Page 22 of The Feud

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.”

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