Golden Filly Collection Two (2 page)

Trish brought her mind back to the moment through sheer force of will. Now they would go up for the trophies. The biggest, shiniest engraved bowl was for the winner’s owner—Hal Evanston. Only he wasn’t there. He would never be there again. Trish clamped her teeth tighter.

“I’ll take him now, lass.” Patrick loosened Trish’s fingers from Spitfire’s reins. He handed her the racing saddle and nodded toward the scales. As the trainer led the colt away, David and Hal’s long-time friend Adam Finley gripped Trish’s arms and led her to the scale.

Trish weighed in and then strode between the two men up the broad brick steps to the podium. Hands reached out to shake hers. “Thank you…yes, thank you.” The words came stilted, mechanical.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment we’ve been waiting for.…” Jim McKay, famous Thoroughbred-racing announcer, shook her hand. “Tricia Evanston, at sixteen, is not only the first female to win the Triple Crown, but the youngest ever to win it. You put on quite a show, young lady.”

“Thank you” was all Trish could say.

“As you know, folks, this win is a family affair. Spitfire, bred and raised by Hal Evanston of Runnin’ On Farm, is now the official winner of this year’s Belmont Cup—” he paused for a moment “—accepted by his son, David Evanston.” Trish could see the fleeting question on the man’s face.

David stepped forward. “Thank you.” He leaned into the microphone. “My father would be very proud of this honor. We all thank you.” He raised the ornate silver Tiffany bowl in the air and smiled to the crowd.

Her teeth were clamped so tightly, it was almost impossible to smile, but Trish managed somehow. Just as McKay started to present her trophy, someone whispered in his ear.

Trish dashed the tears away. She
had
to be able to speak into the microphone—now!

“Ladies and gentlemen,” McKay said, then paused. “I have an announcement to make.” He paused again. A hush fell over the stands. “Ah-h-h…” He cleared his throat. The pain in his voice was obvious. “Fifteen minutes ago…about the time the horses broke from the gate…Hal Evanston died at the hospital. That is why…his son is here in his place to accept the trophy. Racing has lost a fine and generous man.” He bowed his head, then looked to Trish and David. “Our hearts go out to you, Trish, David.”

Sobs racked Trish’s shoulders. She heard David blowing into his handkerchief. A baby wailed somewhere in the crowd. To honor Hal, the red-coated bugler stepped out onto the track and raised the long brass horn to his mouth. The clear notes of “Taps” lifted on the breeze and echoed across the infield to bounce back from the trees on the far side. The final notes seemed to hang on the air before fading away.

Trish stepped to the microphone. “We did it, Dad.” Her voice broke. She took a deep breath. “You—we—we won—the Triple Crown. I love you.” She waved to the crowd, which broke out in thunderous applause. With David at one side and Adam on the other, Trish turned and left the podium area. Security officers held back insensitive reporters as they shouted questions. Strobe lights flashed.

Trish concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.
Down the stairs,
her mind prodded.
Follow the dirt back into the tunnel under the stands.
They turned left and exited through a door into the entrance area.

“There’s a limo waiting outside,” Trish heard someone say.

“Martha, you go with them, I’ll take care of the questions,” Adam said to his wife. He gave Trish and David a hug before he turned to the reporters.

Martha took his place, and with three men in front and more on each side, they passed through the crowd like the prow of a boat parting the sea; out the door and down the blue canopy-covered walk. Hanging baskets of geraniums passed in a pink blur.

Trish sank into the seat of the limo as though she were weighted down by the sorrow of the whole world. After the door slammed shut, she rubbed her face into David’s shirt, and finally let the tears come. “He can’t be gone, he can’t.” She thrashed from side to side, trying to wipe away the agony.

With her arms around her brother’s chest, she could feel the heaving of his own sobs.

“I can’t believe it either,” David cried into her hair.

Martha Finley handed them each a tissue and rubbed Trish’s back.

The limo slowed and stopped at the emergency entrance to the hospital.

Trish looked up. The windows blurred, and she wiped her eyes again. It was like looking through glass sheeted with rain. She leaned her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes.

The man in the three-piece suit who had been sitting across from them passed her his handkerchief. Trish blew her nose and mopped her eyes—again. When she opened them, she saw her mother opening the side door.

“Oh, Mom!” Trish scrambled from the car and flung herself into Marge’s arms. When David stepped out, the three clung together like lone survivors in a raging sea.

“I want to see Dad.” Trish drew back. “I have to, Mom.”

Marge nodded. With her arms around the waists of her children, she guided them to the second-floor room where Hal lay in the bed as if he were asleep. Trish had seen him like that many times before. Her mother had always said, “Go ahead, wake him. He wants you to.” But this time, Trish knew there was no waking him.

She sank into a chair by the bed and picked up her father’s hand. She smoothed the back of it with her fingertips. “He looks so peaceful.” Trish caught her breath, as if waiting for him to breathe. She felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder and leaned her cheek against it.

“He’s even smiling—sort of.” The quiet of the room seeped into Trish, surrounded her. She laid Hal’s hand back on the white blanket. “I love you, Dad,” she whispered. “I love you.” Her tears fell unchecked and soaked the sheet. Somewhere in the depths of her mind and heart, Trish heard her father’s voice again, just as she’d heard it at the track:
I have fought the good flight, Tee. I have won my race. I love you.
“Oh, Dad, I need you.”

Trish felt as if she were swimming in her own tears. When she lifted her head, the heavy weight she’d felt in the limo washed over her again. She tried to stand but her legs were like rubber. David caught her before she crumpled. Trish leaned against him and felt her mother support her other side. When Trish gained her footing, the three started toward the door. They turned together and with one voice said, “Good-bye.”

In the hall, a woman waited with Martha Finley. She introduced herself. “I’m Chaplain Saunders. If you’d like, we can talk in the chapel. It’s right this way.”

Adam Finley met them halfway. He put his arm around Marge’s shoulder. “Whatever we can do for you—”

Marge nodded. “We’re going to the chapel now.”

Trish’s eyes and nose were still a fountain, but her mouth felt like a desert. She stopped for a drink of water.

The afternoon sun, streaming through a stained-glass window, bathed the chapel in soothing blues and greens. Trish still felt weak as she collapsed onto a padded chair. Martha Finley pressed a glass of water into her hand, and she smiled her thanks.

“N-now what?” Trish forced herself to straighten up in the chair and look at the chaplain.

“Your father’s body will be taken to a funeral home and prepared for the flight to Portland. Someone will have to make the flight arrangements…”

“I will take care of that,” Adam offered without hesitation.

“And you’ll need to choose a casket…”

“I can help you with that,” Martha volunteered.

Trish watched her mother collapse, weeping, into David’s arms. No matter how much she wanted to, Trish didn’t have the strength to reach them. She felt as if she were floating above them, watching all that went on. They couldn’t be discussing her father, not
her
dad. Surely he was down at the barn, or at home, or—she felt a shudder that started at her toes and worked its way up to the top of her head. She huddled down in the chair, clamped her teeth again, this time to stop the shaking.

“Trish? Trish!” The voice seemed to come from far away.

She tried to take another sip of water, but the glass fell from her hands and bounced on the brown tweed carpet.

“Trish, put your head between your knees.” She heard the voice and at the same time felt a hand pushing her head down. Then a blanket was gently wrapped around her shoulders.

All of a sudden Trish threw back the blanket and leaped to her feet. Marge started after her, but a nurse met Trish in the hall and after one look at her face steered her to a rest room. A cool hand supported Trish’s head and a strong arm held her middle as she threw up into the toilet bowl.

When the worst was over the nurse handed her a wet washcloth. “Better now?” Trish nodded and wiped her face.

“I can’t go back in there,” she whispered. The tears started again.

“Come with me.” Her arm around Trish’s shoulders, the nurse gently led her to an empty room with an open window, and held her while she cried.

“It’s not fair,” Trish heard herself saying.

“No, dear, it’s not.” The nurse brushed the damp hair from Trish’s cheek. “Your father was a fine man. And he was so proud of you.”

“You knew him?”

“Oh yes. Hal was a favorite around here, even for the short time he was with us. You know, nurses really appreciate a patient who is grateful for their help.” She smoothed Trish’s hair again. “Why, his faith just lit up the room. We all felt it every time we walked in there.”

Trish looked up to see tears glistening in the nurse’s eyes. “Yeah, he was like that.” Trish bit her lip and sniffled. “I didn’t get to say goodbye—or anything.” She dropped her forehead to the nurse’s shoulder. “I didn’t want my dad to die.”

“I know. None of us did.” The nurse reached over and pulled tissues from a box.

Trish felt hot, then cold.
God, how can I live without him?
she thought.

“Trish?” David came into the room. “We’re ready to go now, okay?”

Trish nodded, and squeezed the nurse’s hand. “Thanks” was all she could manage.

Marge was talking with a doctor when David and Trish returned to the chapel.

“I can give you some sleeping pills, tranquilizers,” the doctor was saying. “It might make these next hours easier.”

Trish shrugged and shook her head when the doctor looked at her. “They can’t bring my father back.”

“No, thank you,” Marge said softly. “We’ll be all right.” She took the arms of her children and stepped into the hall.

Reporters were swarming around the door outside. “What will be done with Spitfire? Is he finished racing?”

Adam Finley spoke for the others. “Spitfire will be shipped to BlueMist Farms in Kentucky as soon as possible. That’s all I can tell you now.”

As that announcement crashed into her consciousness, Trish felt the last shred of hope being torn away.

Chapter
02

T
rish, you knew Spitfire was going to Kentucky,” David whispered in her ear.

“I know.” Trish climbed into the limo and huddled next to her mother. She wrapped both arms around herself to try to stop the shaking.

“Just a minute.” Adam stepped back out of the car and spoke with one of the security officers. The man left and within a few minutes returned with several hospital blankets. Marge took them and gratefully wrapped two around her daughter.

A gray fog stole into Trish’s head. As the warmth of the blankets and her mother’s arms cradled her limp body, she felt herself floating again. When they reached the hotel, Trish barely felt the carpet beneath her feet as Adam Finley helped her to the room. Martha spoke softly while she helped her with her boots and silks.

Trish forced her eyes open when she heard her mother’s voice. “Sleep, Tee. Jesus loves you, and so do I.”

Trish barely nodded. “Me too, Mom.” She wanted to ask a question but the fog hung too thick.

A raging thirst woke Trish hours later. When she tried to stand, the room whirled and she sat down again. She fumbled with the switch on the bedside lamp. The wings of the wood-carved eagle glistened in the soft light on her nightstand. The figure had been her gift to her father for Christmas, to remind him of the promise of the Father bearing him up on eagles’ wings. The sight of it was too much, and Trish shoved it onto a shelf at the back of the closet.

Reaching the bathroom, she grabbed a bunch of toilet paper and wiped her eyes again and blew her nose. If only her father were asleep in the next room. Pretending didn’t work.

She chug-a-lugged a glass of water, then refilled it to take with her.

Noticing a light coming from the living room, Trish opened the door. Martha Finley sat knitting in a wing chair, her feet propped up on a hassock. Adam was asleep on the sofa, snoring softly.

“Oh, Trish, can I get you anything? A glass of orange juice, or something to eat?” The lamp cast a halo around the older woman’s white hair.

“Where’s Mom?”

“She’s sleeping, I think. So is David. We’ll be going to our room in a bit. I just wanted to be here in case you needed anything.”

“Thanks. I’m okay.” Trish thought her own voice sounded like a frog. Back in her room, she switched off the light and was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow.