Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Ethan

Despite my size and tough-as-nails attitude, I feel utterly dwarfed inside the old-fashioned courtroom. It isn't the high ceilings or the large, arched windows, but rather the oppressive magnitude of the situation. The mid-morning light bathes the polished wood-paneled walls upon which hang oil portraits of stern-faced judges. They seem to stare at me in harsh judgment as I tug on the knot of my tie. The dark blue silk with a silver geometric pattern seems too modern and pretentious and I can't help but wonder if it might count against me.

Not that I even know what I stand for. Through the last four sleepless nights and after listening to advice from my parents and siblings, I'm still at a loss as to what to do with my alleged new daughter.

Just thinking I might be a dad is enough to churn my stomach. Even my family's presence can't calm the rage of emotions within me.

"Isn't this courtroom just grand?" my mother whispers with her Irish brogue as she leans into my shoulder. Fiona and Tommy Blackburn abandoned their three-month-long trip through New Zealand to run back to Kentucky to be at my side today for the court hearing. They not only want to show the support of a loving familial unit but deep down I know my parents are pining for grandchildren and they may now have one ready-made.

The question about the courtroom décor should irritate me, because there is nothing lovely about this entire situation. But I take a moment to look around and attempt to appreciate what she sees. Anything to get my mind off the fact that a little girl who may or may not be mine will be walking through those double doors at the rear of the gallery any moment.

I ignore the judicial paintings and instead admire the craftsmanship of the rich paneled walls rising up to an arched ceiling adorned with crown molding and intricate plasterwork. At the apex of the arch is a hand-carved decorative medallion from which a massive brass chandelier hangs. Its etched glass globes are fitted with Edison bulbs, providing what would be an ambient glow if not for the bright sun slanting in from the windows flanking the judge's bench.

The appointments throughout the room are stately—opulent blue curtains trimmed with gold and traditional mahogany furniture, and a massive edifice carved from black walnut anchors the room with its presence. Upon it sits the judge's bench and soon the man who can change the course of my life.

One of the double doors creaks open and my heart pounds. I don't want to turn and look but I am not a coward. I'll have to see the little girl at some point so I might as well face my fears now.

My mother, father and siblings are already swiveled forty-five degrees, their necks craning. Into the courtroom strides Lionel Mardraggon wearing a midnight-blue suit with a very subtle pinstripe complemented by a dark red tie with diagonal silver stripes. He is a tall man with a barrel chest, but he never has to intimidate with his size. That's all done with the steely-gray eyes he can narrow upon you with such condescension, you'll question your own existence.

Following behind Lionel, I catch the briefest glance of his wife, Rosemund. She's wearing an emerald-green silk dress with a high collar, and I'd recognize her alone from that silver-blond hair that she'd passed down to her daughter, Alaine. These days she wears it in a short bob and although she's in her early sixties, her complexion is flawless.

It only takes a second or two to garner those impressions of Rosemund because my attention is instantly riveted on the child who walks beside her.

Before giving myself permission to really look at my alleged daughter, I notice she walks alone. Nine years old and entering a courtroom where her future will be determined by a complete stranger. One would think such a child would be clinging to her grandmother, but instead, Sylvie is an island as she traverses the thick burgundy carpet that runs between the rows of wooden pews.

I hear a slight gasp and my sister, Kat, murmurs, "By God… look at her."

And I do just that, my gaze locked on Sylvie's face.

Eyes the color of sun-dappled ferns, same as mine.

Hair as black as the midnight, starless sky, same as mine.

Her nose, lips, even that stubborn lift of her chin… she looks pure Blackburn. I don't see an ounce of Alaine, Lionel or Rosemund Mardraggon within her.

Every single doubt and hesitation I've held since this news was dropped on my doorstep evaporates. I no longer worry this is some ploy concocted by the Mardraggons to fuck with my family. I'm still not quite sure why Alaine trusts me with Sylvie over her family, I just know her motives aren't important at this point.

Anybody who looks at that little girl knows I am her father.

I would have thought such a revelation would ease the tumult in my stomach but all it does is increase my apprehension.

Because now I have something to fight for.

"All rise," the bailiff intones as he stands to the side of the judge's bench. A door opens just behind him and a man in black robes walks through. He bears no resemblance to the stern men painted in oil on the walls but instead looks like Santa Claus. His hair is snow-white and longish. While his beard is just as pristine in its lack of color, it is a bit shorter and trimmer than the mythical man who slides down chimneys on Christmas Eve. He even wears wire-rimmed glasses over his brilliant blue eyes and his cheeks are a ruddy red.

"Guess we're in the North Pole," Trey mutters as we all stand from the benches.

The bailiff calls out, "The Honorable Harold F. Laudermilk is in attendance to this great court of Shelby County."

Before even taking a step onto the raised dais, the judge motions to the gallery. "Sit, sit. Not big on pomp."

Unsure whether the judge's casual attitude makes me feel better or not, I settle back down onto the wooden bench along with my family. I glance over at the Mardraggons on the other side of the aisle. Their faces are all narrowed in on the Santa double—expressions filled with suspicion and defense. That includes Sylvie, who looks as displeased with the situation as her grandparents.

"Good morning, everyone," Judge Laudermilk says as he clasps his hands on his desk and peers over the top of his glasses. "I understand we are here for a custody issue involving—"

"If it please the court." The Mardraggons' attorney stands from his table and buttons his suit jacket. Everyone in Shelby County knows Byron Rotenburg and that he has represented the Mardraggon business dealings in Kentucky for decades. His dark gray power suit and Rolex glinting on his wrist speak to the volume of money he's paid to advocate for whatever they want.

"I'm here on behalf of Lionel and Rosemund Mardraggon who vehemently disagree that there's a custody issue at all. Their daughter, Alaine, added Ethan Blackburn to the birth certificate of their granddaughter, Sylvie, shortly before Alaine succumbed to an aggressive form of brain cancer. It's our contention that she was not mentally competent—"

"Sit down, Mr. Rotenburg." Judge Laudermilk's tone is anything but holly and jolly, his blue eyes frigid. "I'm very aware of your position as I did my homework and actually read the legal briefs submitted ahead of time. I do not want this to turn into a contentious brawl, especially not when there is a child sitting in this courtroom. As such, I would like to have a private meeting in my chambers with you, just one of your clients—either Mr. or Mrs. Mardraggon, I care not which—" Judge Laudermilk pauses, looks over the courtroom and pins his gaze on Todd Gillam. "You, Mr. Gillam, as the attorney representing the child. I would like Miss Sylvie to join us as well." Judge Laudermilk looks out into the gallery, his gaze landing on me. I'm surprised to be singled out. How the hell does the judge know who I am? "Mr. Blackburn. Please join us."

The Mardraggons immediately engage in a whispered argument with their attorney, but it is Lionel Mardraggon who stands and follows Mr. Rotenburg through a swinging gate. Sylvie trails behind and I take up the rear, casting one last glance back at my family. They all smile with supportive love in their expressions. Wade gives me a double thumbs-up.

The judge's office has the same paneled walls as the courtroom and, in the center, a massive wooden desk with clawed feet and a green banker's lamp. Files are scattered about—on the desk, chairs and even the floor. There is a laptop, but it's closed and under three files, giving me the impression it isn't used often.

Judge Laudermilk discards his robes, hanging them on a hook on the back of his door, leaving him in a white dress shirt and navy tie. His shirt is tailored and fits nicely over his portly belly.

Turning his gaze to Sylvie, he extends his hand as he bends at the waist. "Hello, young lady. You must be Sylvie Mardraggon. It's a pleasure to meet you."

My heart pounds as I stare at my daughter, waiting to hear her first words. Sylvie's expression is guarded and she shakes the judge's hand without saying a word.

"Manners, young lady," Lionel Mardraggon orders his granddaughter in his imperious tone. "Say hello."

Lionel's stern and unyielding expression is uncalled for in this situation and I want to punch him for not being softer with his granddaughter.

"Hello," Sylvie says softly, without dropping her gaze from the judge's. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

In just those few words, my legs turn to Jell-O.

She has a French accent, and it shouldn't be shocking since she was raised there, but the lilting intonation that lends a musical quality to her greeting constricts my chest. It is sweet and vulnerable and with Lionel Mardraggon's harsh expression as he watches, it makes me feel overprotective in a way I don't understand.

Judge Laudermilk gives Sylvie a wink and straightens. Tucking his hands into his pockets, he turns to the three other men in the room and looks at each of us individually before saying, "I don't want to drag this out. I've read the petition by Mr. Gillam who was hired by Sylvie's mother before she passed. There is an affidavit from Alaine Mardraggon under oath, stating that Ethan Blackburn is the father and that it is Alaine Mardraggon's wish for Sylvie to reside with Ethan."

I can't help myself. My gaze leaves the judge and flicks down to Sylvie. I've been around children my entire life. It was part of my job when I actively trained our show riders, some as young as six years old. I can probably identify every negative emotion a child might wear upon their face and I know… Sylvie is not happy about the judge's last statement.

"Judge Laudermilk," Byron Rotenburg interrupts.

"I'm not finished, Mr. Rotenburg," the judge says, holding up his hand. "I also understand your position. The Mardraggons are petitioning the court to grant custody to them as they believe Alaine was mentally incompetent at the time due to her brain cancer, and while I appreciate that concern, Mr. Gillam also provided an affidavit from Alaine's neurosurgeon testifying that she was competent at the time she signed all of her documents under oath."

"There's the issue of paternity," the Mardraggons' attorney points out.

"Easily remedied with a paternity test," the judge drawls and walks around his desk. "I'm ordering a test be done immediately." And here, his eyes cut briefly to Sylvie, then to me, and back to Mr. Rotenburg. "But I'm sure we all know what the test will reveal."

"I don't wish to live with that man," Sylvie says ever so softly and yet her words seem to reverberate around the room. Her eyes are pinned on me but she speaks to the judge. "I want to live with Lionel and Rosemund."

I couldn't have dragged my gaze from her face if I tried. I'm riveted by the anger and dislike I see there, and it's aimed only at me. Her distaste is so visceral, I can't process the fact that she called her grandparents by their first names or that she seems to have everyone in the judge's chambers spellbound by her audacity and confidence to speak out in such a way.

"Miss Sylvie," Judge Laudermilk says in his most courtly tone. He puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I understand how awful things have been for you, especially with your mother dying. I know that you're very out of sorts and none of this is fair. But we do have laws to follow in this state, and if Ethan Blackburn is your father, and he wants custody of you—"

"I do," I say, the first words I've uttered during this entire proceeding. I say this not looking at the judge or anyone else. I am speaking from the heart and my message is for Sylvie. "Once the test comes back proving she's mine, I'll want her with me."

"That is not what's best for her," Lionel Mardraggon booms before wheeling on his attorney. "You fix this or you're fired."

"Mr. Mardraggon," Judge Laudermilk says, and gone is the genteel tone he used with Sylvie. Instead, it's laced with the steel of a man who could put the great Mardraggon patriarch in jail if he so desired. "This is not your attorney's decision. It is mine. And there is no fixing this. I'm going to follow the law." Once again, he turns to Sylvie and gentles his expression. "But here's what I'm going to do for you. For the time being, and until paternity is proven, you'll stay with your grandparents. If it's determined that Ethan Blackburn is your father, I'm going to order that he become your legal guardian. However, I will order an evaluation in two months' time and we will revisit the matter. If things are not working out and you wish to go back to the Mardraggons, I will certainly take your wishes into consideration. Just know that my job is to do what's in your best interest, Miss Sylvie."

Sylvie's expression hardens on the judge and it is both impressive and terrifying to me that she has the confidence in that tiny body to voice such a strong opinion. "I don't understand why it can't be my choice now."

"Because I have to follow the law," he replies, and while his expression is still kind, there's a bit of authority in his tone. "And that means I have to place you with your legal guardian, which will be Mr. Blackburn if paternity is proven. But I promise to keep a close eye on your case. Mr. Blackburn has to prove he's a fit father and can take care of you."

Sylvie's gaze cuts away from the judge to her grandfather and then back again. "You're just going to trust he's fit? Without making sure?"

"Your Honor," Todd Gillam interrupts, and the judge doesn't chastise him the way he's done twice now to the Mardraggon attorney. "Might I suggest you, Sylvie and I have a private conversation? I think we understand your order and we can release Mr. Blackburn, Mr. Mardraggon and Mr. Rotenburg. Then perhaps we can have a candid discussion with Sylvie on how this might play out."

"An excellent idea," Judge Laudermilk booms.

Todd puts a hand on my shoulder and lowers his voice so no one else can hear. "I suggest you go get that paternity test and make your home ready for a little girl."

Once again, the nerves crash through me as the reality of what is happening hits. I at least have the presence of mind to shake the judge's hand before walking out. I ignore Lionel's scowl. I want to say something reassuring to Sylvie, but I can feel the hostility radiating off her so I opt for a friendly smile before exiting the judge's chambers.

Mind still spinning, I nearly run over my mother as I turn the corner in the hallway outside the courtroom. Hands going to her shoulders to keep her upright, I apologize. "Are you okay?"

"Ah, I'm made of stronger stuff than that," she chastises, immediately putting a hand to my freshly shaven cheek. I normally have thick stubble, but today I felt the need to make a good impression. "How are ye feelin', love? I know this has thrown ye for a loop."

I'm not an overly warm and fuzzy guy, despite having deep love and affection from my parents and siblings my entire life. But my mom's concern is touching. I rest my hand on hers and pull it away from my face, only to bring it to my lips to kiss the back of it. "Like you, I'm made of tougher stuff. I'll figure it out."

"Of that, I've no doubt. But we'll sort it out together. As a family."