Golden Filly Collection Two (94 page)

“Now I have to buy two dresses, and I don’t have time to go shopping for one.”

“Never fear, your friend is here. I’ll go shopping and bring home some for you to try on. I know your taste better than you do.”

“Shoes too?”

“And accessories. You want your diamond drops for the prom, madame?”

Trish chuckled at Rhonda’s idea of what a maid would sound like. “Thanks, buddy.”

“No problema. I’ll just get yours when I look for mine.”

After a red-eye flight east, accompanied by her mother, Trish slipped back into all the ceremony of Kentucky Derby week as if she belonged there. Having been through it all once made the second time around even more fun and exciting. If only she were riding one of her own horses rather than a colt for Adam Finley.

Red was riding for BlueMist.

With whirlwind speed, the weekend disappeared in a puff. Trish, on a filly for BlueMist, took a place in the Oaks, the filly race on Friday. She won with a mount for Adam earlier in the day.

“So, you think you can beat me?” Red rode beside her in the early morning mist at Churchill Downs. They were both walking their Derby entries to loosen them up.

“Of course. I did it once; I can do it again.”

“Nothing like confidence. Just think, another month and you’ll be graduating.”

“I’ll be free. I can’t wait.”

That afternoon they gave each other the thumbs-up sign when their horses were filing into the starting gates. Trish stroked Sunday Delight’s dark neck. While the BlueMist colt was considered the favorite, you never knew what would happen on the track. At least the sun was shining, not a downpour like the year before.

Trish jerked her thoughts back to the present. The handlers had just gated the last of the fourteen entries. Her position as number three was ideal. Red had drawn number twelve.

At the shot, the gates flew open.

Trish held her horse firm when he bobbled in the first steps. Adam had told her to hold him back, a few lengths off the pace, so he could handle the mile and a quarter. Coming out of the first turn, she and two others seemed to have the same idea. Two ran neck and neck about three lengths ahead.

Sunday ran easily, ears flicking forward and back, listening to Trish sing him around the track. Going into the turn, a rider came up on the inside and bore down on the leaders. The pace quickened. Out of the turn and into the stretch. The tall white posts with golden knobs gleamed ahead.

Trish loosened her reins. With a surge, Sunday drove for the leaders. On the outside, the horse they’d been pacing, BlueMist’s Rival, kept his place. Past the three who were slowing, having run themselves out too early, and down for the wire.

The horse beside her lengthened his stride. Trish went to the whip—one crack, as Adam had instructed her. Nose to nose. Whisker to whisker. “Come on, fella.” Trish sang her song. Under the line—a photo finish. Had Red’s horse stretched his nose out farther—been one step ahead—or had hers?

“Good race.” Red raised his whip and touched the visor of his helmet.

“You too.” Trish brought her mount back down to a canter and then a trot. Winning the Kentucky Derby two years in a row would be another kind of record, let alone being a woman winning it twice.

“We have the results.” The announcer’s voice sent a hush over the crowd. “And the winner of this year’s Kentucky Derby is BlueMist’s Rival, ridden by Red Holloran and…”

Trish could barely hear the rest over the screams of the crowd, but it didn’t matter. She blew Red a kiss and walked the colt over to where Adam and José waited for her.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Adam said before she could apologize. “I’ve never had one that close before, so this feels mighty good. Maybe you’ll take him at the Preakness.”

Trish leaped to the ground. “Thanks for asking me to ride for you. It sure feels good to be here.”

“There’s lots more to come, lass. Now that you’re finished for the year in Portland, bring your horses south and we’ll keep you busy.”

Trish watched the award ceremonies with a lump in her throat. That was Red up there, and if it couldn’t be her, he was certainly her next choice. The Shipsons looked like waving royalty.

By the time Trish said good-bye to Spitfire and Firefly and got on her plane the next morning, having spent the night celebrating with her friends, she was ready for the time-and-space warp back to Portland.

“You think we should leave Firefly there after all?” Marge asked after they had changed planes in Chicago.

“She sure looks good—hardly a limp at all—but when I asked about racing her again, Donald shook his head. He thinks she’ll be ready for breeding next winter. Now we have to decide on what stallion.”

“Patrick’s been mulling that around. So we leave her there?”

“Guess so.” Trish settled in for a sleep. “Tell them I don’t want any food.”

Rhonda had found one dress but not the other. “Don’t worry. I said I’d take care of it and I will. Your personal shopper will not fail you.”

Trish held the bodice of the glimmery gold dress up to her chest and swirled the black bouffant skirt. “Is this really me?”

“You can’t wear racing silks every day, you know.” Rhonda gathered Trish’s hair on top of her head. “A few curls, some extra makeup, and you’ll be a knockout. Doug Ramstead will positively drool when he sees you.”

“You sure?” Trish felt a thrill of excitement in her middle. This reminded her of their day shopping in California. Maybe this dance would be fun after all.

The next day Marge showed Trish an article in the paper. Kendall Highstreet had tried to commit suicide. “Pray for him.” Marge shook her head. “I wondered about him that day we saw him in court. Now that he’s facing prison, he must feel he has nothing left.”

“I will.”

On Wednesday, Taylor called. “Hope you’re looking forward to Friday as much as I am. I decided to rent a dinner jacket. How about that?”

Trish felt her heart ricochet off her ribs. And she didn’t even have a dress yet. Could she wear the prom dress for both dates? Wasn’t it too dressy for dinner? Why had she ever agreed to go out the night before anyway? Falling off a horse was easier any time. At least she’d been trained how to do that.

Trish heard the Corvette enter the driveway at the same moment Caesar started barking. His welcome woofs deepened to a warning.

Trish called the dog inside and scolded him, but let him out the sliding-glass door when Taylor knocked on the front door.

“Wow! Look at you.” Taylor handed Trish a box with three perfect creamy rosebuds in a corsage. “You’re more beautiful than I even imagined you’d be.”

Trish caught her breath at the sight of his dark good looks set off by the white dinner jacket. A red tie made his smile sparkle even more than usual. “Wow, yourself.” Her voice squeaked. “See you later, Mom.” Trish turned so Taylor could drape her cape around her shoulders. She ran a hand down the side of her black velvet sheath. If this was what a million dollars felt like, she’d dress up more often.

She slipped her hand in Taylor’s proffered arm on their walk to the car.

“That blasted dog.” Taylor’s tone said more than his words.

“What?” Trish followed his gaze. “Taylor, for goodness’ sake, he just peed on your tire. All male dogs do that. It washes right off.”

Taylor closed the door for her and stomped around the front end of the car. Although he closed his door gently, it felt as if he had slammed it.

A shiver ran up Trish’s arms, setting the fine hairs on end.
What’s his problem?
“I’ll wash it off when we get home if you like.”

Taylor sucked in a deep breath. Trish could see him order his face to smile, and then he turned to her. “That’s okay. I overreacted. Sorry.”

“Sure.” But Trish still wondered: his hands were shaking.

The Top of the Towers restaurant lived up to all the rumors Trish had heard. The piano playing through dinner, their table next to the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, Portland in her nighttime finery spread out at their feet, candlelight that deepened the dimple in Taylor’s cheek. He did know how to make her feel special, that’s for sure. Trish wiped her mouth with her napkin and laid the snowy square in her lap.

She looked up to catch Taylor staring at her, his eyes flat and vacant.

She looked away, shivering as if an icy draft had kissed the nape of her neck. What was wrong? But when she looked back, Taylor smiled, his eyes lit again with the warm look that thrilled her.
Silly,
she scolded herself.
It must have been the light.

“May I have this dance?” Taylor took her hand. “Or would you rather have dessert first?”

Trish looked up to where several couples swayed to the dreamy music.

Their waiter stopped at the table with a tray of goodies, most of which Trish had never seen before. “Can I tempt you with one of these tonight?” He went on to list them all, half of them made of chocolate in one delicious form or another.

Trish pointed to one called Chocolate Decadence. “I’ll take that one. Even the name sounds tempting.”

“What are you going to do this summer?” she asked when the silence seemed to stretch.

“Oh, probably work for my father again. He and my uncle—”

The waiter interrupted him by placing their desserts in front of them.

When Trish looked up after sampling her wedge of sinfully rich dessert, his eyes had that strange look again. She glanced at her watch. Ten-thirty. Where had the time gone?

“Taylor, I had no idea it was so late. I have to be at the track at five-thirty.” She took another bite of her dessert. It was so rich it made her teeth ache. “I’m so stuffed I can’t eat another bite.”

Taylor pushed his plate away, his dessert only half-eaten. He waved for their check and, as soon as it came, stuffed some bills into the dark leather folder. “Shall we go, then?”

“I—I’m sorry.” Trish suddenly felt like a little kid being reprimanded by an adult. It was his voice that did it. They walked out to the parking garage and waited for the valet to bring the Corvette around. Neither spoke a word.

“Thank you for a wonderful dinner.” Trish leaned back against the cushy seat while Taylor navigated the streets of downtown Portland.

He didn’t answer.

Trish looked at his profile, lit by the array of colors from the dash panel. A muscle jumped in his cheek. Was he so mad he was clenching his jaw? What had she done to make this happen?

They crossed the towering Fremont Bridge over the Willamette River and roared onto I-5. Trish couldn’t see the speedometer, but she knew he was driving way over the speed limit.

“Taylor, is something wrong?”

He shot her a look that made her skin crawl. With one finger, he flipped the electric door locks.

Where had her charming dinner companion disappeared to?

Trish bit the inside of her cheek. The commercial “Never let ’em see you sweat” jangled through her mind.

After crossing the I-5 bridge over the Columbia River, Taylor turned left into Vancouver instead of right onto Highway 14 heading home.

“Where are we going?”

“You thought you’d get away with it, didn’t you?” Venom dripped from his tone.

Trish closed her eyes.
What is going on?