Golden Filly Collection Two (76 page)
Marge nodded. “Yes, it is.”
“Mom, I just got the strangest feeling. Would you pray with me for Kendall Highstreet?”
“Of course.” Marge blinked before leaning closer to the bed. “You’re ready for that?”
Trish nodded. “It’s like I have to.” They clasped hands together and let the silence of the room surround them. “Heavenly Father, please come into Highstreet’s life. Help him to know you as Lord and Savior.” She paused. “Your turn.”
Marge added some requests of her own and closed with, “Thank you for bringing Trish back to me.”
“I’m not afraid anymore. Everything looks different, brighter, shinier. Like you.…Did you know your face glows when you look at me?”
“Must be love, huh?” Marge wiped the tears from her cheeks.
“I think I got a miracle.” Trish’s voice contained the wonder that lit her face.
“Having you right here is miracle enough for me.” Marge laid her hand along Trish’s cheek. “Why don’t you sleep now so you can get better fast?”
“Wonder what I had to come back for?” Her eyelids fluttered on her cheekbones.
“I’m sure God will let you know—in time.” Marge raised Trish’s hand and held it against her cheek.
“He will, won’t He?” Trish smiled again and drifted off into the healing sleep her body needed.
To Wayne,
my best friend
and the love of my life.
We have plenty of adventures
yet to come.
W
hat about Firefly?
Trish Evanston sluggishly swam away from the nightmare and back to consciousness. But it wasn’t just a bad dream. The horriflying accident at the track had really happened.
“Trish, Tee, it’s okay.” The comforting sound of her mother’s voice brought Trish instantly and totally awake.
“No, it’s not. Have you been over to see Firefly?” Trish scrubbed the palms of her hands across her eyes and at the same moment ducked away from the pain. All the moving parts of her body were connected, in one way or another, to her broken ribs—and the incision to repair her punctured lung. The accident at the track hadn’t been kind to either her or the filly.
“I’ve got to get over to the vet’s to see her.”
“Not until the doctor agrees.” Marge folded her arms across her chest, a sure sign she didn’t plan on changing her mind.
Hospitals were not Trish’s favorite place to be, let alone hospital beds. Tricia Marie Evanston, as her mother called her when peeved beyond measure (which had happened with increasing frequency the last two days), begged the doctor for the third time to release her.
“Ah’m sorry, ma deah,” he repeated for the third time in his smooth southern drawl. “Y’all just need some more healin’ time here. Punctured lungs don’t heal overnight.”
By now Trish was fed up to her ears with soft-spoken southerners who smiled so winningly and did what they thought best anyway. All she wanted was out.
“But, Mother, what are they going to do about Firefly?” Trish clenched the blanket in her fists.
“They’re doing what they can.” Marge, slumped in the orange plastic chair beside the bed, studied her cuticles.
“How bad is it?”
Marge shook her head, obviously wishing she were anywhere but under Trish’s grilling. “Infection has set in; she’s not eating and drinking well. They’ve called in more equine specialists. Donald Shipson has been taking care of her so I could be here with you.”
“I know and I’m sorry to be such a grouch.” Trish ignored the pang of guilt. She tried to catch her mother’s gaze, but Marge refused.
She’s not telling me everything.
The thought clenched in her stomach. But rather than attacking, Trish continued her pleading. “But I’m fine now. Why won’t they let me out of here?”
“Maybe the doctor figures you’ll do something stupid.”
Trish attempted an innocent look and failed miserably. “Me? What could I do? I can hardly even walk down the hall without puffing.” She didn’t add,
and hurting.
The doctor had told her that ribs smashed like hers would be painful, but pain didn’t begin to cover it. She turned to stare out the window of her private room in Louisville Memorial Hospital. The Ohio River flowed serenely toward its distant rendezvous with the mighty Mississippi. “I’ve been cooped up in here nearly a week.”
“The first three days you were too sick to care, but who’s counting?”
Trish was. She couldn’t let go of the terriflying feeling. “Mother?” She chose her words with great care. “Please answer me honestly. What more do you know about Firefly?”
“Nothing, nothing at all. You’ll be able to see for yourself as soon as you’re well enough.”
Mother wouldn’t lie to me, would she?
“Mail call.” The bubbly day-nurse, Sue Morgan, interrupted their discussion. She hefted a shoe box full of letters and cards. “We’re weighing the mail now rather than counting. This one’s about two and a half pounds.”
“Good grief.” Marge and Trish just looked at each other and shook their heads.
“Where do you want this?” The nurse glanced around the room. Flowers and plants hid every inch of flat surface, and cards and posters covered half the walls. Balloons—square, round, and every color of the rainbow—bobbed in the air currents in the corner designated as “the balloon corral.”
Trish shrugged. “Over by the wall, I guess. How am I ever gonna answer all these cards?”
“Ask some of your friends to help you when you get home.” The nurse tossed a couple of extra-large envelopes—one hot pink, the other neon green—on the bed. “These didn’t fit in the box. Guess you can start there.” She headed for the door and turned to ask, “Can I get you anything? Ice, water, ice cream, tapioca, or chocolate pudding?” She ticked them off on her fingers, her eyes twinkling above cheeks always rounded by a grin. “A Diet Coke?”
“Oh, yes please. That sounds heavenly.”
“Which?”
“All of the above. If I keep eating like this I’ll be fat as a pig before they let me out of here.”
“We don’t intend to keep you forever, you know. Just seems like it.” She flashed Trish another grin, the kind that did good things for anyone in sight. “Marge, you want something too?”
“No thanks.” Marge checked her watch. “I should go back to the motel and get a shower.”
“Shower…that’s it. I get to wash my hair today. You promised.” Trish ran her fingers through hair that felt as grimy as a horse’s tail after a muddy race.
“I was hoping you’d forget. It doesn’t look so bad when you keep it braided like that.”
“Yeah right.” Trish’s look accused the young woman of lying through her teeth.
Sue leaned one hand against the doorjamb. “You feel up to bending over the sink? Doc says to keep that incision dry for a couple more days. Then we can plastic-tape you.”
“Anything. Red’s coming tonight.”
“So what’s new? I hear that good-lookin’ redhead shows up here every night.”
Trish raised her voice to talk over the nurse’s comment. “And I want to look human again.”
Sue winked at Marge. “Sure wish he’d come earlier so’s I could meet him. Or maybe he could bring a friend.”
“He’s up in the eighth today. Sorry.” Trish felt a grin sneak up from inside and blossom on her face. How come she could never think of or talk about this guy without a smile and the warm squigglies down in her middle that went along with it?
“Speaking of hair washing.” Marge fluffed the gray-streaked sides of her hair with her fingertips. “Mine could do with some attention, so I’ll let you two play beauty parlor while I do the same for me.”
“There’s a good beauty shop right around the corner if you like. I know getting my hair done makes me feel like a whole new woman.” Sue headed for the door. “I’ll call and make you an appointment right now.”
“That sounds wonderful.” Marge looked back to her daughter. “You’re sure you don’t need me?”
“Hey, I’m seventeen years old, remember? Time for me to stand on my own feet.” Trish made a gesture that took in the hospital bed and her body in it. “Or at least, as soon as they let me.”
“Good news.” Sue returned in a rush. “They can take you in fifteen minutes. Turn right out the front entrance and left at the corner. You’ll see it—emma Lou’s emporium—two doors down.” She handed Trish a cardboard container of orange and vanilla ice cream and set a can of Diet Coke next to a glass of ice. “Soon’s you finish this, we’ll get you to the bathroom.”
Marge dropped a kiss on the top of Trish’s head and made a face. “Yuk, you smell like…”
“Bye, Mom, and thanks a million. You really know how to make a sick daughter feel good.” Trish dug into the ice cream and licked her spoon. She waved as Marge left.
Her mom really did need some time off. Ever since the surgery, her mother had been there every time Trish had opened her eyes—even during the long nights when the pain outlasted the medication. Last night had been the first time Marge had slept somewhere other than in a foldout chair by Trish’s bedside.
Trish eyed the new box of mail waiting for her against the wall. So far there had been no cards or cutout notes from “The Jerk,” as they all called whoever had been harassing her. The police had taken the threats seriously enough to assign her a bodyguard. Officer Amy Jones had accompanied Trish from Runnin’ On Farm in Vancouver, Washington, and returned to Portland while Trish was still in intensive care.
Trish ate her ice cream on autopilot, her gaze focused on the box.
I should go over and see if there really are any envelopes with no return, a block-printed address, and a Portland cancellation.
I really should.
Instead she poured her drink into the glass and watched it foam. Just the thought of The Jerk brought back the dry throat and pounding heart she felt when she had opened the card that said “I’ll get you.” Letting that thought in was like opening a crate of snakes. Other thoughts slithered out.
What was happening with Firefly? What was her mother leaving out? Had they caught The Jerk yet? Who could it be? She poked the fears back in the box and slammed the lid.
Concentrate on the ice cream,
she told herself.
That’s safer.
She ate the remaining bites of ice cream before flipping back the covers and dangling her legs over the side of the bed. Maybe she should study for a while first. She glared at the stack of books on her bed stand. History, english, government. She shook her head. Later.
Once on her feet she crossed the room to the balloon corral and tapped the shocking pink one in front. That set all the others to bobbing. People she’d never heard of had sent her balloons, just to make her feel better.
One really pretty arrangement of pink rosebuds had arrived the day before—from Amy and Officer Parks. Trish sniffed the opening buds and reread the card. It didn’t mention if they’d heard from The Jerk either. It just said they were praying for her to get well quick.
Trish felt a warm glow around her heart. Amy admitted that seeing the Evanstons’ faith in action made her want the same. And now she wrote that she was praying for Trish.
Dad, you were right,
Trish thought.
It’s walkin’ the walk, not just talkin’ the talk, that brings people to Jesus.
Trish picked up a fluffy white teddy bear and cuddled it in both arms. “Hug this fellow and think of me,” its name tag said, signed “Red.” She rested her chin on top of the bear’s head and eyed the box on the floor. Where had all her guts gone—to be so spooked by a box of cards?
“Must have left them on the operating table,” she whispered into the bear’s ear. She took in as deep a breath as her ribs would allow without making her flinch, set the bear back down on the end of the bed, and squatted down to pick up the box.
“What are you doing down there?” Sue crossed the room to stand by Trish’s side.
“Going to look for ah—any…” Trish swallowed her words and changed directions. She rose to her feet, relief making her grin. “Can we do my hair now?” Why tell Sue about the messages she’d received? Maybe it was all over by now anyway.
