Golden Filly Collection Two (79 page)

Kim hung another bottle on the IV hook before leaving for the night. “I’ll see you in the morning. John is on night duty this week, so if you need anything, he’s the one who’ll respond. Red Holloran called and said he’d be here about seven. Wish I could stay—he’s about my favorite jockey—but I have class tonight.” She looked around at the collection of bedding, the chairs, and the card table where Trish could study and eat. At the moment Trish was encouraging Firefly to drink some more from the shallow basin.

“Thanks for all your help.” Trish looked over her shoulder and smiled. “You gotta admit this hasn’t been your usual case.”

“Well, if you can just get her to pee, we’ll all celebrate. She’s got a good chance then—if we can clear up the infection and keep her away from pneumonia, that is.”

By the time Red and Marge left that night, Trish felt like collapsing on the bed that was now ready for her weary body. Instead she held out the water pan one more time. “Come on, girl, you gotta drink. Patrick says we’re doing all we can. Healthy horses need gallons of water a day, you know. And you’re running a fever, so you need even more. How will you ever get to go home if you don’t drink?”

But Firefly just turned her head, her eyes drooping shut.

Trish crawled between the sheets on the makeshift bed. Things certainly weren’t going according to plan—her plan anyway. She watched the filly dozing in the dim light. “Please, God,” she whispered, “you’re the only one who can help her now. I don’t know how many prayers you get to help a horse pee, but that’s what we need most right now—that and making her all well again. That infection is really bad. My dad said you care about everything that concerns us, and this sure scares me.” The filly snorted and coughed, a dry hacking sound that made Trish’s throat hurt just listening. “Thanks for listening and for making me better too. Amen.”

She knew she’d hear every sound the filly made. It looked to be a long night ahead. About midnight, she gingerly sat up, her muscles warning her she’d had better ideas in her life. Moving slowly and stretching with great care, she scooted the stool back beside Firefly and, after filling the basin from the Thermos, she held it up for the filly to drink.

“Good girl.” Trish set the nearly empty basin on the floor and rubbed the filly’s ears. “You did great.” Firefly rested her muzzle on Trish’s knees and let her eyes close.

“You two all right?” John Adams, with skin as black as his lab coat shone white, crossed from the door on silent feet. He moved with the easy presence of one used to calming sick animals, and he spoke in the same soothing tone Trish’s father had taught her to use.

Firefly didn’t even open her eyes, just flicked one ear.

“She drank about a quart that time. That’s the most so far.”

“Ah’m glad for you, little lady. She wouldn’t drink anything for me.” He put his stethoscope in his ears and applied the round end to the filly’s ribs and chest. “Thank God her lungs are still clear. That’s a miracle in itself.” He stroked the rough hair under the horse’s limp mane. “She’s gone through a lot. Last night I wouldn’ta given her half a chance, but now?” He shrugged. “Who knows? You call out if you need anything. The monitors are always on.”

Trish crawled back in bed after he left the room. Part of her prayer was being answered. “Thanks, God. Please keep it up.”

The sound of splattering water woke her the next time. John burst through the door as Trish catapulted from her bed. “She’s peeing! Firefly, you beautiful doll, you. You peed!” Trish ignored the complaining from her rib cage and wrapped both arms around the horse’s neck.

“Thank God for big blessings,” John murmured while he checked the filly again. “Looks like her kidneys are back in production and we’re on the right track. Hallelujah.” He poured water in the basin and pointed to the stool so Trish could sit and hold it. Firefly drained it, then drank another half. When she raised her head, she snorted drops of water all over Trish.

“Yeah, I know I need a shower, but that wasn’t the kind I had in mind.” Trish handed the basin back to John and rubbed the star on Firefly’s forehead. “Keep up the good work, girl, and we might get home before Christmas yet.”

Everyone came by to cheer them on as the good news passed from person to person when they came to work in the morning. Firefly was on the mend. No one even mentioned the idea of her worsening again.

Trish fought back a lump in her throat at the caring the staff exhibited for both her and the filly. If any of her horses ever again needed surgery, she knew where she’d want it to be done.

Three days later Firefly’s temperature was near normal, and she was eating and drinking as if to make up for lost time.

“I think you can take some time off now, Trish,” Dr. Grant said on his late-afternoon check. “She’s much calmer.”

“I sure could do with a shower.…”

“I know—and wash your hair. I have a fifteen-year-old daughter at home. Our water bill doubled when she discovered showers and clean hair.”

“Yeah, my dad said he was grateful we had well water when David and I turned teenagers.” Trish continued stroking her filly. Firefly especially loved rubs all around her ears.

Kim took over the rubbing duty when Trish eased out the door. The filly snorted once and then leaned into Trish’s substitute. Trish breathed a sigh of relief. She’d begun to feel as if she were being held captive—by a sick horse no less. One good thing—she’d gotten all her homework caught up, even the latest assignments her teachers had mailed.

Two days later, after a checkup with the surgeon, she and her mother drove east on the highway to Lexington and BlueMist Farms.

“Now, I hope you don’t plan on riding Spitfire while we’re there.” Marge broke into Trish’s half doze.

“Umm…ah…” What could Trish say? She’d just been dreaming about cantering Spitfire around the tree-rimmed track at BlueMist.

“You know what the doctor said.”

“Umpfm.” So much for being a heroine who saved her dying horse. Now she was back to being Trish, daughter of a mother who thought all doctors’ orders were just that—orders. Trish liked to consider them more in the line of suggestions—to be followed if convenient.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Spitfire’ll think I don’t love him anymore.”

“Right.”

Trish gazed out at the fields criss-crossed by black board fences. On the crest of the rise, a horse barn with three cupolas stood silhouetted against the blue sky.
What would it be like to own a farm here?
she thought.
Such a difference between my part of the country and this.
She closed her eyes to see Spitfire in one of the paddocks, one owned by her. Then she could ride whenever she wanted to—and see the great black colt every day.

“Just visiting is the pits.”

“Sorry. Maybe you can come back over Christmas break.” Marge eased up on the accelerator for the turn into BlueMist. “I know one thing, I need to get home. Bookwork is piling up, and leaving Patrick with all the work just isn’t fair.”

“I know.” Trish dropped her pity cloak as if it were on fire. “But I can’t leave until we get Firefly to BlueMist.”

Now it was Marge’s turn to agree. “I’ll call for a flight—on the condition that you do what the doctor said.”

Trish slapped down the thought that leaped into her mind. Yes, she’d act like a responsible grown-up and mind the doctor—no matter how much it hurt. But oh, to sneak off and ride just for a few minutes. To feel her horse surging beneath her, hear his snorts as he fought the bit, wanting to run full out as badly or worse than she did, the clean smell of fall overlaid with sweaty horse—that was what she wanted.

And what she couldn’t have. She loosened her seat belt before the car had come to a full stop in the parking lot by the stallion barn. At the same moment as she opened the car door, her three-toned whistle lifted into the breeze.

A hesitant whinny, as if Spitfire didn’t really believe he heard right, answered her. Trish whistled again. This time the colt whistled back, a full-throated stallion’s call. He neighed again, the sound lifting and winging its way to Trish, a joyous song of welcome.

Trish took two steps into a trot and thought the better of it. Even whistling hurt her insides—along with the outside.

“Welcome back, lass.” Timmy O’Ryan, Spitfire’s personal groom and handler, held the door open for her with one hand, tipping his porkpie hat in greeting with the other. “Himself isn’t being very patient, but I’m sure that’s no surprise to ye.”

“Thanks, Timmy, I couldn’t wait to see him either.” Trish crossed the wide-planked floor in a rush. “Hey, fella, it hasn’t been that long since I saw you.”

Spitfire leaned against the blue web gate, stretching his neck and muzzle out as far as possible to reach her. His nostrils quivered in a soundless nicker, his ears nearly touching at the tips.

Trish brushed his long, thick forelock to the side before wrapping both arms around his neck. Then she turned and let him drape his head over her shoulder, his favorite pose in all the world. Who knew which of their sighs was greater, or more heartfelt? Trish felt them both clear down to the tips of her tennies.

“Missed me, did you?” Her question right in his ear made his ear twitch. He tipped his head a bit so she could scritch up around his ears more easily.

“Now if that isn’t a familiar picture.” Marge crossed the room, her heels tapping against the wood. She glanced down the aisle to the other stallions, all with their heads hanging out of their stalls, watching the proceedings. “I’m surprised you haven’t charmed the rest of them by now.”

“Give her another day,” Timmy said under his breath.

Trish looked at him and grinned. She’d made great strides in getting acquainted with the other studs the last time she was at BlueMist.

“I’m going on up to the house now,” Marge said. “Why don’t you call when you need a ride, but don’t be too long. I’m sure dinner will be ready soon.”

“Supper, you mean. Remember, we’re in the Midwest now.” Trish teased her mother, all the while continuing her stroking of the great black colt.

“I’ll bring her up. I have to talk to Donald anyway.” Timmy returned from the refrigerator with a handful of carrot pieces and gave them to Trish. “We shouldn’t be much longer.”

“See you later, then.” Marge headed back for the door.

“Tell Patrick hi for me if you call him before I get there.” Trish kept one carrot piece closed tightly in her fist so Spitfire had to plead for it. Instead of licking her hand, though, he nibbled with his teeth. “Ouch! You be careful.”

“Don’t tease him, then.” Marge left on those words of wisdom.

“Here, lass.” Timmy brought a blue canvas director’s chair and set it beside her. “I been through smashed ribs enough times to know that you’re still hurtin’. You sit here and let that big lug hold his own head up.”

With a sigh of relief, Trish did as he suggested. She couldn’t have stood much longer, and yet she didn’t want her mother to know how badly it hurt or how tired she really was.

“I want you to know, lass, that the Shipsons, me, and some of the others have been praying for you all along. Ye cut ten years off my life, ye did, when you and the filly took that fall. I been there. I know what it’s like. I thank my God every day that ye’re up and about again.” He leaned forward in the chair he’d set down beside Trish’s. “Seein’ ye here like this…”

Trish felt the tears well up and burn at the back of her eyes.
How good everyone is to me! How can I ever thank them enough?
She swallowed and leaned her cheek against Spitfire’s forehead. “Thank you.” The words seemed so inadequate.

“Well, we better get a move on or ye’ll have me blubberin’ like a baby.” He rose to his feet and put his chair away. “And if I don’t get you up there, Sarah’ll have my hide for sure.”

Trish gave Spitfire a last hug and pushed his nose away so she could get up. “I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” Spitfire lipped her cheek, tickling her with his whiskery upper lip. “Oh, gosh, fella, it’s so good to see you.” She buried her face in his mane one last time before heading for the door.

When she looked back, Spitfire stood with his head up, looking every inch the champion he was. His nicker carried after her out the door.

The fragrance of burning leaves overlaid the clean aroma of fall as the truck wound up the incline to the house set on the hill. Trish caught her breath as she always did when the four white pillars gracing the front of the colonial mansion came into view. Stately trees lined the drive and a monstrous magnolia shaded a round bed of rust and gold chrysanthemums. To the right, wicker furniture invited all who entered to come “set a spell.”

If she closed her eyes for even an instant, she could picture women in wide hooped skirts and parasols walking to and fro, laughing and chatting, just like in
Gone With the Wind.
She paused in the portico long enough to look up at the beveled glass and brass hanging light. Surely at one time those flame bulbs had been candles.

Timmy held the heavy walnut door open for her and signaled that she should enter before him. His actions made her feel just the tiniest like a young woman from long ago. She followed the voices she could hear coming from Donald Shipson’s office, off to the right.