Page 3 of The Feud

“Excuse me.”

I glance up as I’m closing the door and pocket my keys. A man in a very expensive-looking suit stands there, tall, tanned, his hair impeccably groomed. Extending a hand, he introduces himself. “Mr. Blackburn… I’m Todd Gillam, an attorney from Louisville.”

“What can I do for you?” I ask as I shake his hand. It doesn’t worry me to find a lawyer here as Blackburn Farms is steeped in dozens of business deals both in and out of the horse world. Politics too for that matter.

Besides, I’m never one to worry unless given a good reason to. I have too much other shit on my plate to waste bandwidth on unrealized concerns.

The man looks around, taking in the scenery. “Beautiful place you have here.”

“Also a busy place,” I reply with a smile. “I’ve got a million things to do so…”

“Right, of course.” Mr. Gillam holds up his briefcase and nods toward the barn. “Do you by any chance have someplace private we can chat for a few moments? I promise I won’t take up too much of your time.”

“I have legions of attorneys that handle the farm’s legal matters—”

“This is private, Mr. Blackburn.”

Something about his tone sets me on edge and while I’d like to run the guy off, my gut tells me that isn’t feasible.

“Yeah… sure.” I nod over my shoulder toward the barn, leading Mr. Gillam inside. There’s an office here where the staff vets and other medical personnel keep records and write notes during each foaling.

Fortunately, it’s empty when I enter and I motion the him in before closing the door for privacy. I watch as he puts his briefcase on the old metal desk and pulls out a manila folder.

Turning back to face me, Mr. Gillam says, “What I’m about to tell you is going to come as a big shock, Mr. Blackburn. I’d appreciate if you’d listen to the entire story—”

“How about you just get on with the story?” I reach out and place one hand on the doorknob, an indication that I have better things to do and need to get going.

The attorney nods, tapping a finger along the edge of the folder in his hand. “Almost ten years ago, you had an affair with Alaine Mardraggon.”

For a moment the words make no sense, but as he stares at me with laser focus, I finally understand what he means. “I hardly think a drunk hookup in the coat closet of the country club would constitute an affair.”

Mr. Gillam nods as if to say touché but is otherwise unperturbed by my correction. “Ms. Mardraggon became pregnant after that encounter. She gave birth to a daughter named Sylvie.” When I don’t flinch or show any reaction at all, he says with emphasis, “Your daughter.”

“Bullshit,” I growl, a low, rumbled snarl of denial. “I don’t know what Alaine’s game is or what she’s after—”

“Ms. Mardraggon died at seven thirty-eight this morning.” Those words have the effect of a bucket of ice water poured over my head. “She hired me to represent Sylvie and my instructions were to come to you upon Alaine’s death and let you know about your daughter.”

My ears buzz and my head swims. Legs feeling like they are about to give way, I lock my knees and brace my hand on the doorjamb. “Come again?”

“She succumbed to cancer.”

“I didn’t know,” I murmur. Of course, how would I? I haven’t seen Alaine since that drunken one-night stand. She lived in France. I live in Kentucky. We pretended it didn’t happen and I’d all but forgotten about it.

“Look,” Mr. Gillam says with a sympathetic smile, handing me the folder, which I ignore. “Everything you need is in here, but this is the short story. It’s not lost on any citizen of Shelby County that the Blackburn and Mardraggon families have no love for each other.”

“Our families despise one another,” I say. It’s the party line and I quote it to perfection.

“Which does make it quite fascinating that you and Alaine had… an interlude… but that animosity between your families is why she kept Sylvie a secret from you. She refused to name you as the father on the birth certificate and no one knew, not even her family members, of Sylvie’s paternity.”

I feel like I might pass out and that’s not something that has ever happened. “How can you even be sure—”

“Trust me. I’m sure Sylvie’s yours, but you can take a paternity test. Regardless, Ms. Mardraggon hired me months ago when she was diagnosed, and it was her intention that you take Sylvie when she died.”

Mr. Gillam pushes the folder forward again and I’m sure I look at it as if it’s a bomb about to explode. “Inside the folder is a letter to you from Alaine, along with the birth certificate. As instructed, I delivered a similar letter to Alaine’s parents not long ago, as well as an amended revocable trust drafted by an estate lawyer she hired that provides for Sylvie. That’s of no consequence to you, but I’ve been assured, there’s plenty of money to raise—”

“I don’t need any Mardraggon money, and I’m not raising some kid who’s probably not even mine. This is ridiculous.”

“Regardless,” he says, patience oozing from his entire bearing. “A preliminary custody hearing has been scheduled for Monday. You’re required to attend and make your intentions known. There’s also a subpoena for your attendance in that folder. If you don’t want the child, I’m sure the Mardraggons will petition for custody. For now, Sylvie will stay with them until the hearing.”

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