Golden Filly Collection Two (41 page)
“Second and seventh. There’s a three-year-old filly I think you should look at while we’re there. Almost claimed her myself, but right now I don’t need any new animals. Patrick asked me to keep my eyes open.” Shipson parked the pickup in front of the pillared plantation house. “Sure hope you’re hungry. Sarah outdid herself she was so glad to hear you were coming. Said she’d get you convinced southern cooking has no equal, one way or another.”
Trish groaned. “If I ate all she wanted me to, I’d weigh enough for two jockeys.” Together they climbed the three broad stairs to the double doors with a stained-glass fanlight above them.
Trish discovered the surprise when she joined the Shipsons in the saddling paddock for the second race. As the jockeys paraded down from the jockey room, Red Holloran stopped at stall number three.
Trish felt her stomach catch on her kneecaps going down and plunk about on her ankles. Yep, she still liked him. Her stomach didn’t travel so far for
any
guy—just this one.
The grin that split his freckled face and the powerful arms that wrapped her in a hug told her the answer to her other question. Yep, he still liked her. When he let her loose, her face matched his hair. She could feel the heat, like a sunburn.
“You didn’t know, did you?” Red asked as he kept her hand clasped in his.
“No, I wondered why there was no message at the Shipsons’. Then I was afraid you hadn’t heard I was coming.” Trish wished sheer mind control could cut the flaming in her cheeks. That and the current that sizzled up her arm.
“Riders up.” The call echoed from the loudspeakers in the center of the paddock.
Red let go of her hand. “You’ll still be here when I’m done?”
Trish nodded. “How many mounts do you have today?”
“Four; two for BlueMist.” Red accepted the mount from Donald Shipson. “Pray me a win.” He touched his whip to his helmet and away they went, Shipson leading until they picked up their pony rider.
When all eight entries filed out the tunnel, the group made their way to the owner’s box. “He’s not only an excellent jockey but a fine young man.” Donald Shipson mounted the stairs beside Trish.
“Does he ride much for you?”
“Whenever I can get him. He’s gotten pretty popular in the last few months. Good hand with the horses and developing real skill in bringing a horse out of the pack. I think he’ll become one of the greats if he goes on like he has.”
Trish thought about her last two months of not winning. Her father had said much the same about her and look what happened.
She watched across the infield to where the horses were entering the gates. As the shot fired, she sent her prayer for Red’s safety heavenward.
It seemed so strange to be in the grandstand instead of down along the fence or, even better, mounted on one of the straining horses rounding the turn and making their first drive past the stands.
“He’s right where I wanted him,” Shipson said, his eyes fixed on the surging field. “Let that number one wear himself out with too fast a pace.” He raised his binoculars as they moved into the backstretch. Trish wished she’d brought some. It was easy to lose a bright red gelding in the midst of three others. And at that distance, the blue and white silks of BlueMist disappeared also.
Coming out of the turn, the blue and white silks on a bright red gelding pulled away from the two on either side, and with each stride the horse increased his lead. Red won by six lengths.
Trish heard herself screaming encouragement as the winner crossed the line and raised his whip in victory. She hugged her mother and danced in place until they paraded down to the winner’s circle. This time, instead of standing in front of the horse, she joined the others on the risers behind. The camera flashed, the horse was led away, and she thumped Red on the arm as he accepted congratulations from the Shipsons.
“Thanks for the prayers,” he whispered in her ear, all the while smiling and graciously acknowledging the good wishes from others around him.
“I only prayed for your safety, not a win.” Trish smiled along with him.
“Thanks anyway. I’ll see you after the seventh. Pray for more wins.” He squeezed her hand and left to return to the jockey room.
He won again on Shipson’s horse in the seventh, the largest race of the day. This time the excitement in the winner’s circle crackled like an electric wire. Red had come from behind after a bad bump and won by only a nose.
Trish’s heart still hammered after the near miss. She could tell that her
thank you, God
had been heartily joined with those of the Shipsons and her mother. Now she knew what it felt like to be helpless in the stands when someone you cared about fought their way around the track.
“Thanks again.” Red pulled a red rose from the bouquet he held and handed it to her. “You prayed the best way.”
Trish held the bloodred blossom to her nose. The sweet fragrance overlaid the smell of horse and sweat and fear. “You’re welcome.” She pushed the words past the lump in her throat.
“You’ll join us for dinner, won’t you, son?” Donald Shipson asked.
“Be glad to, sir,” Red answered. “Is it all right if Trish rides with me?” At Marge’s nod, he turned back to Trish. “I’ll meet you right here then?”
“How about down at barn fourteen? I want them to see that filly of Orson’s. She was scratched from the fifth today, but at least they can look at her.”
“Fine. See you. Oh, and I rode that filly once. She’s got heart but not enough condition.” He waved again and trotted off to the jockey room.
Talk at the supper table revolved around the races of the day and then to the gray filly.
“I don’t know,” Marge answered. “If Portland Meadows doesn’t open this fall, I guess we’re shipping ours down to Adam Finley. I hate to take on another new horse when we’re in such a state of confusion.”
“What have you heard about the situation there?” Shipson wiped his mouth with a snowy napkin. “Any change?”
Marge shook her head. “No one seems to know anything for sure.”
“Rumor has it that The Meadows is already closed.” Red leaned forward. “I hate to see another track go down.”
“What about me? I’ll have to commute to California to ride.” Trish carefully refrained from looking at her mother. How would they ever run their horses only on the weekends when she could fly down there? “It just isn’t fair.”
Since when is life fair?
her nagger whispered in her ear as if he’d been waiting for a chance to dig in his claws.
T
he rest of the weekend passed in a blur. Before Trish knew it, she was back on the plane, heading for Vancouver. School would begin in the morning.
She leaned back against the headrest and let her mind play with the
scenes of the weekend. Red Holloran nearly nosed Spitfire out for first place. She’d see both of them again in October, less than a month away. And this Friday she would fly down to San Francisco to race on Saturday and drive back to Vancouver on Sunday.
“You’re awfully quiet.” Marge put down her magazine and turned to look at her daughter.
“Just thinking. I’m going to be really busy, aren’t I?”
Marge smiled and nodded. “Seems that way to me.”
Trish rubbed the bridge of her nose, unconsciously mimicking David’s action when he was thinking. “You thought any more about Portland Meadows?”
“Sort of. I figured we’d get this weekend out of the way first and then tackle the next item on the agenda.” Marge accepted a glass of soda from the flight attendant and passed Trish her standard Diet Coke. “It’s like I keep hoping the situation will resolve itself if I look the other way.” She shook her head. “But that is rarely the case.”
“We had a super weekend, though.” Trish sipped her drink. “I’m really glad you came along.”
“Thanks.” Marge patted Trish’s cocked knee. “Back to Portland Meadows. I’d just as soon you didn’t get involved in the situation there, whatever the situation is.”
“Are you telling me I can’t talk to the other owners?” Trish felt a niggle of resentment settle around her chest.
“No, I’m giving you my opinion. I’d like you to have a sane and normal senior year with time to take part in all the activities.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Trish sipped her drink again. That had been close. She knew she’d want to make sure something was done about racing at PM. At least they weren’t going to start out fighting about something so important as that. The thought of other jockeys riding their horses bothered her more than she wanted to admit. That was her job. But she sure couldn’t do it if all the horses were based in California.
Dad, what would you do in this situation?
Trish closed her eyes and leaned her seat back. If she sat real quiet, she could almost feel him sitting right beside her. He’d be reading the latest
Blood Horse Journal
or one of his “good books,” as he called authors like Norman Vincent Peale.
He always said you could find your answers in the Scriptures if you looked hard enough. Trish rubbed her tongue on the back of her teeth. Where would she find a reference for horse racing?
Immediately a verse leaped into her mind. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” The golden rule. She wrinkled her eyebrows. What did that have to do with racing?
Their meal arrived and Trish poured dressing on her salad in an unconscious gesture. “Do unto others.” It seemed as if they were being done unto and not in a good way. She ate her meal, all the while mulling over the verse. Another came into her mind. This one she could picture on her wall of three-by-five cards, all verses printed either by her or her father. “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” Now
that
one made more sense.
After giving her empty tray to the flight attendant, Trish flipped back the armrest and curled up in the double seat for a nap. She was just about out when she felt her mother spread one of the airline blankets over her. “Thanks, Mom,” Trish mumbled.
When Trish and her mother walked off the plane, Patrick waited there to meet them. Trish nearly walked on by because the retired jockey stood behind a man tall enough to play professional basketball.
“You’re going to have to stand in front of guys like that,” Trish teased after they swapped hugs and started down the long walk to the baggage claim. “Or you’ll get lost.”
Patrick gave her a poke with his elbow. “And let’s be lookin’ at who’s talking. He’d be taller’n you and Spitfire put together. Speaking of which, how’s our son doin’?”
“Great.” Trish turned with a grin. “And yes, you were right.”
“And what might that be about?”
“He didn’t forget me.”
“I told you, that horse has a memory like an elephant. And he’ll never be forgettin’ ye. Yer the most important person in his life.”
“I still wish we could race him again.” Trish sighed.
“Give it up, lass. We’ll bring on a young’un to do it again.” Patrick stood back to let Trish and Marge onto the escalator in front of him.
“What’s happening at The Meadows?” Marge asked in an undertone because Trish stood three steps down in front of her.
“The Thoroughbred Association has called a meeting for Tuesday night. The city council is supposed to make a decision at their meeting on Thursday.” Patrick tried to speak softly enough for Trish to miss it.
“But that’s tomorrow night.” Trish stepped to the side at the bottom of the escalator.
“I know.” Marge and Patrick exchanged a look that told Trish they’d rather not discuss this now.
Fine,
Trish thought.
I can play that game too. But tomorrow night Run nin’ On Farm will be well represented at the meeting.
“They’ve started our luggage carousel” was all she said as she walked through the turnstile to stand by the moving luggage line.
On the way home, the three caught up on all the news of Runnin’ On Farm. The new mare and filly they’d purchased from the breeder in Chehalis were settling in well. Miss Tee and Double Diamond had grown an inch a night, or so it seemed.
“We’ll be working with the yearling Calloway’s Joker soon as you get out to the barn. I’m too heavy for him and a’course Brad makes me look like a midget.”