Page 16 of The Feud

“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.

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