Buchanan Books
PO Box 535
Tryon, NC 28782
Copyright © 2020 by Heidi Vanderbilt
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9995430-8-5 (paperback)
ISBN-13: 978-0-9995430-9-2 (ebook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019956591
Buchanan Books, Tryon, NC
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
DEDICATION
FOR MY SON
Jack Harris
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I’m grateful to the owners and trainers who opened their farms and barns to me.
Thanks to Pamela Reband, Pamela Uschuk and William Pitt Root, Dan B. Dobbs, Kate Christensen, Steve Cox, Liz LaFarge, Joan Weimer, Donley Watt, Linda Griffith, Cynthia Knox, Franci McMahon, Annina Lavee, G. Davis Jandrey, Cornelia and Mel Carlson, Barbara Atwood, Jose Arizpe, and Jane See White.
The art community of Rancho Linda Vista in Oracle, AZ gave me a space to write when I needed it.
Sue Day, Jessica Harrison, and Diane Samsel and Hans Picard fed me, advised me, and put me up for long periods in their guest rooms. We are still friends. I love them.
Thanks to Molly Fisk for her skills as a life coach and her fantastic laugh.
FOSH, Friends of Sound Horses, encouraged me early in the project. Readers looking for more information about soring can visit their website: www.fosh.info.
I am beyond grateful to Brad Buchanan, publisher of Buchanan Books, for his insights, attention to detail, kindness, and courage. He’s a dream to work with.
Special thanks to Bernard Fierro for being there.
To the late Pam Nelson: I wish you were still here.
I hope that I’ve thanked everyone who helped me with The Scar Rule. If I missed anyone, I’m sorry—and grateful for your help. All errors are mine alone.
PROLOGUE
FIFTY YEARS EARLIER
A YARD-WIDE SWATH of daffodils bloomed on each side of the circular driveway that led to the huge barn at Angel Hair Walkers, an hour south of Nashville, Tennessee. Driving in for the first time, Jared Frederick admired the welcoming effect of the windblown yellow flowers. He parked his truck at the open barn door and got out. A lanky man, hardly more than a boy, greeted him, hand extended.
“I’m Dale Thornton. This is my barn. Thanks for filling in for Sam.”
“No problem. He’s filled in for me a few times.”
“Have you shod performance Tennessee walkers before?”
“No, sir. But if they wear shoes, I can shoe them.”
Dale Thornton led the way into the barn, dark and chilly out of the sun. A child of about eight sat astride a saddle rack, pretending to ride.
“Charley,” Dale said. “This is Jared. He’s come to shoe Field Marshal.”
The kid ignored the introduction.
Jared saw horses looking out at him from their stalls. Only one stood in the aisle near the door. Cross ties were attached to each side of its halter. At first glance, the horse looked huge then Jared realized it was standing on massive, stacked shoes.
“Him,” Dale said, gesturing at the animal’s feet. “He only needs a trim and a reset.”
Jared nodded, understanding that Dale wanted him to remove the shoes, shorten and shape the hooves, then replace the old shoes rather than make new ones. It was common to alternate full shoeings with resets, and more economical than paying for a new set of shoes before needed.
He stepped in close to the horse’s shoulder and bent to pick up its foot. He looked at the shoe, the complicated layers of wedges, and the metal strap holding it on in addition to nails. He could get the job done. When he set the hoof down, before moving to the other foot, he felt his palm tingle then start to burn. He looked at it. The skin was reddening.
“Where are your gloves?” The speaker was a tall young woman wearing jodhpurs and boots. He hadn’t noticed her before.
“I don’t use gloves, ma’am,” Jared answered. He couldn’t keep his attention off his burning hand.
“Dale,” the woman said, “he’s bare-handed.”
“Sam didn’t tell you to bring gloves?”
“I brought them,” Jared said. “But he didn’t say why I should. I never use them when I work. God this hurts.”
“Eudora, get him some water.”
Cold water helped for a second, but the burning spread up his thumb and between his fingers. “I can’t stand it. I’ve got to leave and find a doc.”
Charley dismounted from the saddle rack and came over to look. “My dad says go to the hospital for chemical burns.”
“Chemical?” Jared asked.
“You should wear gloves,” the kid said.
“I’ll take you,” Eudora said. “I just need to get my handbag.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t wait.” His hand screaming in pain, he ran over a stretch of daffodils on his way out.
At the hospital, Jared’s hand was treated and bandaged, but for a long time, the pain wouldn’t quit. The burn left a scar he carried through his life.
PART I
CHAPTER 1
BILLIE SNOW SLID to the ground, her back against the wall of the horse show office building. She pressed her forehead against her bent knees, weary from waiting. Her neck itched with dried sweat and her teeth felt gritty. When she reached into her pocket for her cell phone, she found an envelope folded double. Her bank statement. She’d cry but she was all cried out.
At home on the ranch, she had nine horses to feed, land taxes due, the electric bill, and car and ranch insurance. Pet insurance, too, for her dog, Gulliver, in case he got kicked by a horse, hit by a truck, snakebit. She paid the monthly charge for the pet insurance, too scared of what could happen to him if she didn’t. If she was careful about spending, and if nothing went wrong with the ranch, her truck or the animals, there was just enough money to last to the end of the month. Then she’d need to buy more hay.
Billie had spent most of the day hanging flyers:
HORSES BOARDED — DEVOTED CARE
typed in large maroon letters over a photo of her gray gelding, Starship, standing in front of the
