“How was he training the horses to high-step?” she asked.

“He would toss lighted firecrackers at their front feet. I couldn’t hear the explosives going off, but I saw them bouncing around and how it frightened the horse.” With a heavy feeling in his chest, Wyatt closed his eyes for a moment. “I think that’s what happened to Violet. I’m not saying the same man owned her, only that people like that are piss-poor horse trainers, and they’re mean to the core. The man I knew had no compunction at all about beating a horse, I can tell you that.”

“Did you turn him in after you quit the job?”

Wyatt nodded. “I filed a report with the police and the local humane society. I was told the man would be investigated. I have no idea what came of it.”

Erin shifted her tear-filled gaze to the horse. Her mouth started to quiver. “You think Violet had firecrackers thrown at her feet?”

Wyatt nodded.

“No wonder she’s traumatized. I could see how constantly touching her poll might get her over being afraid when someone reaches for her head. But firecrackers at her feet? How will I ever get her over that?”

Wyatt took a moment to answer. “Repetition,” he finally pushed out. “But before we settle on that idea, we need Slade’s input first.”

Erin immediately said, “No! You promised not to tell him.”

“No, Erin. I never promised that.”

“You’re wonderful with horses. Why do we need Uncle Slade involved in this?”

“Because he’s one of the best horsemen I’ve ever known. Because I trust his instincts and know what a kind heart he has. He won’t make you get rid of the horse. Once he hears about this, he’ll be pissed off on behalf of the horse, but otherwise, he’ll feel as bad for her as we do.”

* * *

Uncle Slade’s first reaction when Erin and Wyatt approached him about Violet was to say, “That rotten, no-good son of a bitch!”

Vickie came running from the kitchen, her curly hair clamped down over her head with a net. Her blue bib apron had flour and what looked like blood all over the front of it, but Erin suspected it was marinara, judging by the delicious aroma coming from the back of the house. “What on earth? Slade, why are you shouting profanities?”

Uncle Slade closed his eyes for a second. “Vickie, those are not profanities. They’re bywords. And I’m yelling because that man who sold me the mare was a rotten, abusive son of a bitch!”

When Vickie heard about the firecrackers, she went pale. “How horrible. I’ve heard of people doing that. Then, during a parade, they dropped fake bombs at the horses’ feet to make them prance. All they care about is the showmanship, the horse be damned.”

“Was he from Medford?” Wyatt asked.

Uncle Slade gave him a perplexed look. “How did you guess that?”

Wyatt’s jaw clenched. “Because I once worked for a man who raised parade horses. He was making big bucks off those horses. Over time, some of them get so used to it they don’t go crazy, or so I was told, but the more timid ones are ruined. Or at least that’s my opinion. I don’t believe in using fright tactics to train anything.”