Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Ethan

"You had sex with Alaine Mardraggon?" Trey asks for the third time.

I shoot my brother a warning look to not ask again. I've answered it once and I'm not going to waste my breath when there are more important things to decide.

"Do you believe what Alaine wrote?" Kat asks. She's holding the single-page typed letter that I read a dozen times before my siblings congregated in the main sitting room. The heart of the restored Georgian mansion, an ever-present reminder of a bygone era, harmonizes historical splendor with subtle contemporary touches. The room is defined by its tall, paneled windows. These windows, with their traditional wooden shutters, frame the outside world and fill the space with a soft, natural glow that dances across the high ceilings adorned with ornate plasterwork. From the center of these intricate designs a crystal chandelier hangs like a jewel, scattering light in a warm, embracing aura.

The polished oak floors wear a large Persian rug of deep reds and blues woven in intricate patterns. Chippendale-style chairs with their mahogany frames display graceful curves and carvings, while a matching sofa reupholstered in luxurious, deep green velvet whispers of modern comfort amid historical charm.

In one corner, a Georgian tea table with cabriole legs and ball-and-claw feet stands and on the wall adjacent to the fireplace sits a Pembroke table perched by the window, which Miranda always fills with fresh flowers. It's our mom's favorite place to write letters back home to Ireland.

Tall, built-in bookcases flank the wall opposite the fireplace, their shelves a mosaic of leather-bound classics and various keepsakes, echoing generations of intellectual pursuits. The walls themselves are a gallery adorned with oil paintings. Portraits of ancestral figures, stern and regal, keep watch over the room, their eyes following the passage of time. Landscapes in ornate frames offer views of pastoral scenes and historic landmarks, a visual escape to the world outside.

Dominating the room is a large marble fireplace, its presence commanding yet inviting. Above it, a grand, gilded mirror reflects the life of the room, multiplying its light and space. On mantelpieces and side tables, small, tasteful decorations are carefully arranged: brass candlesticks, a silver tea set, a porcelain figurine or two, each a character in this elegant narrative. Over the years, my mom chose and placed many of the items, but most have been handed down through generations.

Subtle modern touches are woven seamlessly into the fabric of the room, like plush throw pillows and a casually draped cashmere blanket on the sofa's arm, offering a nod to contemporary comfort.

I shrug, my hand resting on the mantel as I stare into the cold fireplace.

"Of course you can't believe what she wrote," Trey says. His temper can run fiercely hot, particularly when his family is at the heart of the matter. "She's a Mardraggon. Can't believe a fucking thing they say."

The bitter feud between the Blackburn and Mardraggon families started in the mid-nineteenth century when a young Elizabeth Blackburn fell in love with a dashing Henry Mardraggon and all of Shelby County, Kentucky was abuzz. The two families had recently settled in the area—the Blackburns hailing from England and the Mardraggons from France. Times were perilous and the young country was engaged in a civil war, although Kentucky was a key border state and attempted to maintain neutrality.

The Blackburns and the Mardraggons were both up-and-coming, influential families and looked upon with great favor by all who knew them.

The Blackburns worked tirelessly to build up a saddlebred breeding farm, horses known for their versatility, beauty, smooth gaits and endurance. They saw great economic opportunity in selling their horses to the Union. The saddlebred's speed, agility and ability to cover long distances were ideal for cavalry horses and officer mounts. It was through the placement of these horses with the Union that the Blackburns started their meteoric rise as purveyors of the best horseflesh in the country.

The Mardraggons—who had some experience in making wine in the Burgundy region of France—started a new venture in distilling bourbon. Settling in Kentucky, they found corn abundant, and it became the primary grain for whiskey. Using charred oak barrels for aging, the Mardraggons were one of the original pioneers of distilling that defining characteristic of bourbon. By the mid-1800s, they were mass producing in sealed bottles and gaining a reputation for quality and authenticity in their alcohol. The Mardraggons also took advantage of the economic opportunity the Civil War presented but were not as discerning between the two warring factions of the Union and Confederacy, providing liquor to both.

Elizabeth Blackburn and Henry Mardraggon cared nothing about horses, bourbon, or war. They only cared about each other. They were madly, deeply, and wholeheartedly in love. Henry proposed to Elizabeth after getting permission from her father, James Blackburn. The engagement was widely celebrated throughout all polite society. Two powerhouse families would be merging, and everyone knew that they would be controlling much of the economic interests in the region.

But as with many love stories, things went disastrously wrong. After a blissful two months of engaged life, dark rumors started to circulate about Elizabeth Blackburn. Ugly, salacious gossip that, if true, spelled disaster for the young couple. It most certainly spelled ruination for Elizabeth. It had reached her father's ears that Elizabeth had been engaged in an illicit affair with a young man of no importance in Shelbyville.

The rumors were without merit, vehemently denied, devoid of proof and undoubtedly false. That didn't matter to anyone because women whispered behind Elizabeth's back, fueling the gossip, and both patriarchs of the Mardraggon and Blackburn families stewed over the potential truth.

An argument ensued between the two fathers, James Blackburn and Edward Mardraggon. No, not an argument—a rageful, blasphemous feud between two powerful men tossing bladed barbs at one another. Young Henry, who refused to believe the worst about his love, tried to intervene and calm the situation. Tempers between the fathers flared hotter and pistols were drawn.

Two shots were fired with the intent to kill but only one bullet landed tragically.

Right into the chest of Henry Mardraggon, fired by Elizabeth's father, who had been aiming at the elder Mardraggon.

Edward Mardraggon's own bullet went wide as he aimed at James, lodging in a door casing.

Henry died instantly.

Beautiful, heartbroken, ruined Elizabeth took a little longer to die. Two weeks after Henry was buried, she hung herself under the rafters of the grape arbor where Henry had proposed to her.

Both families blamed the other for their children's deaths. No one ever talked again about the rumors surrounding Elizabeth and whether they were true, for it hardly mattered. Two precious lives were gone, and two families entered into a war that some say raged hotter than the one between the North and South.

"A paternity test is simple enough," Wade says. The youngest of the three Blackburn brothers, he's the most even-keeled. He brings logic to this conversation. "Let's assume you are Sylvie's father. What are you going to do?"

"He's going to take his daughter," Kat exclaims, tossing a chastising glare at Wade. "Of course, he's going to take her and raise her and she's going to be a Blackburn."

"Except she's a Mardraggon." Trey drums his fingers on his knee, one booted foot propped on his knee. "She's been a Mardraggon for her entire life. She's been raised by those morons and therefore she's probably—"

I wheel around and growl. "Don't even finish that thought."

It goes silent, none of my siblings willing to risk my ire. I truly don't know what Trey is about to say, but if it's going to in any way disparage my supposed daughter, some unknown force of protectiveness has welled inside of me, unwilling to let anyone say a bad word about a girl who may be my blood.

Glancing at my watch, I see it's still unfeasible to reach our parents, currently vacationing in New Zealand. Being as they're on the other side of the world, it's the dead of night there. I called and left a voicemail as well as sent a text, and the mere fact they've not responded means they're deep in slumber. I need their advice and I'll get it eventually. But right now, it's helpful to have my siblings here brainstorming the issue.

It's not like there are a lot of decisions to make. Wade is correct. It's a very simple matter of paternity and if it's determined that Sylvie is mine, she'll come live with us.

I ruminate on Alaine's letter.

Dear Ethan,

I know this letter and Mr. Gillam's visit are going to come as a shock and I first and foremost need to apologize for keeping our daughter a secret from you. It is my only hope that you can understand my reasons for doing so. At the heart of the matter is our families' deep hatred for one another. I'd like to say our one evening together was a mistake, but it gave me Sylvie, so how could that ever be true?

Given the animosity we shared and the fact I lived in a different country, it was easier not to tell you. But I'm dying and that means I have to be truthful, not just with you but myself, and I admit that I was also selfish. I didn't want to share Sylvie, nor did I want to deal with the scabs that would keep getting ripped off the wounds our families continue giving each other.

Cancer is the great equalizer. It's made me really think about what is best for our daughter. I love my family, but I know they are not without faults. I believe some of those faults could be detrimental to Sylvie. I can't say that I know you very well. I was taught to hate your family. All I know is that I don't want Sylvie to grow up under my parents' influence.

I believe Sylvie is best left under your care. You have the strength and fortitude to stand up to the Mardraggons. She comes with a large trust fund which includes controlling interest in the winery. My parents are going to fight you hard for her. Please stand strong. Raise her with the same love I gave her. Do right by our daughter.

If you don't, I will come back to haunt you.

Sincerely,

Alaine Mardraggon

"Why in the hell would she keep that secret?" Wade muses.

Kat nods at the letter in her hand. "There's a lot of money involved. The Mardraggons would automatically assume we'd try to make a play for it."

"Because they're assholes," Trey mutters.

I don't disagree. Look it up in any thesaurus and asshole is synonymous with Mardraggon. Even after the original feud that split the families apart, the Mardraggons took any opportunity they could to try to ruin the Blackburns. Throughout our entangled histories, if there was a chance to knock our family down, the Mardraggons were behind it. Of course, we aren't without backbone and will use any opportunity we can to take that family down a peg or two.

Trey isn't wrong. I can't trust anything Alaine wrote in that letter. I'll demand a paternity test and that will probably put all of this nonsense to rest. The more I think about it, the more I'm confident this is some ploy Alaine was putting into place to hurt my family.

Are they trying to drain money from us via legal fees? Dangle a cute kid and a trust fund in front of me to get my focus off the business?

Do the Mardraggons not understand our family wants for nothing? We're beyond wealthy and we aren't scheming backstabbers in maintaining that.

I won't be fooled. I'll go to that damn hearing on Monday, demand a paternity test and then when all of this is proven to be a sham, I'll figure out a way to make them pay for dragging me into shit I don't have time to deal with.

Moving to the love seat where Kat sits, I take the letter from her. My brothers and sister stare at me, their green eyes matching mine and handed down from our Irish mother, Fiona, and I stare right back.

None of them has to say a word. They all have my back, as would my other sister, Kat's twin, Abby, if she were here. As it stands, she lives in Pennsylvania, the only Blackburn to not work at the farm. It's fine though because she is pursuing her passion for veterinary medicine and comes home often to visit.

All the Blackburn kids not only have Fi's Celtic green eyes but our father Tommy's raven hair. It's a striking combination, and no one in Shelby County would ever deny the Blackburn family is a beautiful one.

But that's all surface stuff because what we really have is fortitude, grit, perseverance and an unrivaled work ethic. It's how we've built our empire and it's how we'll maintain it for future generations.

"Let's get back to work," I say. "More important stuff to do today."

Trey, Wade and Kat all rise, my brothers in jeans and barn boots and Kat in a pair of riding jods. A big chunk of her job is to train the show horses—although my brothers train as well—so she spends most of her days in the saddle. I might have the larger share of responsibility, but my siblings all work just as hard in smaller microcosms of the enterprise. I can do every one of their jobs plus a million others, and I get the added glory and burden of worrying about the successes or failures.

Trey claps me on the shoulder. "Got your back, bud."

"Yeah… I know it. Thanks."

Wade holds out his fist to bump. "It'll be fine."

"Of course it will."

Kat hangs back and after Trey's and Wade's voices recede, she says, "Michelle DeLeon is interested in buying Lady Beatrice."

For a moment, my mind is completely blank. The change in subject momentarily stumps me, but it only takes a second for it to connect. "The owners want two fifty but might consider something slightly less. Is Carmen ready for that horse? Because if not, it's going to be a big waste of money."

"That's a better question for Wade," Kat replies with a lift of her shoulder. Wade is the primary trainer for the young woman who owns Lady Beatrice and knows the horse's strengths and weaknesses. It's a lot of horse and Carmen is a young kid, although I'm not sure of her exact age. "But he knows Michelle is looking at the mare for her daughter, so I assume he thinks it's a good fit."

"Good enough." I grab the manila folder I'd tossed down on a sideboard and shove the folded letter from Alaine in it. "I'll give her a call."

"She's single, by the way," Kat says as we walk out of the sitting room.

It again takes me a moment to process and when what she said hits me, I scowl. "So what?"

"I'm just saying… she's been divorced for a year and is super pretty."

"Again, so what?"

"You could ask her out," Kat prods, nudging me with her elbow as we traverse the main foyer and out the front door. Kat's pink Gator sits beside my truck.

"Quit your matchmaking," I grumble. "I'm not interested."

"I don't want you to be lonely. You're getting old—"

"I'm only thirty-seven," I bark with faux outrage.

"And that Diane Turner is no good for you."

That statement penetrates with utter clarity and I whirl on the front portico to face my sister. "What do you… I mean, how do you know about Diane?"

I've never told one of my siblings about my "arrangement" with Diane. It's a private matter, sex only, and none of their business. What Diane and I had was so meaningless, it didn't even bear thinking about once outside of bed.

Kat cocks a black eyebrow at me. "How do you think I know? Because Diane runs her mouth every time she's at the barn. She's telling anyone who will listen that y'all are sleeping together."

"Jesus Christ… it's a random thing. Last night was the first time in—"

"Last night, huh? Diane has a lesson later today with Monica. I bet that's one of the first things she talks about."

"Fuck," I mutter and turn away from her, jogging down the porch steps. I spin and point at my sister once I reach the sidewalk. "You hear that shit, you shut it down. It's over."

"I will," Kat assures, heading down the steps herself and angling toward her UTV. "But that won't stop Diane from running her mouth."

"I'll have words with her." I open the truck door and hop in. At least, I'll have words with her when I get a minute.

If I remember.

For now, I'm heading back to the broodmare barn. I need to budget time to call Michelle DeLeon to see if I can facilitate the sale of Lady Beatrice. Blackburn Farms takes a fifteen percent commission on inner barn sales, so on a two hundred and fifty thousand dollar horse, that's some nice change going into the bank. It's one of our easier earned revenue streams, but it's not where my heart resides.

That's back with the pregnant mares, bringing new foals into the world. While the Blackburn enterprise deals in show horses, we're mostly known for our breeding program. It's where the real magic behind our success lies.

Everything in breeding is high stakes. We're putting a lot of money into blending championship lines to strengthen the breed. Buyers from all over the world want a Blackburn horse and every single birth is precious to me. It represents a piece of our family's legacy.

Which is why I don't have time to be worried about Diane Turner spilling our private business or fending off my sister with unwanted matchmaking. I certainly don't want to be saddled with a kid.

Simply put, I have more important things to do.