Page 1 of The Forbidden

CHAPTER 1

Kat

The rhythmic sound of hooves striking the soft earth in the training arena accompanies my instructions. “Sit back in your saddle, Eliza.”

I scrutinize the young rider post atop Bentley, one of Blackburn Farm’s lesson horses. The morning sun filters through the open doors at the south end, throwing slivers of dappled light across the ground. Bentley tosses his head, ears pinned back as they approach, and he tries to decide how menacing those splotches of pale color may be. Saddlebreds are spirited horses and some even consider them a little crazy. Bentley’s a good boy, but sometimes he gets easily spooked.

Which is what he does, skittering sideways to avoid the light and throwing Eliza slightly off balance.

The sudden motion from the big bay scares the young girl and she leans her body forward, a counterintuitive move that actually makes her less stable in the flat English saddle.

“You’re fine,” I say, my tone a mixture of discipline and calm instruction that horse training demands. “Get him back in a trot.”

The girl straightens.

“Trot,” she commands, and Bentley falls in line, his big head held high as he slips back into the cadence of alternately lifting each diagonal pair of legs. Eliza rises and falls in the saddle appropriately, bringing the gelding back under her command.

I stand in the center of the arena, my keen eyes observing every movement—the way she holds her hands, her posture, heels down and toes up—as Eliza guides Bentley around the edge, sticking close to the rail as she should.

“Good. Now bring him to a walk and two point,” I say.

“Whoa,” Eliza says with a slight pull on the reins and the horse slows. They plod along as Eliza stretches out of the saddle, legs straightening, body bent forward.

“One trip around and then you can bring him to his stall. Excellent ride.”

Eliza grins because that’s indeed high praise from me.

I start across the arena, intent on grabbing my water bottle. Eliza was my last lesson of the day and I’m looking forward to a long, hot shower. I haven’t had a break yet except for a quick pee, and I’m starved.

My phone buzzes in the side pocket of my riding jods and I pull it out. It’s Ethan, asking me to come up to his office at the main house. Such a request would ordinarily annoy me at the end of long hours in the barn, but I’ve got an extra well of compassion for my oldest brother these days. He’s been through so much lately that I’ll be cutting him lots of slack for the foreseeable future.

“I’m heading up to the main house,” I call out to Sara, one of the grooms waiting to help Eliza remove Bentley’s tack.

“Got it all covered, Kat,” she replies with a wave of her hand.

Outside of the training arena, I tip my face back to the May Kentucky sun and relish the late-afternoon warmth. The light hitting towering oaks casts long shadows across the verdant pastures, highlighting the vibrant greens of spring. The air is filled with the sweet scent of blooming wildflowers, freshly cut grass and bales of hay to feed the horses. It’s the smell of my favorite time of the year and I relish this quiet moment of solace in the bustling life of Blackburn Farms.

I’ve been at the barn since six this morning, working on lesson plans and making sure the schedule of horses was ready. It’s been a ten-hour day, which I’ll repeat tomorrow, and I’ll go to bed with a smile on my face because I’m doing what I love. Being a horse trainer is in my blood—I’m a Blackburn, after all—and our lineage has been producing and training the best saddlebreds in the world for over a hundred and seventy-five years, give or take a decade. This is what I was born to do.

My gaze sweeps over the rolling hills of our acreage, bordered by white rail fencing and dotted with grazing horses. In the distance, I can see the broodmare barn where Ethan has been burning the candle at both ends. This is his time of year… helping to bring into the world all the babies our breeding program produces, but that responsibility is just one of a million he has as the CEO of Blackburn Farms.

To add to his load, within the last six weeks, he learned he has a ten-year-old daughter he didn’t know about—the product of a drunken one-night stand with Alaine Mardraggon—enemy to our family by virtue of her last name. Sylvie was born and raised in France and Ethan only found out about her after her mother Alaine died of cancer. Since then, it’s been a bitter struggle with the Mardraggons over Sylvie’s custody.

It culminated in an ending none of us saw coming when Lionel Mardraggon, Sylvie’s grandfather, tried to kill her so he could assume control of the winery in France that Alaine left to her daughter. The thought of what that monster nearly did causes fury to well in me so hotly, I know I have the capacity to murder in defense of those I love. If Lionel Mardraggon were standing in front of me right now, I’d rip him apart with my bare hands. He’s a monster through and through.

As it stands, he’s in jail, charged with attempted murder, and I’m going to have to let the justice system do its thing.

So, yeah… Ethan’s been dealing with a lot and I’m happy to go up to the main house to see what he needs. I jump onto my Gator that I had custom painted in pink camo, a nod to my femininity that often gets overshadowed since I’m usually covered in horse hair and barn dust. I crank the motor and head off toward the main house, over a series of dirt and gravel paths that traverse the thousand acres of pastures, barns, training arenas and medical facilities that make up the Blackburn Farms enterprise.

Hundreds of horses and an army of grooms, stable hands, veterinarians, trainers, instructors and administrative staff, and Ethan is in charge of running it all. It’s a task he took on when our parents, Fi and Tommy Blackburn, decided it was time to retire and hand over the literal and metaphorical reins.

I see my brother Trey at one of the yearling barns, directing a tractor trailer loaded with hay. He and my other brother Wade are also trainers, but we pitch in to help wherever we’re needed. I expect Ethan asked Trey to oversee the deliveries today as he’s got his hands full dealing with this Lionel Mardraggon mess and the fallout it has caused for our family, but most of all, for Sylvie.

The main house comes into view, a symbol of homecoming to me. I was raised here, although I currently live in an apartment above one of the tack rooms. My need for independence at the age of nineteen meant I left the big house eight years ago, although I still return for meals throughout the week. Only Ethan and Sylvie live there now. My parents occupy a cottage on the farm, and Trey and Wade share a house in Shelbyville.

I pull my Gator alongside Miranda’s MINI Cooper. She’s been our housekeeper and cook for over twenty years and, as expected, I find her in the kitchen working on this evening’s meal. She’s breading pork chops and my stomach rumbles because that’s one of my favorite meals. She glances up as I walk in and gives me a pointed glare. “Boots off.”

Grinning sheepishly, I unlace my boots and toe them off, grabbing an apple out of the basket on the counter as I walk by. “What else are we having tonight?”

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