Page 55 of The Feud

Grinning, I shoot back, Smartass, followed by a picture of Renault. I’m getting ready to surprise Sylvie. Her bus should be here soon.

I can’t fucking stand Gabe Mardraggon, but the asshole came through for Sylvie. He arranged everything with Esteban to get the dog the necessary veterinary clearance and even paid for private air transport—most likely on a Mardraggon jet—to Kentucky. I just picked him up at the Louisville Airport a few hours ago.

For some reason, I had assumed that Renault would be a purebred dog of some distinction but truth is, he’s a bit of a mutt. I think I see terrier in him but he’s medium size with a shaggy tan coat, a scruffy beard and expressive brown eyes. Both his ears are black and his tail thumps happily against the bottom of the kennel.

I’ll send more pictures later. I shoot that off to Marcie and tuck my phone in my pocket after exiting the truck. I wish she could be here to see this but she’ll be at the school for a few more hours and I can’t wait to give Sylvie her dog. She has no clue he’s here, and my daughter, cool as a cucumber and poised as a debutante—is either going to lose her shit or she’s going to maintain her composure. It could go either way.

I hope she loses her shit. That little girl needs to let go.

Attaching the leash to Renault’s collar, I have to coax him out of the truck with treats as I quickly learned he doesn’t understand a thing I’m saying. At first I thought he was dumb and untrained, but then it hit me—he probably only knows French commands. I googled how to say “sit” in his native language at the airport to test the theory and his ass hit the tile in the private terminal without hesitation.

I’ll need Sylvie to teach everyone in the family how we give him commands, or we could teach him English. He certainly seems bright enough to learn all over again.

Renault prances with me down the driveway to wait for the bus. It’s hard to remember that just ten days ago, Sylvie wasn’t speaking to any of us and was secretly meeting with Rosemund. Since Marcie got involved, she’s has become a completely different girl who is polite, has a wicked sense of humor and is slowly opening up to all of us.

The sound of the school bus chugging down the curvy country road has me almost giddy to see Sylvie’s face. “Assis,” I say to Renault, pronounced ah-see (thank you, Google!), and his butt hits the grass.

The bus rolls to a slow stop, red lights flashing, and the doors creak open. I nod at the bus driver, an older fellow I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting. He smiles at me and waits as Sylvie exits. She’s laughing at something someone says, her gaze back that way and she waves goodbye to her friends.

When she turns to come down the steps, her eyes land first on me, then slide to Renault. Because I was waiting for Sylvie’s reaction, I am not prepared for what I believed to be a very well-behaved dog to go apeshit when he sees his little girl. He lunges toward her, ripping the leash right out of my hand. The mutt flies up the steps, jumps right at Sylvie so she sits down hard on the top step, and licks her face wildly.

“Fuck,” I mutter as I rush forward, but it’s Sylvie’s peals of laughter that tell me everything is okay. I glance at the driver, who’s grinning. “Sorry.”

“No worries,” he says with a wave of his hand.

“Come on, Renault. Assis. Assis.” I take his leash to try to pull him away but he’s having none of it and Sylvie has her arms wrapped around him. “Sylvie… help me get him out of the bus.”

Sylvie utters a few French commands and with me pulling and her pushing, we get Renault off the bus. She immediately shrugs out of her backpack and drops to the grass, lying on her back as her dog flops on top of her. She speaks to him in a flurry of her native language as she scratches him all over and the dog’s tail whips back and forth in ecstasy.

I pull out my phone, snap a couple of pictures to send to Marcie and show the family, and then watch as my daughter reunites with a piece of home I managed to get for her.

When she finally tips her head backward to look at me, there are no tears but there is something akin to affection that I see for the first time. “Merci, Papa.” I don’t speak French but I know what Papa means and it’s the first time she’s directly referenced me as her father. “Or, would you like me to call you Dad?” she asks.

I swallow hard past the lump in my throat. “I like them both. Whatever you want.”

Sylvie rolls to her side and bounces up from the ground. She unleashes Renault and I almost object but with a one-word command, the dog heels right at her side. She brushes grass off her jeans and then to my utter surprise, flings her arms around my waist, pressing her cheek to the bottom of my chest. She doesn’t say a word but the silent hug is even better. The fact that she’s showing physical affection makes me feel on top of the world.

I wrap my arms around her and relish this time until she pulls away. “How did you get him?” she asks, her hand absently rubbing his head.

I could take all the credit for it but no sense in lying. “I worked with your uncle Gabe and we flew him here. Esteban helped too.”

“I can’t believe it,” she says, and now I hear emotion warbling her words. Her gaze drops to Renault and she murmurs, “It feels like a little bit of my old home in my new home.”

My heart clenches for this kid, ripped away from the place in the world she loved the most, losing her mother who she was very close to, and forced into a new way of life. Granted, it’s a good life, but the emotional toll has been heavy.

“Come on,” I say, my hand on her shoulder. “Let’s grab some cookies and we can sit out back for a while before I have to get back to work.”

This wasn’t planned but I want to spend one-on-one time with Sylvie, especially since this gift has opened her up some. Selfishly, I want to take advantage of it.

Miranda quickly fixes us up cookies and a fresh bowl of water for Renault. Esteban sent his toys and a bag of his food, but he’ll have to be titrated on a new food since we don’t have the French brand here. I’ll take them both to a PetSmart this weekend.

Sylvie plays catch with Renault for a bit in the backyard. She walks him up to the edge of the pasture fence where some of the retired horses graze and he looks at them curiously. I should be on edge that he might bolt after them, but I’ve watched Sylvie and she has done an amazing job training him, so I trust she has control.

When she’s settled back on the patio with me, Renault lapping at his water, I ask Sylvie, “Did you do all of his training?”

She nods. “Esteban helped teach me, but yes… I’m the one who worked with him. He’s very good inside, so can he stay inside with us? Can he stay in my room?”

“Of course,” I reply, actually not having even considered that far. We’ve had dogs on the farm before but never one in the house as a pet. “Does that mean he will want to get on the furniture?”

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