Golden Filly Collection Two (69 page)

Trish nodded her thanks and gave the instructions to the caller. When she hung up, she reached for the phone book. “You sure make my life easier,” she told Amy. “You want to take on the job of big sister permanently?”

“Well, if I had my choice, I couldn’t find a better baby sister anywhere.” Amy gave Trish a quick one-arm hug.

Blurry eyes made it hard for Trish to decipher the phone number of the body shop. They’d be able to pick up her car, no problem, and a paint repair like that would take two weeks. Trish groaned. They’d call with the estimate as soon as they saw the damage. She hung up the phone, shaking her head. “Everything takes so long.”

“You don’t want them to rush a paint job like this. They gonna touch it up or repaint the entire vehicle?”

“They’ll let me know when they see it.” Trish shuddered at the memory. “I’m glad I don’t have to see it again before it’s finished.” Together they headed for the van and Rhonda’s house.

“Sorry, Trish, she’s not home yet,” Mrs. Seabolt answered when Trish stuck her head in the door. “Jason is taking her out to dinner and an early movie.”

“On Wednesday?”

“I know, there go the rules, but you kids are seniors now. Guess you should be able to make your own decisions—right?”

“Yeah, I guess. Ummm—don’t tell her I was here, okay?”

“Trish, is there a problem?” Tall and with hair several shades darker than Rhonda’s carrot top, Mrs. Seabolt studied Trish through emerald eyes of love. “Okay, my other daughter, what’s up?”

“Nothing much.” Trish couldn’t look her in the face. “I’ll get back to her later.” She turned and waved over her shoulder. “See ya.”

“Kinda reminds me of a stakeout,” Amy said when Jason’s car had finally left the Seabolt home a bit after nine. This was her and Trish’s third drive by. “As I said, I’ll wait out here.”

With her thumb cuticles chewed raw and her bottom lip feeling like it might begin to bleed any moment, Trish sucked in a life-giving breath when she mounted the stairs to the back door. All these years of running back and forth and nearly living at each other’s houses, here she was having a terrible time going in.

“Please, God,” she muttered the words she’d been praying all evening. “Please make Rhonda listen to me and forgive me. I can’t stand having her mad at me.” When she entered the Dutch blue kitchen, Mrs. Seabolt pointed upstairs. Trish heard Rhonda’s voice on the phone.

“Thanks, Mom. Tell her I’ll call later or she can call me when she gets home.”

Trish felt her heart leap right up into her throat. Rhonda had been trying to call
her
.

“This soon enough?” Trish stepped through the door into Rhonda’s teal and mauve room.

“Trish, I…”

Trish held up her hand, traffic-cop style. “Me first. I’ve been practicing all evening. Please forgive me for being such a downer and for my mean remarks about Jason. I’m really sorry.”

“No, it was my fault. I know all the terrible stuff that’s been going on. I shoulda been more understanding.”

The two friends collided midway between the bed and the door. Between hugs and giggles, along with a bit of cheek wiping, they made their forgiveness definite. They both flopped backward on the bed.

“Man, let’s don’t ever do this again.” Trish laid the back of her hand across her forehead. “I can’t take it.”

“Me neither.” Silence but for their breathing rested gently on them.

“How was the movie?” Trish elbowed Rhonda in the ribs.

“Funny.” Her voice settled into dreamy. “Trish, he’s such a neat guy—not a kid like all the boys we know.”

“Is he a good kisser?”

“Tricia Marie Evanston!” Rhonda picked up a pillow and bopped her friend in the face. “That’s none of your business.”

Trish rolled over on her stomach, feet in the air. “Well, is he?”

“How should I know? He’s the first guy I’ve really kissed.” Rhonda assumed the stomach position also and crammed the pillow under her chin. The silence draped comfortably around the room.

“So, what’s gone on today in the saga of Trish Evanston, girl jockey?”

“Well, we haven’t heard from what’s-his-name.”

“The Jerk!”

“But…” and Trish went on to tell Rhonda all about the phone calls. “So, Red and I’ll be on national television.” She finished her tale. “Awesome, huh?” She turned her head. “Oh my gosh, Amy’s out in the van.” She bounded to her feet. “What a creep I am!” The two girls pounded down the stairs to find Amy sitting in the kitchen sharing a cup of coffee with Mrs. Seabolt. “I forgot you.”

“No foolin’. But don’t worry, this bodyguard knows how to take care of herself. You ready to go home now?” She glanced at her watch. “It’s after ten.”

Once in the car, Amy asked, “How did it go?”

“She was calling
me
,” Trish laughed.

“Good. I like happy endings.”

Trish’s last thought before dropping into the canyon of sleep was about Red. She’d forgotten to call him in all the uproar.
Tomorrow,
she promised herself.
I’ll call him tomorrow.

But Thursday passed in such a blur, Trish managed to forget several things, including calling Red. With a win and two places at the track, she felt pretty good, and when there’d been no contact from The Jerk, she felt even better.

She groaned when she heard the clock strike nine. Kentucky was two hours ahead, so Red was already sound asleep. She’d be seeing him before she’d have a chance to talk with him.

“You got a minute?” Amy paused in the door of Trish’s bedroom.

“Sure.”

“Want to hear some good news?” Amy settled down on the bed. At Trish’s nod, she continued. “I talked with the chief.”

“And?” Trish prodded her to hurry.

“And I get to go!” Amy pummeled the pillow she’d nestled in her lap. “I’m going to Kentucky! And it’s on someone else’s dime.”

Trish applauded her friend’s excitement. “What does Kevin think about it?”

“My loving and extremely understanding fiancé says to have a great time. Says he’s pea green with jealousy, but I’m not to pay any attention to that, just go and take care of you.” Amy grinned at Trish, leaning back in her chair with her hands locked behind her head. The blonde nodded and her eyes grew dreamy. “He’s a pretty special guy, that man of mine.”

“I’m glad. Both ’cause you’re coming and ’cause he’s so special. When do I get to meet him?”

“Probably when you—we—get home.” Amy returned the pillow to its rightful place. “He’s still in L.A. teaching at the Academy. These long-distance relationships are the pits.”

“You’re telling me,” Trish agreed, thinking again of the phone call that never was.

Trish awoke feeling sure she’d run a hundred miles during the nightmare. Who was it that kept chasing her all night but managed to keep his face hidden? Or did he have a face? She lay in bed, trying to remember. You’d think by now she’d have recognized him anywhere, she’d looked over her shoulder so many times to see him about to grab her.

Just thinking about it set her heart to thundering again. She swung her feet to the floor and staggered down the hall. Feeling run over by a truck was getting to be a habit.

She jumped when her mother knocked on the door to remind her she’d better hurry. A car horn set her pulses to pounding. A slamming locker slammed her heart against her ribs. Even at the track, she kept wanting to look over her shoulder. She hurried from the women’s dressing room out to the saddling paddock. Today for sure she didn’t want to dwell on the sound of shots echoing in the cavernous building. But she’d heard them and she hadn’t forgotten the sound.

“What’s happenin’, lass?” Patrick laid a hand on her knee after giving her a boost into the saddle.

Trish stared down into his faded blue eyes, surrounded by the crinkles of a man used to the out-of-doors. “Just more of the same—nightmares—can’t forget what went on here.”

“Well, now, you concentrate on that filly ’neath you and the race ahead. Let Amy worry about lookin’ out for you. ’Tis her job, that’s what.” He patted her knee again. “And I’ll be prayin’ extra guardian angels round about you besides.” He winked at her. “And ye’ll be knowin’ nothing gets through them.”

“You’re right.” She stroked her hand down the filly’s bright sorrel shoulder. “Come on, girl. Let’s just give it the best we’ve got.” When they trotted out beside the pony rider, Trish lifted her face to the breeze coming off the river. On around the track, she could see the sliding sun painting the cloud strata with a lavish brush of reds and oranges, tinged with purple and gold. The filly snorted and tossed her head, setting her mane to bouncing and Trish to chuckling.

“You’re ready, you are.” Her voice took on its cadence of comfort, gentling both herself and the filly she rode.

Since she’d come in fifth in the last race, Trish settled into the saddle, determined to win. The filly she rode had missed a win by only a nose her first time out, so winning wasn’t a pipe dream. “Please, God, take good care of us.” Her murmured prayer fit into the song she’d been crooning up till then.

The filly burst out of the gate and hit her stride as if she’d been running for years. Trish let two duelers take the lead coming out of the first turn and hung off the pace only a length. Down the backstretch she held her place, the filly seeming content to obey her rider. With two furlongs to go, Trish loosened the reins and commanded the filly to fly.

With powerful strides she did just that. They blew by the remaining leader as if the horse had quit, still picking up speed when they crossed the finish line.

“And that’s number three, Money Ahead, owned by John Anderson and ridden by Trish Evanston, winner by two lengths.” The announcement crackled over the speaker.

“Way to go.” Genie Stokes cantered beside Trish as they rounded the turn back to the grandstand. “You have any idea she’d be that fast?”

“No, Anderson raced her in Minnesota because we weren’t sure about opening here. Patrick took over a month ago.” Trish brought her down to a trot. “She sure can run.”

“Told you to just concentrate.” Patrick beamed up at her when he took the rein to lead them into the winner’s circle.

“Did you think she’d be that fast?” Trish leaned forward to speak for Patrick’s ears only.

“I’d hoped so. John seems pretty set on her.”

“Excellent ride, Trish.” Anderson greeted her with a broad grin. “Pretty nice, isn’t she?” He rubbed the filly’s nose. “And look, I don’t have to worry about being bitten.”

They posed for the picture and Trish leaped lightly to the ground. “Not like our friend Gatesby, huh?”

“Friend, right.” Anderson shook hands with a fan. “Thanks, yes, we’re thinking of running her at a mile.” He turned back to Trish. “If there were only some way of breaking that monster.”

“We tried. Gatesby just thinks it’s a game and he likes to win.” Trish stepped back off the scale. “You bought yourself a winner there. See ya.” She headed back toward the women’s jockey room, Amy falling in beside her.

“Trish, could you sign my program?” The question came from both sides of the walk. Trish smiled, joked with her fans, and signed programs. She turned to leave when a deep voice drew her back.

“How about signing my program?”

Trish looked up into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. Smiling, fringed with sooty black lashes, the kind of eyes girls die for and guys get—total unfairness in the distribution of features. His smile bordered on the punch-in-the-solar-plexus type.

“Sh-sure.” Trish caught her lip between her teeth. Since when did smiles become so contagious? “There you go. Thanks for coming today.”

“Oh, you’ll see me again; you can count on it.”

Trish felt a little shiver at his words. Who was he?