Golden Filly Collection One by Lauraine Snelling Page A

stable!”
    “Tricia Evanston!”
    “I don’t care. Anyplace is better than here.” Trish glared through her tears at her mother, then stomped down the hall. The slam of her door echoed through the house.
    With a grunt she pulled off her boots and heaved them one after the other against the closet door. The tears blinded her eyes and caught in her throat. If only kicking and screaming would help.
    I hate her! her mind screamed. She threw herself across the bed and sobbed. And I know she hates me. After all I did tonight to help, and she just rips into me. Those horses are our business—Dad’s and mine. The tears raised blotches on her face and soaked circles on her bed. I’d be better off at the track. Maybe she’d be happier if I weren’t here. But where would I go? She tossed her head from side to side, as if to drum out the furious thoughts. I hate her. I hate her.
    Her mind went numb. The word hate echoed in the dark corridors of her brain. Hate. I hate crying. I hate fighting. Oh, God, why are things so messed up? I need my dad! You say you love us, but Dad’s so sick, Mom’s yelling at me…. None of this feels like love.
    She gulped down another sob. With one hand she fumbled for a tissue on the nightstand. Tears and nose-blowing soaked that one and the next.
    “Trish.” David knocked softly on her door.
    “What.”
    “Can I come in?”
    “Oh, why not?” She sat up on the edge of the bed, blew her nose again, and mopped her eyes.
    “Don’t ask me to apologize.” She hunched her shoulders, her face hidden in her hands. “Not this time. She started it.” Trish could feel the tears clogging her throat again.
    David sat beside her on the bed. “Yeah, I know.” He rested his elbows on his knees. “But, Tee, things have been awfully rough on her today.”
    “Sure. And my day’s been wonderful? Why’d she have to take it out on me?”
    “She really felt we all needed to be together as a family, to give Dad all of our support.” He handed her another tissue.
    “Somebody had to be here, to keep things going.”
    “That’s true. But if you’d gone in for just a little while—”
    “I can’t go in there.” Trish buried her whisper in her fingers.
    “What do you mean, you can’t go in there?” David leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees.
    “I can’t. That’s what I mean.” She fell back on the bed, the back of her hand hiding her eyes.
    David stared at her, confusion wrinkling his brow. “Well, if you don’t make any more sense than that, how can you expect Mom or anyone else to understand?”
    “I don’t know.” Trish’s voice sounded like it came from the closet, far away. “All I know is that I just can’t go in there.” The silence stretched.
    “And I hate fighting.” She sniffed. “I always feel so guilty afterward, like everything in the whole world is all my fault.”
    “Then go say you’re sorry.”
    “I hate that most of all.” She hiccupped. “Besides, this time it was not my fault.”
    “Tee.”
    “Well…” She could feel the thoughts whipping around her brain like a gerbil on a wheel. A knock at the door brought the wheel to an abrupt stop.
    “Trish.” Her mother’s voice came softly through the door.
    “Yeah.”
    “Can I come in?”
    “I guess.”
    David squeezed her hand.
    “Trish—” Marge joined her children on the edge of the bed, three sets of jean-clad knees pressed together. “Please forgive me for unloading on you like that. It was totally inexcusable.” She shook her head. “I know you had a terrible day too.”
    Wordlessly Trish nodded, tears brimming in her green eyes again.
    When she could look at her mother, she saw tears that matched her own.
    “I’m sorry too,” she whispered. “I hate fighting.”
    Marge wrapped both arms around her daughter and held her close.
    “Oh, Trish. I love you so.”
    Trish felt the steady thumping of her mother’s heart. She nestled closer, feeling safe within those protecting