Page 2 of The Feud

It’s a chilly April morning and while it will warm up significantly throughout the day, I still need to crank the heat in my truck. By the time I hit the north side of Shelbyville, the hot air is flowing nicely. I drive slowly through the small town—my birthplace. The early-morning light casts a soft glow over the storefronts lining the main street. Shops that I’ve been in and out of hundreds of times throughout my life. Vintage signs hang above cozy cafés and family-owned retailers, their windows adorned with displays of local crafts and antiques.

Leaving the town center I pass by the Shelby County Courthouse, its grand, redbrick facade and towering white columns a marker of the town’s rich history. In a few hours, the sidewalks will be filled with pedestrians and children will play in a nearby park. It’s an idyllic place to live and I can’t imagine being anywhere else.

As I continue out of town, the landscape gradually transforms, the neat rows of houses and businesses giving way to open fields and the iconic rolling hills of Kentucky. The early sun casts long, undulating shadows over the lush greenery, creating a tapestry of light and dark. Fences, painted in pristine white, stretch as far as the eye can see, marking the boundaries of prestigious horse farms.

My eyes sweep across the sprawling estates, each a realm unto itself with clusters of old oak trees, verdant fields and sparkling creeks. Majestic barns, with their red or dark wood facades, stand proudly among the hills. Horses grazing peacefully dot the landscape, their coats gleaming in the sun. The sight of these magnificent animals, with their elegant strides and noble bearing, is a testament to the region’s deep equestrian roots.

As I approach our family’s land, I welcome the familiar swell of pride and belonging. Blackburn Farms is a legacy, a symbol of a lifelong bond with the American Saddlebred stemming back six generations to the mid-1800s. Enclosing the pastures is a network of fencing painted a brilliant white, which gleams with cool morning dew. Built to be both practical and aesthetic, their crisp lines run parallel to the land’s contours and are an iconic feature of Shelby County and the numerous saddlebred and thoroughbred farms.

I pass the entrance to the main barn, an architectural wonder that sits on a high hill a quarter of a mile in the distance. Its white facade matches the pristine fencing. The roof is adorned with multiple steeples, each capped with a patinaed weather vane. The arched doors on the southern end are already wide open and the stable hands should be hard at work feeding and watering the competition horses stabled there. Soon the groomers and trainers will be in to start working them in the outdoor arena adjacent to the structure. Across the top of the barn, rows of windows and open hayloft doors trimmed in black add to the combination of rustic elegance. The use of cross-bracing on the doors adds both strength and character to the structure, a nod to traditional craftsmanship.

Thirty-seven years I’ve lived on this land and it never fails to take my breath away, especially the main barn. And while I’ll spend a good amount of time there today, I drive on past and take the next marked driveway leading to my home.

It feels weird… calling it my home, even though that’s exactly what it is. It’s where I was raised, along with my two brothers and two sisters. Up until about six months ago, my parents lived here. The imposing, ten-thousand-square-foot Georgian mansion has been the ancestral home to the last four generations of Blackburns, and now I’m the sole resident.

My mother and father, Tommy and Fi Blackburn, are off traveling the world. They’ve moved into a small cottage on the back acreage of the land, insisting I become the man of the house since I’m running the horse empire. For the last handful of years, I’ve been managing the family enterprise under my father’s watchful eye, but now I’m squarely on my own and I don’t mind the pressure at all.

The house is a two-story structure built with rich terra-cotta brick that contrasts harmoniously with the white trim. At the heart of the home is a grand entrance, accentuated by a white portico with a pediment that crowns the space, providing a sheltered welcome. Four slender columns support the portico, each featuring the smooth, round forms of the Ionic order, capped with graceful spiraling volutes. Flanking the entrance are evenly spaced, double-hung, sashed windows with slender muntin dividing the panes, a hallmark of Georgian style. Each window is framed by black shutters and above the entrance, a decorative half-moon window invites the eastern light into the foyer.

The home’s symmetry is emphasized by two wings extending from the main block, mirroring one another in size and form. The hipped roof supports two massive brick chimneys above each wing which tells of the presence of grand fireplaces on either side of the house, a central feature in traditional Georgian architecture.

Needing to grab a quick shower, I pull up next to the detached three-car garage. I don’t bother parking inside and most definitely don’t worry about locking my truck as I hop out. In the kitchen, our housekeeper and cook, Miranda Phelps, is at the oven, pulling out a batch of homemade biscuits. Even though I’m the only Blackburn currently living under this roof, my siblings all work on the farm and will be coming by for breakfast, as is their almost daily habit.

We work seven days a week because that’s just how much work there is to be done.

“Smells heavenly,” I say to Miranda, attempting to reach past her to grab a piping hot biscuit from the tray. She smacks my hand, hard, and I stifle a yelp.

“You keep your hands to yourself,” she snarls, and I obey. Nothing much intimidates me but Miranda has been a fixture in the Blackburn home since I was four years old, and I know better than to tangle with her. “I’ll have these stuffed with ham, eggs and cheese soon enough. Go on, get washed up, you ol’ alley cat.”

I snort but do as she says. In less than twenty minutes, I’m showered, skipping a shave, and I’ve put on my standard barn work attire of jeans, muck boots and a long-sleeve T-shirt over an athletic pullover to ward against the spring chill.

In the kitchen, I find a basket with the biscuits individually wrapped. “Take those down to the barn with you. Kat called and said they wouldn’t be up to the main house this morning.”

“Why not?” I ask, picking up the wicker basket by its wood handle.

“Said that someone was coming to look at Lady Beatrice.”

“Fuck,” I mutter, having forgotten that potential buyers for one of our best show horses have an early-morning appointment. While any one of my siblings can handle showing the mare’s qualities, I handle the pricing and negotiations. Between losing the two horses last night and drowning my misery in Diane, it had completely slipped my mind.

“Language, mister,” Miranda clucks.

“Sorry,” I mutter as I hurry outside and into my truck. Unwrapping a biscuit, I drive not back onto the main road but along a connector dirt lane that cuts through the massive acreage. Multiple passageways like this exist over the thousand acres and are mostly traversed by electric utility vehicles and farm trucks.

Such a UTV sits at the back of the barn when I arrive and I recognize it as my sister Kat’s. She lives in an apartment over one of the tack buildings near the lesson barn and had the camo paint job redone in shades of pink.

Nabbing the basket of biscuits, I hop out of the truck and enter the barn through the small office. Placing the breakfast sandwiches on the desk, I finish my meal and quickly wash my hands in the small bathroom off to the side.

I step into the barn, my eyes adjusting to the slightly dimmer light. The interior of the massive structure holds a double row of back-to-back stalls—thirty-two in all—and it’s where all the show horses we train reside. In fact, two of Diane’s horses are housed here. The perimeter of the barn is wide enough that five horses can ride side by side and not touch each other, the walls, or the stalls, and it’s where most of the competitors take their lessons from any of the handful of trainers on staff.

Kat is just such a trainer and is currently trotting Lady Beatrice around the perimeter while two women watch from a row of benches in the center. I recognize one of them as the mother of Carmen, one of Blackburn’s show riders. I don’t train anymore, but I attend most of the shows and know our farm’s customers. The woman’s name has slipped my memory but I know the show riders because I take great pride in them.

The women look my way, clearly sisters, both very pretty with red hair and blue eyes. I lift my chin to acknowledge them but cut the other way, intent on making my rounds to ensure the morning barn chores are well underway. Kat can handle showing the horse we’re selling and she’s just as qualified as I am to decide if the horse is right for Carmen. If this visit turns into a true purchase interest, I’ll meet with them to discuss pricing.

The morning flies by but that’s typical. There’s never enough time to get everything done. After completing my work at the main barn, I head to the lesson facility to watch one of the instructors I hired last week work with a new student and I’m pleased with her so far. I look in on the horses there, including an overall check of the barn itself. I’m constantly pulling on latches, checking stall doors and eyeballing the general maintenance to make sure nothing needs attending.

From there, I go to the broodmare barn, which is where I intend to spend the rest of my day. We have two full-time veterinarians on staff and two part-timers who cover foaling season, along with two dozen hands who are on shift around the clock to help with the births.

Parking in a small gravel lot built to accommodate the influx of workers from March to June as the mares give birth, I take a quick moment to answer some texts. My head is still bent over my phone as I slide out of my truck.

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