Books by
Lauraine Snelling
Golden Filly Collection One*
Golden Filly Collection Two*
Secret Refuge (3 in 1 )
DAKOTA TREASURES
Ruby • Pearl
Opal • Amethyst
DAUGHTERS OF BLESSING
A Promise for Ellie • Sophie’s Dilemma
A Touch of Grace • Rebecca’s Reward
HOME TO BLESSING
A Measure of Mercy
RED RIVER OF THE NORTH
An Untamed Land
A New Day Rising
A Land to Call Home
The Reaper’s Song
Tender Mercies
Blessing in Disguise
RETURN TO RED RIVER
A Dream to Follow • Believing the Dream
More Than a Dream
* 5 books in each volume
Golden Filly: Collection Two
Copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995
Lauraine Snelling
Previously published in five separate volumes:
Shadow Over San Mateo Copyright © 1993
Out of the Mist Copyright © 1993
Second Wind Copyright © 1994
Close Call Copyright © 1994
The Winner’s Circle Copyright © 1995
Cover design by Dan Pitts
Cover photography by Lauri Wade Higdon
Scripture quotations are from the New King James Version of the Bible. Copyright © 1979, 1980, 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
E-book edition created 2011
ISBN 978-1-4412-7026-9
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Contents
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
EDITOR’S NOTE
SHADOW OVER SAN MATEO BOOK SIX
Chapter 01
Chapter 02
Chapter 03
Chapter 04
Chapter 05
Chapter 06
Chapter 07
Chapter 08
Chapter 09
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
OUT OF THE MIST BOOK SEVEN
Chapter 01
Chapter 02
Chapter 03
Chapter 04
Chapter 05
Chapter 06
Chapter 07
Chapter 08
Chapter 09
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
SECOND WIND BOOK EIGHT
Chapter 01
Chapter 02
Chapter 03
Chapter 04
Chapter 05
Chapter 06
Chapter 07
Chapter 08
Chapter 09
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
CLOSE CALL BOOK NINE
Chapter 01
Chapter 02
Chapter 03
Chapter 04
Chapter 05
Chapter 06
Chapter 07
Chapter 08
Chapter 09
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
THE WINNER’S CIRCLE BOOK TEN
Chapter 01
Chapter 02
Chapter 03
Chapter 04
Chapter 05
Chapter 06
Chapter 07
Chapter 08
Chapter 09
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LAURAINE SNELLING is an award-winning author of over sixty books, fiction and nonfiction for adults and young adults. Her books have sold over two million copies. Besides writing books and articles, she teaches at writers’ conferences across the country. She and her husband, Wayne, have two grown sons, a basset named Chewy, and a cockatiel watch bird named Bidley. They make their home in California.
EDITOR’S NOTE
Originally published in the early 1990s, these books reflect the cultural and social aspects of that time. In order to maintain the integrity of the story, we opted not to impose today’s styles, technologies, laws, or other advancements upon the characters and events within. We believe the themes of love of God, love of family, and love of horses are timeless and can be enjoyed no matter the setting.
To Carolyne Mozel’s
fifth and sixth grade class of 1992-1993.
What a super bunch of kids—top readers,
excellent writers, and just plain fun.
Chapter
01
Just get through the ceremonies. Get through the ceremonies. Tricia Evanston hung on to her brother’s words as the waves of applause rolled from the stands and across the track infield. Trish and her Thoroughbred Spitfire had just won the famed Belmont Classic, the third diamond in the Triple Crown. Trish was the first woman jockey to win the honor.
But none of it mattered now. Not the trophies, not the applause, not the money. Unknown to her during the race, Trish’s father had died at the hospital just before the race of her life began. When she didn’t see him in the crowd, a nod from her brother confirmed her worst fears.
Just get through. Don’t think. Don’t feel. Get through.
Trish responded to the media as they clamored for her attention. She waved and smiled. And smiled some more. Her jaw felt like it would crack from the strain. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks.
She didn’t dare look at her brother, David, and just leaned on the arm he had clamped around her. Spitfire stood at attention, ears forward, as the syndicate owners lined the shallow brick risers behind them. The blanket of white carnations covered the horse’s withers and up onto his neck. When the cameras flashed again, he blew on Trish’s neck, then nudged David.
Patrick O’Hern, their trainer and friend, clenched Spitfire’s reins with one hand and Trish’s shoulder with the other. “Easy, lass,” he whispered.
Trish could hear him murmuring. She bit her lip until the sticky-sweet taste of blood nearly made her gag. Patrick’s voice had that same soothing song her father’s had; the song that calmed horses and riders—and now broke her heart.
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 su
pported 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.”