediately. A full-blown whinny, not just a nicker. He whinnied again and Trish heard a hoof bang the wooden wall.
“easy now, me boyo, easy.” A man’s voice, with the words sounding more like “aisey,” told Trish that Timmy O’Ryan, Spitfire’s personal groom, was already in attendance.
Trish strode through the open door, bits of carrots she’d begged from the kitchen stuffed in her pockets. Spitfire, his entire being concentrated on the door, tossed his head and nickered again. With his head out the stall, he pushed against the blue webbing gate as if to lunge out to her.
“Morning, Trish. Donald said you’d be down early.” Timmy left off brushing the glossy black coat and joined Spitfire at the gate.
“Hi, Timmy. Morning, Spitfire.” Trish smoothed the black forelock and rubbed the colt’s cheek.
“Himself here’s been awaitin’ for you. I went ahead and fed him since I knew you’d want to ride.”
“Thanks. How ya doin’, fella?” Trish held out two carrot pieces. Spitfire snuffled her hair and blew in her face before lipping the carrots. As he crunched, he rested his forehead against her chest so she could reach his ears easily.
“You big baby.” Trish rubbed all his favorite places while she talked. “Been a while since anyone’s been on your back. You gonna behave your-self?” Spitfire nuzzled her pocket for another carrot.
“I’ll get him saddled and then bring around a mount.” Timmy pushed his porkpie hat back on his head. “He sure is happy to see you.”
“I’ll saddle him, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” The slim man, garbed all in tan but for shiny black boots, crossed to the tack room and returned with an english saddle, pad, and bridle. “You don’t need a racing saddle on him now, or would you rather have one?”
“No, that’s fine.” Trish took the saddle from him and set it over the half door of the stall. “Come on, fella, let’s get ready to see the country.”
While Trish set the saddle in place and hooked the girth, Spitfire watched her over his shoulder, as if not wanting her out of his sight. When she led him outside, he sighed and nuzzled her shoulder.
“You be careful now…no nipping.” Trish let him droop his head over her shoulder while they waited for Timmy to join them. She stroked his nose, all the while murmuring the singsong she’d trained him with. Love words with their own special meaning. The colt’s eyes drooped and his chin sank lower.
“Hard to believe he’s that same ball of fire that won the Triple Crown.” The groom led his mount up and stopped to give Trish a boost into the saddle. Then he swung aboard his horse and led the way down a lane between two black board fences that stretched over the gently rolling hills.
When they returned, Donald Shipson met them in the exercise ring off to the side of the two-story barn. “Breakfast’s ready, Trish, so how about letting Timmy cool him out and brush him down? We’re running today at Keeneland and thought maybe you and your mother would like to join us. Bernice says not to tell you our surprise.”
Trish swung to the ground and let Spitfire rub his forehead against her shoulder. She had planned on spending more time with her horse, grooming and bathing him. She glanced up in time to see a wink flash between the two men. Something was up, all right.
She gave Spitfire the last carrot from her pocket and scratched between his ears while he munched. “See you later, fella. You be good now.” Trish smoothed his forelock and handed Timmy the reins. “See you later too.”
Spitfire nickered as she climbed in the pickup with Mr. Shipson. When Trish waved, he raised his head and sent his shrill whinny floating after her.
“What surprise?” Trish turned to the man driving.
“I promised not to tell.” Shipson looked as innocent as a kid with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Not fair.”
“I know, but it sure is fun.” His soft Kentucky drawl floated on the air.
“What races are you in?”