Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

Ethan

The last ten days have been brutal. I've called upon every ounce of patience and understanding within my being to offer up to my daughter, despite her worsening behavior. At first, I gave her space. I no longer insisted she come down to meals or that she spend free time after school with me, Kat or my mom. She hid in her room for a full three days before I finally had to go back on that and push her to rejoin the family. It made her even more bitter to have been given freedom to disconnect, only to have it taken away again.

The second thing I tried to build a bridge with was bribery. Oh, I didn't offer her something with a demand for reciprocity. I know she's too stubborn to fall for that. Instead, I offered a portal of communication that I hoped would show I trust her and that I want her to have a complete life.

I gave her a smartphone. I did my research and there's great debate whether an almost ten-year-old is ready for that level of responsibility. Handing her a gateway to the internet could be dangerous, but in my research, I found all the ways to lock down the phone to protect her from the worst kinds of stranger danger. What I did not prohibit though, is her ability to contact any family or friend she wants and, much to my disgust, that includes giving her access to the Mardraggons.

I couldn't tell if that made her happy or not. I handed her the phone wrapped in pink paper, already preprogrammed with the numbers for Lionel, Rosemund and Gabriel Mardraggon. Gabe is Alaine's younger brother and the heir apparent to the Mardraggon fortune. While I didn't have many feelings about Alaine and simply disliked her because of her last name, I truly don't like Gabe Mardraggon as a person. In fact, I despise the man and his overly confident ways. He's Trey's age, thirty-three, and we grew up together as rivals in every sport. Of course, once we got into high school, we played for different schools that had no rivalry, but Shelbyville is a small town and you can't cross the street without running into some descendant of the Blackburns or Mardraggons. As it stands, I have many great aunts and uncles, regular aunts and uncles, cousins, second and third cousins. Some I'm close to, some I barely know. It's the same with the Mardraggons.

But one thing is always consistent: If your name is Mardraggon, you hate the Blackburns, and vice versa.

At any rate, it galled me to put Gabe's name and number in Sylvie's phone. But I want her to have access to the people closest to her, especially those from the last few months when Alaine was home from France and dying. I have no clue what Sylvie's relationship is like with her uncle. I don't know because she doesn't talk about the Mardraggons at all. I've only had brief glimpses into their relationships when I observed their interactions at the courthouse and then when Lionel and Rosemund dropped her off.

And while I would term it frigid the way they acted with one another, it was probably still a good twenty degrees warmer than what I have with my daughter.

Regardless, my gift of the iPhone did nothing to warm Sylvie to me or the family. She still spends most of her free time in her room, except now when I check on her she isn't always reading a book. Sometimes she's texting and other times she's embroiled in conversation in her native tongue. I assume she's talking to friends back home, which is why I made sure she has an international plan. If I dared to interrupt such a conversation, she'd level glaring green eyes at me and demand, "What do you want?" in French.

I acted dumb. I knew exactly what she was barking at me due to my handy little translation app, but I didn't let her know I'm on to her.

I continue to record her, a chore that is taking up a lot of my time every day. I've gotten good at keeping the app open on my phone and hitting the record button while it sits in my pocket. At night after everyone goes to sleep, I spend time pulling out the bits and pieces of French she throws my way and translate them.

I've learned a lot about my daughter. Not just affirmation of the enmity she holds for me and my family, but I found out something that has caused my hackles to rise.

Something that I'm going to nip in the bud today.

I walk into the broodmare barn and immediately catch sight of Wade standing outside one of the stalls. I head that way and look in to see one of our veterinarians checking out a three-day-old foal. No matter how many times I lay eyes on those spindly, awkward little beings, I never get used to how cute they are. Some people prefer fuzzy kittens or puppies, but there is nothing in this world that warms my somewhat cold heart more than a newborn horse.

Wade hears me coming down the center aisle of the barn and lifts his chin in greeting.

I stop at the open stall door. The foal's mom is in crossties to prevent her from attempting an exit, and the foal is currently being examined by the veterinarian. After a few minutes, he looks up. "Healthy little boy."

"That's what I like to hear. And mama?"

"She's good. I gave her a thorough examination. She's producing good milk."

"If you've got time today, can you take a look at Misty over in the show rider barn? She's eating but not with her normal gusto."

"She the one that colicked a few months ago?" the vet asks.

"Yeah. I just want to make sure she's okay."

I turn to my brother and motion for him to follow me. We walk back to the barn's entrance and I ask, "Do you think you can meet with a potential buyer for me in about half an hour?"

"Sure. Which horse?"

"Popcorn. It's a trainer and one of their riders is flying in from North Carolina. They've got the money to make the purchase, but they want to put the kid on the horse first."

"Not a problem. I'll head over there now to make sure she's cleaned up nice."

Popcorn is a beautiful black saddlebred mare who performed very well for one of our show riders this past year. But the mare is getting up in age at almost seventeen and only has a few more years of competition left in her. Unfortunately, her rider has leveled up and bought a fancier horse, so Popcorn needs to go. She will be perfect for a kid with a few years of experience who's looking to get into the show ring for the first time, and that's just such a buyer flying in from North Carolina.

I normally manage all the sales, which includes not only showing the horses to their full potential but the negotiations, veterinary vetting and payment.

But today I hope to resolve something that has been niggling the back of my mind regarding Sylvie, all because of that damn phone I gave her.

At about quarter after three, knowing that Wade is going to handle my three-thirty appointment, I ditch my truck and grab one of the Gators. I don't drive it over the main roads out of the farm, but instead through the woods and I park it just inside the tree line, about a hundred yards from the main driveway, off the state highway.

I push the seat back and prop a foot up on the outer edge of the open doorway, drumming my fingers on my knee while I wait.

I don't check my watch but call on my patience. I know Sylvie's school bus arrives at the edge of the driveway sometime between three twenty-five and three forty. It depends on how many kids take the bus and what traffic is like.

I hear the big yellow shuttle coming down the road before I see it. It drives right by me, and I watch as it comes to a chugging stop. The stop-sign arm extends and with the light flashing, Sylvie exits and crosses the road safely, although no other traffic is in sight.

So far, my suspicions are not coming to fruition, but I have a reserve of patience.

This is especially so after I watch the bus drive into the distance and Sylvie makes no effort to walk down the oak-lined driveway to the house. Instead, she leans back against one of the brick pillars securing the wrought iron gates which can close to prohibit people from coming into the farm. But it's been years since those things worked and they perpetually stay open.

My Spidey senses tingle as I watch her pull out her phone and use it while she waits for something. Her thumbs fly over the screen, and I'm quite positive she's texting someone. I then see a charcoal gray Porsche Cayenne coming down the road. Sylvie lifts her head as the car slows and pulls onto the shoulder. It crawls to the edge of the driveway so she can walk the ten feet from the pillars where she'd been waiting, and Sylvie leans inside the rolled-down passenger window.

I don't make a move, watching without a single worry that the person inside that Porsche will kidnap my daughter.

That's because I know whose car it is… Rosemund Mardraggon.

One of the best things that has come from secretly recording my daughter's French outbursts is that in a million years, Sylvie never thought I would take the effort to translate what she said. Within those rants, Sylvie mentioned Rosemund's name several times and in such a context that I knew they had been talking with her new phone.

This ordinarily wouldn't be a problem. I, after all, gave Sylvie her number. I told her, "I want you to have a relationship with your grandparents and all the Mardraggons. Call her as much as you want."

That might have been a little white lie. I don't want her to have anything to do with the Mardraggons, but I had to start somewhere in this game of building trust and that seemed like a necessary concession to make for the time being.

What I didn't expect to learn as I listened and pieced together information from her outbursts was that her maternal grandmother has been filling her head with absolute lies. I found out that Rosemund has been visiting Sylvie at the bus stop after I told her that she would be spending more time at the barn and needed to get appropriate clothing. In a fit of anger, Sylvie said, "One day I'm going to get in Rosemund's car and drive away and she's going to hide me away from you forever."

That could've simply been a child's bluster fueled by the inability to handle the massive emotions she's grappling with on a daily basis, or it could be the Mardraggons plotting to take Sylvie away and hide her from me.

I watch Sylvie talking to her grandmother through the open window. She doesn't get in the car and Rosemund doesn't step out to give her a hug. It appears they are carrying on a serious conversation and every once in a while Sylvie will gesture with her hands to indicate she is upset about something. At other times, she merely nods with a stoic expression. I let this go on for a minute or two before I put the Gator into gear and drive out of the woods onto the side of the road, straight for the Porsche.

I see Rosemund in the driver's seat with her head turned away from Sylvie when she catches the motion of me approaching. Sylvie also turns, her eyes widening as she sees me bearing down on them. I don't park the Gator nose to nose with the Porsche but rather at the edge of the driveway. I casually get off and walk over to where Sylvie stands. She at least has the grace to flush with embarrassment that she's been caught. I don't spare her a glance but instead bend at the waist to peer into the open window. "Good afternoon, Rosemund. Strange seeing you here."

She waves a hand, the lie falling from her mouth with pure ease. "I just happened to be driving by and saw that Sylvie had gotten off the bus. Thought I would say hello."

"That's a lie." I decide to call her on it, and I don't care if it sounds harsh to Sylvie. "I know the two of you have been meeting out here and I just wanted to use this opportunity to see you face-to-face and tell you that this stops as of now."

Rosemund's expression tightens as she bristles. "You have no right to stop me from communicating with my granddaughter."

"Nor do I intend to. I gave her a phone and I gave her your phone number. She can call or text you any time. But from this moment on, you are not allowed to see her unless you expressly ask my permission."

"That's ridiculous," Rosemund sputters.

"So unfair," Sylvie mutters.

I don't look at her, keeping my gaze on Rosemund because she's the one to blame. "I'm tired of you filling her head with lies about my family."

Rosemund's mouth drops open. "I would never."

She totally would.

I use this opportunity to educate Sylvie on my feelings and although I keep my eyes on Rosemund, my words are only for Sylvie's benefit. "I know enough from listening to my daughter that you are telling her things that are patently untrue. You are trying to poison her against me, and I am not going to let that happen. So, if you cannot stick to the truth, I will prohibit all contact with her."

"How could you know that?" Sylvie asks. "Are you listening in on my phone conversations?"

I turn to my daughter, pinning her with my gaze for the first time since I revealed myself. I shake my head. "No. I haven't listened in on a single phone conversation you've had. And as you know, I haven't asked to see your phone or your texts. But I have recorded some of our conversations, focusing mostly on the way you love to speak French to me. Turns out there's a handy little app that translates your words and I know everything that you've said to me since the second day you arrived."

Sylvie's face pales before her cheeks turn a bright red. "That's an invasion of my privacy."

I chuckle, and I know I shouldn't take as much pleasure from her shock as I do. "No, it's not, little girl. Those are words you threw out into the open air at me and I have a right to know what you're saying. Don't be mad because I outfoxed you. I also hope this will encourage you to speak English with me, because I'll know what you're saying either way."

I point down the long driveway where our home sits in the distance. "Go on and start your homework. Miranda will have a snack for you."

I grit my teeth as Sylvie looks back to Rosemund through the open car window, almost as if she's looking for affirmation that's what she should do. I'm not sure why, since Rosemund has no legal authority where Sylvie is concerned. And Sylvie knows this.

It's most likely just to piss me off.

My temper flares bright when Rosemund gives Sylvie a nod of approval and only then does she turn on her heel, grab her bookbag from the ground and storm off toward the house. I watch her for a few seconds before turning to Rosemund and bending down to eye level. "Don't come back here again seeking Sylvie out."

"You can't stop me from talking to her."

I chuckle, rubbing at the scruff on my face. "I can if I want to, Rosemund. But I'm the one who gave her the means to contact you by phone. So don't think I'm standing in your way of having a legitimate, honest relationship with your granddaughter. But I'm not going to stand for you filling her head with poison and making it harder for her to acclimate to life here in this home. I'm warning you to stay away. Talk to her by phone if you want but these little meetings after school where the two of you plot are over."

"Or what?" Rosemund spits out. "It sounds like there's a threat under those words and you know Lionel would not like that."

"Fuck your husband and his dislike of threats." I put both hands on the edge of the car door and lean farther in. "But to answer your question, yeah… That was a threat. And if you want to know what I'm going to do, I'm going to take a page out of the history books. Look it up. You remember Claude Blackburn? He single-handedly almost took down your entire family and that was just out of spite. Imagine what I could do fueled by the prospect that you might be harming a little girl."

Claude Blackburn was a crafty son of a bitch and during Prohibition, he used his influence in politics to block the Mardraggons from obtaining medicinal liquor permits. Eventually, they found a way around it, but it almost put them under.

"I would never harm Sylvie," Rosemund says, her chin jerking inward.

"The lies you're telling her are harmful. Keeping this feud at the forefront is harmful. Refusing to let her be a little girl who can settle into a new life after absorbing the death of her mother—"

"I lost a daughter," Rosemund yells.

That softens me, but only incrementally. "And I'm sorry for your loss. But my duties and loyalty belong solely to Sylvie now. I will protect her at all costs. Do not cross me in a way that will set me on a warpath. You may not know me very well but when I tell you that I always achieve my goals, it means I can ruin you and your family if I set my mind to it."

Rosemund's lips press flat and her eyes sizzle with fury. "I'll pass the message on to Lionel. But I'm confident in saying you should watch your back, Ethan. Our family is not one to be crossed."

My eyes bore into hers. "Duly noted. Get off my property."

Rosemund doesn't wait, slamming the car in drive and spewing gravel as she whips onto the state road without even looking to see if traffic is coming. I rub hard at the back of my neck as I watch her disappear around a curve.

I glance back toward the house and see that Sylvie is just making her way up the front porch.

The lies Rosemund has been telling Sylvie all center around the original feud that happened over a hundred years ago. In my recordings of Sylvie's French tirades, the words cheater, infidelity and murder have all been repeated. The same lies that have been spread around about our ancestor Elizabeth Blackburn and her father James Blackburn. It is so fucking moot, that shit happened so long ago, but the history of hate has been passed down, and I can't deny that it certainly colored my perception of every single person who bears the Mardraggon name. It's still amazing to me that there was enough alcohol in this county that got me and Alaine drunk enough to have sex, resulting in a pregnancy.

I have to find a way to counteract the vitriol Sylvie has been listening to for the past handful of months. It isn't just since she came to live with me. Hell, if Alaine was doing her duty, she had probably been indoctrinating Sylvie against the Blackburns ever since the child was old enough to understand such things. For all I know, Alaine badmouthed my family all the way over in France, nurturing an ingrained hatred in our daughter.

I know for sure that once Alaine came home to Kentucky to die and Rosemund and Lionel got their hands on that little girl, they fueled any underlying discord already started.

I am a million percent sure that even if Sylvie didn't know a damn thing about the Blackburns until she was apprised that I was possibly her father, the time she spent with the Mardraggons was filled with a constant stream of negativity.

I've done all I can for now to nip the problem with Rosemund visiting my daughter. And I know that this little incident probably only fueled Sylvie's distrust of me and stoked the flames of dislike. I take my phone out of my back pocket as I walk toward the Gator. Sitting down in the front seat, I don't put it in gear, instead dialing a number in my contacts.

She doesn't answer, but I get her voicemail. "Hi, this is Marcie DeLeon. I'm sorry I missed your call. Leave a name and number and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Remember… Be kind."

I didn't expect to get her since it's the end of the school day and I know principals don't stop at three p.m. I leave her a short message. "Hi, Marcie. It's Ethan Blackburn. I know you said I could call if I needed help with Sylvie and I do. I'm hoping you can give me a call back and we can discuss it."

I leave my number, even though I know it will be on her caller ID and she can access it through Sylvie's records. I shift into gear and head up the driveway toward the house. I hope Marcie calls me back before the day is over because I could really use some advice on what to say to my daughter.

When I walk in the front door, the sound of raised voices has me lengthening my stride to reach the kitchen. Sylvie stands there with her hands on her hips, face bright red, yelling at Kat. "I am not going down to the barn with you later. Stop trying to tell me what to do. All of you people are awful and I'm done taking orders from you."

"Now, Sylvie," Miranda says from the other side of the kitchen island. She's in the process of cutting up an apple that has a scoop of peanut butter on a plate beside it. Presumably my daughter's snack. "Let's lower it down."

Sylvie whirls on Miranda, who has been the one person within the confines of this house who's been able to have semi-decent conversations with the child. "Don't you talk to me and tell me what to do. You work for these people and you're just as bad as they are."

"Okay, that's enough," I bark, and Sylvie spins around, eyes wide. I've never used that tone with her before, and a flash of contrition filters through her eyes. That's good because I've often wondered if she even knew how to be obedient or respect an elder. I've been hoping that most of her bluster is full-on acting and that Alaine had raised her better. Her response gives me hope.

But she lifts her chin and glares at me. "Screw you, Ethan," she sneers, rushing past me out of the kitchen. I then hear her stomping up the staircase.

Kat turns to face me just as I hear Sylvie's bedroom door slam. My sister throws her arms out. "What in the world?"

I fill both Kat and Miranda in on the visit with Rosemund. "I've called in reinforcements." I explain about reaching out to Marcie DeLeon.

Kat pats my shoulder before leaving, giving me a sympathetic smile. "I sure hope Marcie can work miracles because, if not, I feel like we are all shit out of luck."

I couldn't agree more.