Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

Ethan

Brooding could be the best descriptor for my mood this morning as I stare at the empty coffee cup before me. I tune out the chatter around the breakfast table, filled by my parents, brothers, and sister. Miranda is at the kitchen sink cleaning up and I find the clink of dishes and silverware a comforting distraction from my dark thoughts.

I glance at my watch and sigh.

That soft sound brings a halt to the talk around the table and everyone turns to look at me.

Our home has a massive formal dining room that seats twenty, but we rarely take meals there unless it's a holiday. When the family gets together, we usually sit at the big square butcher-block table in the kitchen before a large bay window that looks out over the back pastures. In the distance, a handful of saddlebreds graze on spring grass.

My mother is the first to speak to me directly. "Would you like me to go up and have a word with her?"

I can see how worried she is. "I don't know."

"I'd be glad to put something together," Miranda says from the kitchen sink. "You can take a breakfast tray up to her."

I shake my head. "She needs to learn to come down and eat with us as a family."

Those words ring hollow as they've all been sitting here for nearly forty-five minutes, their breakfasts finished long ago.

"She probably just needs more time." This from my father who, while an amazing man who loves his children and family dearly, isn't the best at handling confrontation. It's not because his nature is gentle, but because he's more logically minded. He never sees the need to battle things out but feels that rational discussion is the solution to all problems.

That just isn't going to work with a nine-year-old girl who is filled with bitterness over her situation, compounded by the sorrow of losing her mother.

Sylvie's homecoming is not going well. After I showed her to her room yesterday, she immediately demanded to be left alone. And because I'm at a loss as to how to get her to engage with me, I complied. Throughout the rest of the day, family members made individual trips up to her room to introduce themselves. I stood just outside the door where she couldn't see me and listened to each painful, but short, conversation. My mother put forth the most valiant effort, spending a full fifteen minutes in there with her talking about everything under the sun.

She was the first to approach Sylvie and spent the majority of the time talking about the Blackburn family. Not the history, but the present. She described each of her children, starting with me and ending with the youngest, twins Kat and Abby. She told stories of her home in Ireland and about all the fun things on the farm that Sylvie will be able to do. Sylvie didn't show one iota of interest, nor did she ask a single question. Mom, grasping at straws, tried to nudge Sylvie into the conversation by asking her questions. They were answered grudgingly and with as few words as possible. It was with a regretful sigh that Mom eventually left her alone.

Kat tried next. She thought maybe speaking about girly things would draw her out. She attempted to talk to her about fashion and makeup, but Sylvie wanted no part of it.

I listened outside the door as my dad made a fumbling attempt to converse, and he was out of there the fastest, giving up after only a few minutes of silence from his granddaughter. Trey and Wade fared no better. They tried humor, which fell flat, and sent the two big men scurrying away.

"I'll go up and talk to her," I say.

Sadly, it's a statement born of duty. Duty is all I have at this moment because I don't know how to feel about my daughter. I don't know her. She is still a shock to my system. I'm plagued with doubts and insecurities because I've been thrust into a position of responsibility I didn't ask for nor do I want.

I've always been a man of duty. I've given my life to Blackburn Farms and sometimes it's been at the cost of my own happiness. With the great weight of responsibility comes the absolute loss of personal freedom, but it's something I've become accustomed to. Now I have one more weight on my shoulders and I'm clueless about how to deal with it.

Everyone is quiet as I rise from the table and put my empty coffee cup in the sink. Miranda tries to take it from me but I refuse, rinsing it out myself and placing it in the dishwasher. I ignore the sympathetic look she bestows upon me.

My feet feel heavy as I trudge up the grand staircase and cut a right toward the wing of the house where I reside. I chose Kat's old bedroom for Sylvie, which has the most feminine furniture and is the easiest to decorate for a little girl. Mom did a good job on such short notice, decorating it with soft pastel yellows and pinks. The curtains on the front window overlooking the oak-lined driveway are sheer white chiffon with delicate flowers embroidered around the edge.

I have no clue if any of that appeals to Sylvie but I'm positive she doesn't appreciate the effort either way. She's not in a place where she can do so, and I understand rather than resent it. I may be gruff at times, but I understand how traumatizing this must be. Forget everything she's been through—she lost her mother just last week and that's the most important thing to remember. I know I need to have a discussion with her. I need to let her know that I understand she's operating mostly on grief which translates into anger.

Sylvie's door is closed and out of respect for her, I knock and wait a sufficient time before opening it. I've learned that she won't say the words to invite me in, but she doesn't tell me to stay out, so I push the door open.

Sylvie is sitting on her bed propped on pillows, reading a book.

I can't see what she's reading, but my mom filled the small bookcase with a mountain of age-appropriate literature. She even went to the library and got some books in French.

Sylvie doesn't look up, but I can tell by the stiffening of her posture that she's no longer really seeing the words before her and is hyperaware of my presence.

"I would really like it if you would come down and join us for breakfast."

"Not hungry."

She flips a page and makes it seem as if she's reading, but I can tell she's braced for my next words.

"You must be hungry. You barely touched your dinner last night."

Another painfully awkward event… Dinner around the butcher-block table where everyone tried to act natural. There was a period at the beginning where we tried to engage Sylvie, but her sullen silence had us resorting to our typical conversations, mostly about the farm. I watched her closely to see if anything piqued her interest, particularly as we discussed horses.

While there are so many things on my list of priorities with my new daughter, my biggest desire is to spark some interest in what we do for a living. Sylvie comes from a dynasty rooted in bourbon and wine. I don't know if she even likes animals, much less horses.

I move farther into her room but keep my distance a few feet from the bed. Tucking my hands in my pockets, I say, "I don't want to put hard rules in place as you're trying to find your footing, but I think it's important that you make an effort to spend time around your family."

"This isn't my family."

I knew she would say that. She's repeated it often enough in the less than twenty-four hours she's been in my home.

I study her for a long moment. Family is key… I know she has an unwavering loyalty to the Mardraggons but I don't know how deep it goes. From what little I've been able to ascertain from Todd Gillam, I know that Sylvie has spent most of her life in France. Alaine brought her back to Kentucky for short visits on occasion, but it appears she has not spent significant time with the Kentucky Mardraggons. I'm dying to know why that is.

While I suspect they are not an overly loving family, just based on the cold nature of Lionel and Rosemund and how they've dealt with Sylvie so far, I know they are a loyal group. They are bonded in hatred toward the Blackburns, and it's obvious that hate has been imparted to Sylvie. I just don't know when that happened.

Did Alaine tell her the history dating back to 1852? Or is this more of a recent dilemma the last few months that they've been in Kentucky as Alaine slowly withered from brain cancer? How much influence could Lionel and Rosemund put on Sylvie in that short period? And did her mother add to it?

All important questions to be answered and only Sylvie can provide that information.

But now is not the time. Still, I know deep in my gut that the way to provoke her into opening up is going to be centered around the concept of family. I decide to try a bold move.

"You're definitely a Mardraggon through and through." That gets Sylvie's attention and she lifts her head to glare at me. I can see the question in her eyes and her defiance in not wanting to voice the words, so I provide more. "From what I know about the Mardraggons, they are incredibly closed off and suspicious. They don't like opening themselves up to outsiders. Yes, firm in their convictions no matter how wayward they are, but they're never willing to give people a chance. You are definitely a Mardraggon."

Sylvie's mouth pops open in surprise and her glare melts from one of frigid ice into confusion. I continue. "I will have to say though, there is one thing I do respect about your family." I know it's a risk to put her firmly on one side of the battle line. Saying the Mardraggons are her family and not acknowledging the Blackburns are an equal part. "I admire their strength. It's true… Your grandfather is as strong and tough as they come. Your mother was too, for that matter. I suspect you inherited every drop of that DNA."

"And your point?"

"The opposite of strength is cowardice. And frankly, you hiding up in this room smacks of it. I would have never taken you for that type of Mardraggon. In fact, you seem to have so much antipathy for this family, and you think we're nothing like the Mardraggons, I can see how you would think we are the cowards. Maybe you are a lot more Blackburn than I've given you credit for."

Sylvie shoots straight up on her bed and tosses her book aside. "I am not a coward. Ma mère m'a appris à être forte et courageuse. Je ne suis pas une Blackburn. Je ne crains pas de prendre le petit déjeuner avec vous."

I have no clue what she just said, but she rolls off the bed and storms out of the bedroom. My lips quirk into a smile as I hear her stomp down the staircase.

?

Ultimately, it's Kat who gets through to Sylvie.

Somewhat.

When I come back downstairs, I find Sylvie sitting at the breakfast table while Miranda loads her plate with pancakes and bacon. It's painful to watch my mom attempt to bridge the gap, first offering to take Sylvie shopping and when that doesn't appeal to her, to bake cookies.

Sylvie's response is terse. "I don't like shopping or cookies."

I can see for just a few seconds that my mom is crushed, but she shores up her resolve quickly. "That's alright. We can do whatever ye fancy."

"I just want to read a book in my room," Sylvie says.

It's Kat who jumps in and doesn't give Sylvie a choice. "Nonsense. It's too beautiful a day to stay inside. You're going to come with me to the barn and watch me give lessons."

Sylvie opens her mouth to argue but Kat rolls right over her. "You don't even have to interact. Don't have to say a word or carry on a conversation. You can sit on a bench and watch and learn. At least get some fresh air and you'll be around amazing animals. And I'm also amazing, if I don't say so myself."

Kat shoots Sylvie a wink and it does nothing to crack the child's austere glare. She merely drops her head and begins to eat her breakfast. I'm happy to see that she does in fact eat, which means she was hungry. I consider that a small victory.

I leave the house and go about my chores. My first stop is the broodmare barn to check on things. No one is in active labor though two of our mares are due any day. As I'm getting in my truck to go check on the yearlings, my phone rings. I answer without checking to see who is calling because I'm not the type to filter communication. As the one in charge of Blackburn Farms, I have to be available twenty-four seven.

"Ethan Blackburn," I say as the call connects to the truck's Bluetooth speaker.

"Hey, darlin'." Diane Turner's voice fills the interior of the truck, my jaw involuntarily clenching.

"What's up?" I ask in such a way as to convey that I'm busy and have no interest in chitchat.

"I was hoping you and I could get together tonight. I thought I would cook dinner for you."

"I'm busy," I reply, not offering more.

"You do know that when I say I'll cook you dinner I mean I'll have sex with you." She sounds frustrated that I'm not willing to flirt.

But, honest to God, she should know by now that I don't flirt. I don't have it in me, nor do I understand the concept. It's not egotistical when I say I've never really had to work for it where women are concerned, mostly due to the fact that I only do casual relationships. I'm not looking to woo a woman or develop something committed. That takes work and I just don't care enough to do so.

When I don't respond, Diane chuckles low and throaty. "The rumor mill has it that you've got a new woman in your life."

That throws me off because I most certainly don't have another woman. While I may only hook up with Diane on occasion and when it suits me, I don't hop beds.

"What the hell are you talking about, Diane?"

"I'm talking about the new daughter who got dropped off on your doorstep yesterday. Everyone in Shelbyville is talking about your illicit love affair with a Mardraggon. I bet that threw you for a loop."

Understatement of the fucking year. But Diane is the last person I would ever discuss Sylvie with.

"I'm busy right now. I'll catch you later."

Diane starts to say something, but I disconnect the call. It's rude as fuck and I simply don't care.

Thinking about Sylvie, I'm struck with an intense curiosity to see how things are going with her. It's been almost two hours since I left the house and the yearlings can wait a bit. I divert my path and head over to the training facility.

When I walk in, I immediately see Kat at one end of the ring giving a student a lunge lesson, where the horse is attached to a long lead line and the student sits on top, learning different techniques while the horse trots in a circle. The rider has been at Blackburn Farms for just under a year and I suppress a chuckle as I watch the young girl holding three-pound dumbbell weights out to the side as she posts in the saddle. Kat is a big believer—and rightfully so—that you have to train the physical parts of your body right along with everything else. Her students are made to do exercises to develop the strength required to keep their ass in the saddle should the horse get a little crazy.

My gaze sweeps the barn and I see Sylvie sitting on top of one of the fresh round hay bales stacked in the northwest corner. She didn't see me come in so I take an unfettered moment to appraise her attitude. I'm happy to see she doesn't look bored in the slightest and is watching the lesson with interest while her fingers play with a single straw of hay. I walk around the perimeter of the arena so as not to disturb Kat's lesson and approach my daughter.

When she catches sight of me, the muscles in her face relax to one of boredom but she eyes me warily.

"Enjoying yourself?" I ask.

She lifts one shoulder and focuses her attention back on the lesson.

"Any interest in getting up on one of the horses today?"

Sylvie shakes her head.

I feel desperate. I need to make a connection with her, but I don't know how. I wonder if time alone is the answer. While the prospect of that is daunting as hell, I offer anyway. "Why don't you come with me? Going to check out the yearlings. Nothing cuter than baby horses."

Sylvie lifts her chin, and she couldn't look primmer. "No, thank you."

I consider not giving her a choice, much like Kat told her that she was going to the barn with her today. But I know deep in my gut that won't fly coming from me. I know Sylvie considers me the absolute enemy since I am the one who dared get her mother pregnant and land her in this situation to begin with. Still, my determination has me persisting. "Come on… I'll take you over there and we won't stay long. I'll bring you right back. I promise it will be fun."

My heart sinks when Sylvie puts on her most pathetic face. "Actually, I have a really bad headache. Do you think you can take me back to the house so I can lie down?"

Well fuck. If there is one thing guaranteed to get her out of doing something, it's an illness. I can't gather whether she's telling the truth. In fact, given the amount of stress on her little shoulders, I don't doubt she's got a headache. But she also could just as easily be using that as an excuse to not spend time with me.

In the end, I have no choice but to accept her at face value. I nod and motion for her to climb off the hay bale. "Maybe later I'll take you over there. Come on, I'll drive you to the house."

?

That night, once my parents have retired to their cottage and I'm alone, I head to the back patio and start a small fire in the firepit. I sit back in a chair, sipping a cold beer and reflecting on the frustrations of the day. Not one of them have to do with running the farm but there are millions where Sylvie is concerned. She stayed in her room the rest of the day and grudgingly came down to join another family dinner where she hardly spoke a word. My frustrations got the best of me and I poked at her, trying to get her to answer questions. It was the wrong tactic, and Sylvie's own frustrations became apparent when she started answering my questions in French.

Wade and Trey both chuckled, thinking it hilarious, but I wasn't amused. I asked her to speak English and she only replied in French. I wanted to bang my head on the butcher-block table, which would have been less painful.

"Penny for your thoughts?" I look up to see all three of my siblings emerging from the dark. It's surprising that they're all here this late in the evening, seeing as how they have early workdays ahead.

But it also isn't surprising. They're here because they know how troubled I am.

Trey wordlessly goes into the house and comes out with three beers and once they've all cracked open their bottles and gotten situated around the fire, Wade asks the all-important question. "What do we do with her?"

"Fuck if I know," I grumble. "But I'm open to suggestions."

"It will just take time," Kat says. "I think she enjoyed herself at the barn today. She seemed interested."

"I bet by this time next week, she'll be fine," Trey says, but I have my doubts.

"I'm taking her to register for school tomorrow. Lionel and Rosemund had her at Prescott Academy." I don't need to say anything more than that. All us Blackburn kids attended public school and that's where Sylvie will go. While we certainly have enough money to send her to the school she has been attending, I want her to be around a diverse group of children. I don't want her around the wealthy elite because the Mardraggons are elitist.

While the Blackburn fortune isn't quite as big as the Mardraggons', we're doing just fine. You'd never know hanging out with any one of us that we're multimillionaires. And I don't want Sylvie to act like she has a silver spoon in her mouth. I want her to be a kid and the best way to make that happen is public school.

"Once she makes friends, she'll start having more fun here." Kat works at the label on her bottle. "And I'll keep trying to get her up on a horse."

"I was thinking about inviting her to go fishing this weekend." Trey is the sportsman of the family. Fishing and hunting are his biggest passions outside of horses.

"And we know Mom isn't going to give up on her. I expect Sylvie's going to be forced to bake cookies before too long."

I chuckle at that. Tenacity is definitely handed down in our family and it comes with a fiery passion born of our mom's Irish roots.

Kat leans over and pats me on the shoulder. "It will be fine. I promise."

I really wish I believed that.