Page 1 of The Feud

CHAPTER 1

Ethan

This isn’t my first journey down the sweeping staircase, attempting to maneuver my six-foot-three frame as quietly as possible. With my boots in hand so as not to wake the woman I left sleeping in a rumpled bed, I’m thankful for inlaid marble treads rather than squeaky wood. I’ve made this trip more than once over the last handful of years, but I’ve been doing it less and less of late. Things with Diane have run their course. In fact, I haven’t been in her bed in more than two months.

It certainly hadn’t been on my agenda or even on my mind to come here last night, but tragedy struck when I lost a foal and a mare during a very difficult birth. Those bitter losses are hard and it made me crazy with the need for… something.

I could’ve chosen anything, really.

A bottle of Kentucky’s finest bourbon—any brand other than Mardraggon—or I could have picked a fight with one of my brothers, which would’ve ended in fists and bruises. Either one of those might have distracted me from the pain of losing those horses but instead I called Diane.

And now I’m making an escape.

I’ve barely gotten one socked foot on the marble foyer at the base of the staircase before I hear her call out in that twangy southern lilt. “Where are you going, baby?”

The sun has just started to peek over the horizon, as evidenced by the bluish-gray light filtering in through the windows of the palatial home. Glancing over my shoulder, I see her at the top of the stairs, belting a diaphanous peach robe at her waist.

Diane Turner is a stunning woman. Thirty-five years old and widowed six years ago, she’s become something of a friend with benefits except she isn’t exactly a true friend. More of a long-term acquaintance—known her for years in the saddlebred competition world—and she boards her horses at Blackburn Farms.

Tall and voluptuous with a cascade of blond hair spilling down her back and over her shoulders, most men would be running right back up the stairs for another round. But I can only take her in small doses. She married up in age and for significant wealth and then her geriatric husband died, leaving her everything, and she now lives a life of luxury in his Kentucky mansion, vowing never to marry again.

“Headed out,” I say, sitting on the staircase to put on my boots. No need to be quiet now that she’s awake.

“It’s too early,” she croons. “Come back up to bed for a bit and then I’ll make you breakfast.”

Sliding on my last boot, I shake my head and rise. “Too much work to do and not enough daylight hours to do it in.”

“That’s why you have employees, Ethan.” I glance up at her—arms crossed over her chest, hip cocked out, annoyance all over her face. “For God’s sake, you’re the biggest saddlebred farm in the United States and employ a small army of people to do that shit. Why you insist on being so hands on is beyond me.”

Petulant words coming from a woman who doesn’t have to work for her money.

Although I’d never admit it to her, Diane has a valid point. Blackburn Farms is indeed the largest breeding and training farm of American Saddlebred horses in the United States. With over a thousand acres of pastureland, barns, training arenas and medical facilities, over two hundred broodmares, almost seventy retired horses and nine studs, not to mention a sizable yearling population each year, it does take an army of people to make it all run smoothly.

Stable workers, groomers, trainers, veterinarians and administrative staff. I’m considered the general, having taken over the business almost five years ago when my parents decided to move into full-time retirement. My two brothers, Trey and Wade, as well as my sister, Kat, help out in all aspects of running the empire, but the great weight of responsibility to keep it all churning rests on my shoulders.

And yet, I’m still out there every day getting my hands dirty if need be. I can sit in my office in a suit and tie and negotiate a seven-figure deal on a horse and then turn around and muck stalls because one of the stable hands called in sick. I’m responsible for all of it and I do whatever it takes to make sure things run like clockwork.

I would never not do the work it takes to make Blackburn Farms a success and someone like Diane—who doesn’t work for anything—could never understand that.

When I don’t answer Diane’s question, she huffs and instead asks, “When will I see you again?”

“It’s foaling season. Probably not for a good long while.”

“Why do you have to be that way?” That gives me pause.

I don’t want to fight with her and I don’t appreciate having to provide an explanation when she knows the answer to her own question. Pivoting to face her but with one hand on the doorknob, I respond, “This is all we have, Diane. You know that. It’s worked fine for a long time, but I’ve got nothing more to offer.”

“Maybe I want more,” she says with challenge glinting in her eye.

“Then you need to look somewhere else.” Lifting my chin, I double down on my resolve because this isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation. “It’s not like you don’t see other men. This was never exclusive.”

“I only see other men because you won’t commit,” she whines.

Christ, I despise whiners. Can’t stand weakness in general. And I most definitely don’t like being manipulated. “I think this has run its course, Diane.”

She snorts, waving her hand as if to brush aside my statement. “You’ll be back.”

I don’t need her to acknowledge or agree to my suggestion. I also don’t agree with her prediction that I’ll be back, but I keep that to myself. I turn on my booted heel and walk out the door.

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