“Uncle Slade is nobody in Medford, too. How likely is it that they’ll listen to him?”

“He’s made a name for himself. If he files a complaint, it’ll catch everyone’s attention.”

Erin looked down at the container that Uncle Slade had handed to her before he walked away. “What if she gets so wound up that she hurts herself?”

Wyatt planted a hand atop her head with a gentle touch. “Erin, look at me.”

His voice compelled her to lift her gaze. He smiled even though the gesture didn’t quite reach his eyes. “With horses, you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.”

Just then Domino ran up and bumped Wyatt’s leg with his nose. Wyatt released Erin and reached down to stroke the dog’s head. “Having an animal is a big responsibility. If you keep working with her, she’ll one day be one of your best and most trusted friends. To a point, anyway. Never . . .”

Erin interjected, “Let my guard down with a horse. I know. I’ve got it.”

He flashed a crooked grin. “Yep, I think you finally do.”

* * *

The next morning, Erin began training with Violet by tossing the bubblegum container over the fence at her feet. Violet shrieked and went totally berserk for at least five minutes and was lathered up by the time she calmed down. Erin waited until then to enter the paddock. She left the container lying on the ground, hoping that the mare would begin to accept that it was just a piece of plastic and couldn’t harm her.

As the morning progressed, Erin decided Uncle Slade was right. Violet was a wimpy name for such a spirited horse. Shrinking violets were timid creatures afraid of their own shadows. This mare had good reason to be fearful. She had been abused by a human, who was supposed to be a superior being. Instead he’d been the lowest of the low, beating on an animal and terrifying her until he’d almost ruined her.

When the mare finally decided to take a treat from her palm, Erin got up and moved in close to her shoulder. “From now on, I’m calling you Firecracker,” she whispered to the horse while she lightly rubbed her neck. “Firecrackers are a part of your history, and with your beautiful red coat and white markings, you need a name with some pizzazz.”

* * *

The following morning, Erin tucked a quirt into the waistband of her jeans before she entered Firecracker’s paddock. Erin wasn’t sure what the man might have used to beat Firecracker, but she guessed his weapon of choice would have been something he always had on hand, and Erin had watched enough movies to know that riders often used quirts. They were a shorter version of a whip. She’d never seen any man on the Wilder Ranch use a quirt, but after searching the tack room, she found one.

The mare snorted and huffed when she saw the riding whip. Then she ran to the opposite side of the paddock, stared at Erin, and stomped her feet. Wyatt had once told Erin she would learn the horse’s story from her behavior, and she felt pretty confident she’d just discovered what had been used to punish Firecracker. The quirt had a braided lash, which Erin doubted would cause an equine that much pain unless it was used viciously. Going on a hunch, she drew the quirt from her waistband, grabbed the braided section of leather, and swung the handle in a circular motion.