Golden Filly Collection Two (4 page)
T
rish woke feeling as if the world were crumbling around her. Today they would fly back to Portland. Homecoming was supposed to be a celebration. She and her best friend since kindergarten, Rhonda Seabolt, had talked about a huge party. There wouldn’t be one now.
Trish forced herself to get up. No matter what, Spitfire needed to be worked.
Why?
Her little voice spoke softly for a change.
He won’t be running again.
“Just because,” Trish muttered as she crammed her feet into her boots. “And Sarah’s Pride will be running again. She needs lots of work.”
David met her at the door. “You all packed?”
Trish shook her head. “I suppose you are.”
“Yeah, I couldn’t sleep.”
Trish looked closely at her brother’s face. He had the same look she’d seen in her own mirror. While David tried to be strong for her, she knew he was hurting too.
At least the reporters had backed off. Trish found herself watching for them so she could run the other way. She also caught herself looking for a certain red-headed young man.
“Lookin’ for anyone in particular?” Patrick grabbed for his hat as Spitfire tried to flip it off.
Trish could feel her neck get warm at Patrick’s teasing. “Come on, horse, let’s get going here. Quit goofing around.”
Spitfire rubbed his forehead against Trish’s chest, nearly knocking her over. When she ignored his plea he blew grain saliva in her face.
“Okay, okay. I get the hint.” Trish scratched under his headstall and along the top of his neck under his mane. When she turned to a familiar voice at the door, the colt draped his head across her shoulder, his favorite position.
“You want me to work Sarah’s Pride so you can get done quicker?” Red asked.
“No, that’s okay.” Trish could feel her face getting warm again. Would she
never
quit blushing when Red was around? “What I mean is—” She looked to David for help. He’d disappeared. She could hear him talking to the filly in the next stall. “I mean, ahhh…thanks. We’d appreciate that.”
Red seemed to sense her unwillingness to talk as he rode beside her around the track. Sarah’s Pride kept him pretty busy. She still fought her rider, always wanting to run when another horse came by.
“Keep your mind on what you’re doing,” Red ordered the fractious filly as he pulled her down to a walk again. “You just can’t seem to understand
jog
, can you?” The horse shook its head.
Trish felt a small grin turn up the corners of her mouth. If only they could ride like this forever. Their return to the barn came much too quickly.
“I’ll see you on Friday night then?” Trish studied her boot rather than look Patrick in the face.
“How about Saturday morning? You’ll be gettin’ in too late to make a stop by here.”
“Yeah, I keep forgetting the time change.” She drew circles in the sand with her boot. “Ahhh, take good care of him, okay?”
Patrick nodded. “You needn’t worry. Red here will work the girl, and Spitfire and I can walk for miles round and round.”
“Come on, Trish,” David interrupted. “We gotta get going.”
Trish rubbed Spitfire’s nose one more time. “See ya, fella.” The colt nickered as she followed David down the aisle. Red fell into step beside her. He took her hand and squeezed it.
Their footsteps lagged.
“I’ll still be here when you get back, you know.”
“Really? I thought maybe Patrick was making that up.” Trish felt a little flutter of what could only be called joy. “I thought—I hoped—I, uh, thought I’d see you in Kentucky at least.”
“I’m riding back in your van, if that’s okay with you.”
“Okay? That’s great. But aren’t you missing out on a lot of mounts?”
Red shrugged. “There’ll be others. Being with you is more important right now.”
Trish felt the now familiar burning behind her eyes. “Thanks.” The word croaked around the lump stuck in her throat.
David already had the car running when they caught up to him.
“See you Saturday then?” Trish chewed her lip.
When Red put both arms around her, Trish leaned against him. “I wish I could help you, Tee.” His breath stirred the wisps of hair around her ear.
Trish couldn’t answer. The lump was still there.
What can I say, anyway? No one can help.
She wrapped both arms around his waist in answer. Her internal drum started thumping again.
Just get through.
Red lifted her chin with one finger so his lips could find hers. The kiss was gentle, soft.
Trish pulled away. “Sorry.” She swallowed other words she wanted to say.
Please understand.
How could she tell Red that she couldn’t handle nice-and-gentle right now? Not and get through. Instead, she squeezed his hand and turned to fumble with the door handle of the car.
With one hand on her shoulder as if to hold her to him, Red opened the door with his right. Trish felt a second kiss on her ear as she slipped into the car.
“Take care now.” Red gently closed the car door and thumped on the glass.
As they drove away, Trish forced herself not to look back. Even so, one tear sneaked by her control and slid down her cheek. She felt David’s gaze when he stopped for a red light. But instead of answering his unspoken question, she huddled tighter in the corner. So many good-byes.
Trish worked her way back to the small end of the telescope as she packed her suitcase. When she cleaned off the closet shelf, she saw that the eagle was gone.
“Mom…” She started to ask what happened to it, but stopped herself.
Who cares? It’s just a wooden bird.
Trish slept most of the flight home, mumbling a refusal when the flight attendant asked her food preference. She vaguely heard her mother do the same. Thanks to a half-f flight, Trish was able to lie down.
“Approaching Portland International.” The pilot’s voice worked like an alarm.
Trish sat up, clutching the gray blanket around her shoulders. David had stretched out too, and was still asleep.
“Have we passed Mount Hood?” Trish asked. She felt too groggy to crawl over to the window seat to look out.
Marge raised her head from her hand and nodded. Trish could tell she’d been crying again. Pain for her mother briefly replaced her own. How would any of them manage without her father? She closed her mind against the thought of the days, months, and years ahead.
When the seat belt light went off, Trish pulled one bag from under the seat and waited for David to retrieve another from the overhead bins. Adam and Martha Finley led the way off the plane.
Staggering up the ramp, Trish caught a glimpse of Rhonda. Brad Williams, the other member of the four musketeers, was right behind her.
Their faces must mirror my own,
she thought. Sad, afraid to smile. For her it was the fear she’d never smile again.
“Oh, Trish,” Rhonda whispered as she hugged her friend. “I can’t believe this has really happened. Are you okay?” Rhonda wiped her tears away with the heels of her hands. “I can’t seem to quit crying.”
Trish just nodded as she felt her friends’ arms wrap around her. Brad had included David in the community hug.
What’s to say? What does okay mean anymore?
She felt the tears coming and pulled away. Closeness to anyone always brought the tears on. And if she started crying, she was afraid she’d never stop.
“Please, I…”
Rhonda studied Trish’s face and nodded. They were the kind of friends who didn’t need to finish sentences.
The pain hit Trish afresh. Theirs was like the relationship she’d had with her father. He’d been able to read her mind too. Was everything going to remind her of him? She felt as if she were running through a maze with no way out.
Brad slung Trish’s pack over his shoulder and Rhonda picked up Trish’s sports bag. She dropped it again to blow her nose.
“Come on,” Brad said to Trish. “The van’s in the short-term lot. David, if you want to head down for the rest of your luggage, we’ll bring the van around. You coming, Tee?”
Trish turned to her mother and the Finleys. Marge nodded. “Adam, Martha, meet Brad Williams and Rhonda Seabolt. They’re like our own kids.” Turning to the young people, she said, “Kids, I know you’ve heard of the Finleys. They’ve helped us beyond measure.”
Adam shook Brad’s hand. “Glad to meet you. We’ll pick up our car, then, and follow you.”
Trish watched as if from the other end of her telescope. It all seemed so pointless. She followed her friends, not really joining in on the conversation but making the right responses. Still, the drive from the parking lot to the baggage claim was silent. Trish stared out the window. It had started to rain.
How appropriate.
Trish kept her distance for the next two days. The funeral would be on Thursday. The only time it seemed bearable was when she was down at the barn. Her nearly year-old filly, Miss Tee, took some time to adjust to Trish’s return.
“You’ve grown so much.” Trish stroked the little filly’s ears. “You’re not really a baby anymore.” She smoothed the golden mane that was turning from brush to full length. Miss Tee sniffed Trish’s hair and nibbled at her fingers. Trish dug in her pocket for another carrot. “Here; all you want are treats. We’re gonna have to start working with you pretty soon. Has Brad been leading you around?” The filly shook her head and sniffed for another carrot.
Trish rubbed the tender spot between the filly’s ears. She leaned on the fence and watched four-month-old Double Diamond race across the field. At the filly’s snort, Trish released the halter and smiled as her namesake dashed after the colt and kicked up her heels. They really looked good, both of them. It seemed as if she’d been away from home for years, not intermittent weeks. She’d been gone most of May and half of June.
When Trish wandered out in the field where the racing stock pastured, she nearly lost it with old gray Dan’l. He trotted up as soon as she whistled, nickering his welcome and rubbing his forehead on her chest. He’d been her track tutor for the last few years, hers and most of the young stock. They used the old race horse to help train the new racers. He always set a calm example on the three-quarter-mile track at the farm and in the starting gates.
Trish scratched his cheek and fed him another carrot. At least with the horses she didn’t have to try to talk. Even with all the guests coming and going, the house seemed empty. If only she could pretend that her father was at the hospital as he’d been for those weeks last fall. But it was easier not to think about him at all. Not to look for him in the next stall. Not to remember his funny whistle as he worked with the horses. Not to—she fiercely shut her mind down again. It was like slamming a heavy truck door, one that had to stay shut.
Rhonda and Brad dropped by after school. Trish levered herself off her bed and dogtailed Rhonda back to the kitchen, where Martha Finley had baked chocolate chip cookies. The four teenagers took theirs back into the living room, where Adam had a fire going to chase the chill of a drizzly, windy afternoon.
“It’s my California blood,” he said, warming his backside in front of the blaze. “I don’t do well in this dampness.”
Trish crumbled her cookie and stared into the leaping flames. Talking took too much effort.