Kat
The rhythmic sound of hooves striking the soft earth in the training arena accompanies my instructions. “Sit back in your saddle, Eliza.”
I scrutinize the young rider post atop Bentley, one of Blackburn Farm’s lesson horses. The morning sun filters through the open doors at the south end, throwing slivers of dappled light across the ground. Bentley tosses his head, ears pinned back as they approach, and he tries to decide how menacing those splotches of pale color may be. Saddlebreds are spirited horses and some even consider them a little crazy. Bentley’s a good boy, but sometimes he gets easily spooked.
Which is what he does, skittering sideways to avoid the light and throwing Eliza slightly off balance.
The sudden motion from the big bay scares the young girl and she leans her body forward, a counterintuitive move that actually makes her less stable in the flat English saddle.
“You’re fine,” I say, my tone a mixture of discipline and calm instruction that horse training demands. “Get him back in a trot.”
The girl straightens.
“Trot,” she commands, and Bentley falls in line, his big head held high as he slips back into the cadence of alternately lifting each diagonal pair of legs. Eliza rises and falls in the saddle appropriately, bringing the gelding back under her command.
I stand in the center of the arena, my keen eyes observing every movement—the way she holds her hands, her posture, heels down and toes up—as Eliza guides Bentley around the edge, sticking close to the rail as she should.
“Good. Now bring him to a walk and two point,” I say.
“Whoa,” Eliza says with a slight pull on the reins and the horse slows. They plod along as Eliza stretches out of the saddle, legs straightening, body bent forward.
“One trip around and then you can bring him to his stall. Excellent ride.”
Eliza grins because that’s indeed high praise from me.
I start across the arena, intent on grabbing my water bottle. Eliza was my last lesson of the day and I’m looking forward to a long, hot shower. I haven’t had a break yet except for a quick pee, and I’m starved.
My phone buzzes in the side pocket of my riding jods and I pull it out. It’s Ethan, asking me to come up to his office at the main house. Such a request would ordinarily annoy me at the end of long hours in the barn, but I’ve got an extra well of compassion for my oldest brother these days. He’s been through so much lately that I’ll be cutting him lots of slack for the foreseeable future.
“I’m heading up to the main house,” I call out to Sara, one of the grooms waiting to help Eliza remove Bentley’s tack.
“Got it all covered, Kat,” she replies with a wave of her hand.
Outside of the training arena, I tip my face back to the May Kentucky sun and relish the late-afternoon warmth. The light hitting towering oaks casts long shadows across the verdant pastures, highlighting the vibrant greens of spring. The air is filled with the sweet scent of blooming wildflowers, freshly cut grass and bales of hay to feed the horses. It’s the smell of my favorite time of the year and I relish this quiet moment of solace in the bustling life of Blackburn Farms.
I’ve been at the barn since six this morning, working on lesson plans and making sure the schedule of horses was ready. It’s been a ten-hour day, which I’ll repeat tomorrow, and I’ll go to bed with a smile on my face because I’m doing what I love. Being a horse trainer is in my blood—I’m a Blackburn, after all—and our lineage has been producing and training the best saddlebreds in the world for over a hundred and seventy-five years, give or take a decade. This is what I was born to do.
My gaze sweeps over the rolling hills of our acreage, bordered by white rail fencing and dotted with grazing horses. In the distance, I can see the broodmare barn where Ethan has been burning the candle at both ends. This is his time of year… helping to bring into the world all the babies our breeding program produces, but that responsibility is just one of a million he has as the CEO of Blackburn Farms.
To add to his load, within the last six weeks, he learned he has a ten-year-old daughter he didn’t know about—the product of a drunken one-night stand with Alaine Mardraggon—enemy to our family by virtue of her last name. Sylvie was born and raised in France and Ethan only found out about her after her mother Alaine died of cancer. Since then, it’s been a bitter struggle with the Mardraggons over Sylvie’s custody.
It culminated in an ending none of us saw coming when Lionel Mardraggon, Sylvie’s grandfather, tried to kill her so he could assume control of the winery in France that Alaine left to her daughter. The thought of what that monster nearly did causes fury to well in me so hotly, I know I have the capacity to murder in defense of those I love. If Lionel Mardraggon were standing in front of me right now, I’d rip him apart with my bare hands. He’s a monster through and through.
As it stands, he’s in jail, charged with attempted murder, and I’m going to have to let the justice system do its thing.
So, yeah… Ethan’s been dealing with a lot and I’m happy to go up to the main house to see what he needs. I jump onto my Gator that I had custom painted in pink camo, a nod to my femininity that often gets overshadowed since I’m usually covered in horse hair and barn dust. I crank the motor and head off toward the main house, over a series of dirt and gravel paths that traverse the thousand acres of pastures, barns, training arenas and medical facilities that make up the Blackburn Farms enterprise.
Hundreds of horses and an army of grooms, stable hands, veterinarians, trainers, instructors and administrative staff, and Ethan is in charge of running it all. It’s a task he took on when our parents, Fi and Tommy Blackburn, decided it was time to retire and hand over the literal and metaphorical reins.
I see my brother Trey at one of the yearling barns, directing a tractor trailer loaded with hay. He and my other brother Wade are also trainers, but we pitch in to help wherever we’re needed. I expect Ethan asked Trey to oversee the deliveries today as he’s got his hands full dealing with this Lionel Mardraggon mess and the fallout it has caused for our family, but most of all, for Sylvie.
The main house comes into view, a symbol of homecoming to me. I was raised here, although I currently live in an apartment above one of the tack rooms. My need for independence at the age of nineteen meant I left the big house eight years ago, although I still return for meals throughout the week. Only Ethan and Sylvie live there now. My parents occupy a cottage on the farm, and Trey and Wade share a house in Shelbyville.
I pull my Gator alongside Miranda’s MINI Cooper. She’s been our housekeeper and cook for over twenty years and, as expected, I find her in the kitchen working on this evening’s meal. She’s breading pork chops and my stomach rumbles because that’s one of my favorite meals. She glances up as I walk in and gives me a pointed glare. “Boots off.”
Grinning sheepishly, I unlace my boots and toe them off, grabbing an apple out of the basket on the counter as I walk by. “What else are we having tonight?”
“Green beans, roasted potatoes and creamed corn,” she replies as she coats a chop in a seasoned blend of breadcrumbs and flour.
“Biscuits?”
“Sourdough rolls. I’m trying a new recipe.”
I shoot her a wink. “It will be fabulous. Can’t wait.”
Taking a bite of the crisp red apple, I make my way out of the kitchen, down the hall to the parqueted main foyer, and right into Ethan’s office. A portrait of our great-great-great-grandfather, Robert Blackburn, hangs behind the solid oak desk. He’s the patriarch who built this house in 1902.
The office is a stark contrast to the barn—orderly, quiet, a place of decision and contemplation. Ethan looks as at home bent over paperwork as he does helping to deliver a breech foal. He’s a man who can do it all and has my utmost respect on top of my undying love.
He looks up as I enter, his green eyes dulled with frustration, but he still manages a smile. “How was your day?”
I plop down in a chair opposite his desk. “Typical. Sixteen lessons. How was yours? You know, between managing an empire, birthing foals, dealing with a homicidal Mardraggon, and raising the cutest little girl east of the Mississippi.”
Ethan’s shoulders relax as he laughs, a rare moment of lightness breaking through his usual stoicism. “You mean the cutest little girl in the United States.”
“Can’t say,” I reply, considering another bite of my apple. “I haven’t been west of the Mississippi.”
“Well, I have and it’s time wasted,” he mutters, pushing aside a stack of papers he’d been reading.
“You look tired,” I say, a casual observation and not one meant as a put-down. I take a small bite of the apple.
Ethan rubs a hand over his stubbled jaw, his fingers lingering as if trying to soothe the weariness. He exhales slowly, the weight of countless restless nights reflected in his eyes. “Sleep hasn’t been easy,” he admits as he leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his movement.
“How’s the kiddo today?”
“She’s good.” I note that Ethan’s voice doesn’t sound strained, which means he’s telling me the truth. “She’s at Marcie’s now.”
Marcie is Sylvie’s school principal, but more importantly, Ethan’s girlfriend. I expect she’ll be more than that one day, but she’s been a godsend the last few weeks. Not only did she single-handedly help bridge the gap between Sylvie and our family—due to all the lies the Mardraggons had been feeding her—but Marcie has managed to bring out a softer side to my brother that I haven’t seen before. Even with the weight of the world on his shoulders, for the first time I can recall, he’s actually incredibly happy—despite the shit show going on in his life.
Guess love works a miracle now and then.
“Listen,” Ethan says tentatively and picks up a spiral notebook. “I hate to ask this of you, but I was wondering if you might take over managing the medical on all the horses. Being in the middle of foaling season and then dealing with all this Lionel mess, and trying to figure out the winery business—”
“Say no more.” I lean across the desk and grab the notebook from him. “I’ve got it covered. What else can I do?”
“I don’t know.” He huffs, waving his hands at the stacks of papers strewn across the desktop. “I’m trying to parcel stuff out as I come across it.”
I take in the tight lines on Ethan’s handsome face. He has the same black hair and green eyes as I do.
Same as Trey, Wade, and my twin, Abby, all of us siblings bearing such a striking resemblance, no one had a doubt that Sylvie was Ethan’s daughter when she showed up in court that day bearing the same raven hair and ferny eyes as ours.
“What’s your biggest source of frustration?” I ask, setting the notebook aside and chomping on my apple again. I chew quickly and swallow just as fast to keep the conversation flowing.
“This fucking trust that Alaine left,” he grumbles.
“That says you have to manage the winery with Gabe,” I lament.
Ethan nods with a mirthless smile. “It galled me before, having to work with the scumbag, but now it makes my skin crawl knowing…”
His words trail off, but I can fill them in. Knowing that Gabe’s father, Lionel, tried to kill Sylvie.
I shouldn’t have to point it out, and I hate doing it because I can’t stand Gabe Mardraggon either, yet I find myself saying, “But he is the one who turned his father into the police. We’d have never known what happened without him.”
“Yeah, I know, and I hate to give the bastard credit, but it still doesn’t mean I have to like working with him.”
I’d hate to work with the asshole too, but that doesn’t stop me from saying, “Let me handle all the winery stuff with Gabe.”
Ethan snorts, leaning forward in his chair. “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.” He seems pensive, then laughs at an internal joke. “Although I bet Wade and Trey would kill to have the opportunity to go after him.”
“They’d kill him and then rot in jail with Lionel,” I drawl. I consider another bite of my apple, but toss it into Ethan’s garbage can at the side of his desk. “I’m serious. I’ll handle Gabe Mardraggon. I’d kind of relish being a thorn in his side.”
Ethan blinks as if he’s just hearing my offer for the first time. “What? No! I couldn’t ask you to do that. I can’t stand to be in the same room with him, so I’m not about to put my baby sister in that position.”
I glare at my brother. “I might be your baby sister, but I’m a capable woman, tough as nails and not about to let some snot-nosed Mardraggon cause havoc for our family. I can handle this for you.”
Ethan’s face is inscrutable, his thoughts a mystery as he strokes his chin. “You don’t know anything about running a winery.”
“Neither do you,” I point out. “But at the very least, I can be the go-between. Let me be the one to liaise with Gabe and I’ll pass information back and forth for you to make decisions. I can totally handle that jerk.”
“No doubt you can,” Ethan muses but still doesn’t accept my offer. His reluctance to interact with Gabe is understandable. Although he might be completely innocent in Lionel’s plot to kill his own granddaughter, he’s still a Mardraggon, and that’s a hard pill for any Blackburn to swallow.
I wait out Ethan’s decision, prepared to argue further with him if he’s not hip to the idea. I have as much reason as anyone in our family to hate Gabe Mardraggon, but I can put that aside to help Ethan. He and Sylvie are the ones who matter.
After a long silence, he finally says, “Okay. I’ll let him know that I don’t have time to handle the winery stuff and you’ll be acting in my stead, but keep me informed. Every step of the way.”
“Every step,” I assure him.
Ethan leans to the side, pulls open a deep desk drawer and flips through some folders. He pulls one out and hands it to me. “That’s the trust agreement and basic financials that Gabe sent over. He’s pushing to do some expansion and needs my agreement to move forward. I don’t know if the deals are good or bad, but I want to do what’s best for Sylvie’s interests. Hear what he has to say and then we can discuss what to do.”
I’m slightly intimidated taking the thick folder from him, feeling the weight of my new duties. I didn’t finish college and don’t have the same business savvy that Ethan does. I’m a horse trainer, although I think I’m fairly intelligent.
Ethan must sense my uncertainty. “You don’t have to make any decisions, Kat. Just be my mouthpiece.”
I nod, taking the folder and putting on a bright smile. “I’ve got it handled. Like I said… if I can make Gabe’s life hell while doing this, that’s just a bonus.” I stand from the chair. “Now, I’m going to grab a shower before dinner.”
“Sounds good,” he says, his attention dropping back to his stack of papers.
I head out of his office but stop in the doorway, turning back to my brother. “Are you going to let Sylvie see Gabe at all?”
Ethan’s countenance is troubled as he lifts his head. “Not right now. Even though Gabe is the one who turned in his dad, what if he had something to do with the plot? I mean… what if he was in on it and turned in his dad just so he could take control of the Mardraggon empire?”
Something to consider. The winery aside, the Mardraggons are known for their Kentucky bourbon. Even as successful as the Blackburns are, we don’t have the type of wealth the Mardraggons have, and they made it all on the amber liquid aged in oak barrels in the heart of Kentucky.
As much as I despise Gabe Mardraggon, I can’t see him being involved in a plot to kill Sylvie. I truly believe he loves his niece, but I can’t lose sight of the fact that he comes from a long line of cheating, lying and stealing assholes. The past clings to the present like a stubborn stain, the whispers of the original feud between our families coloring our lives in shades of bitterness and hate.
It’s not only the very distant past that has me despising Gabe but more current events that have given me a firsthand view of just how despicable the man is.
Ethan’s phone rings, pulling his attention. I give him a wave as I leave his office, my mind racing. I’ve had little interaction with Gabe since… well, since my freshman year of college. The few times we’ve run into each other have been an exchange of acerbic words and hate-filled stares. I’ll never admit it aloud—the thought of dealing with him churns a tumultuous mix of dread and… something else—but I remind myself I’m not the starry-eyed girl I was when I went off to college
And Gabe Mardraggon is nothing more than a spoiled, wealthy heir trying to control things because power makes him feel good. He’s pathetic, really, and with that thought, I’m emboldened.
Working with Gabe will be a challenge, but I’m a Blackburn. Challenges are what we thrive on.
In the back of my mind, a voice whispers that this is more than just a business arrangement. It’s a dance on a tightrope strung between past and present, hatred and something dangerously close to fascination.
