Page 2 of The Forbidden

“Green beans, roasted potatoes and creamed corn,” she replies as she coats a chop in a seasoned blend of breadcrumbs and flour.

“Biscuits?”

“Sourdough rolls. I’m trying a new recipe.”

I shoot her a wink. “It will be fabulous. Can’t wait.”

Taking a bite of the crisp red apple, I make my way out of the kitchen, down the hall to the parqueted main foyer, and right into Ethan’s office. A portrait of our great-great-great-grandfather, Robert Blackburn, hangs behind the solid oak desk. He’s the patriarch who built this house in 1902.

The office is a stark contrast to the barn—orderly, quiet, a place of decision and contemplation. Ethan looks as at home bent over paperwork as he does helping to deliver a breech foal. He’s a man who can do it all and has my utmost respect on top of my undying love.

He looks up as I enter, his green eyes dulled with frustration, but he still manages a smile. “How was your day?”

I plop down in a chair opposite his desk. “Typical. Sixteen lessons. How was yours? You know, between managing an empire, birthing foals, dealing with a homicidal Mardraggon, and raising the cutest little girl east of the Mississippi.”

Ethan’s shoulders relax as he laughs, a rare moment of lightness breaking through his usual stoicism. “You mean the cutest little girl in the United States.”

“Can’t say,” I reply, considering another bite of my apple. “I haven’t been west of the Mississippi.”

“Well, I have and it’s time wasted,” he mutters, pushing aside a stack of papers he’d been reading.

“You look tired,” I say, a casual observation and not one meant as a put-down. I take a small bite of the apple.

Ethan rubs a hand over his stubbled jaw, his fingers lingering as if trying to soothe the weariness. He exhales slowly, the weight of countless restless nights reflected in his eyes. “Sleep hasn’t been easy,” he admits as he leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his movement.

“How’s the kiddo today?”

“She’s good.” I note that Ethan’s voice doesn’t sound strained, which means he’s telling me the truth. “She’s at Marcie’s now.”

Marcie is Sylvie’s school principal, but more importantly, Ethan’s girlfriend. I expect she’ll be more than that one day, but she’s been a godsend the last few weeks. Not only did she single-handedly help bridge the gap between Sylvie and our family—due to all the lies the Mardraggons had been feeding her—but Marcie has managed to bring out a softer side to my brother that I haven’t seen before. Even with the weight of the world on his shoulders, for the first time I can recall, he’s actually incredibly happy—despite the shit show going on in his life.

Guess love works a miracle now and then.

“Listen,” Ethan says tentatively and picks up a spiral notebook. “I hate to ask this of you, but I was wondering if you might take over managing the medical on all the horses. Being in the middle of foaling season and then dealing with all this Lionel mess, and trying to figure out the winery business—”

“Say no more.” I lean across the desk and grab the notebook from him. “I’ve got it covered. What else can I do?”

“I don’t know.” He huffs, waving his hands at the stacks of papers strewn across the desktop. “I’m trying to parcel stuff out as I come across it.”

I take in the tight lines on Ethan’s handsome face. He has the same black hair and green eyes as I do.

Same as Trey, Wade, and my twin, Abby, all of us siblings bearing such a striking resemblance, no one had a doubt that Sylvie was Ethan’s daughter when she showed up in court that day bearing the same raven hair and ferny eyes as ours.

“What’s your biggest source of frustration?” I ask, setting the notebook aside and chomping on my apple again. I chew quickly and swallow just as fast to keep the conversation flowing.

“This fucking trust that Alaine left,” he grumbles.

“That says you have to manage the winery with Gabe,” I lament.

Ethan nods with a mirthless smile. “It galled me before, having to work with the scumbag, but now it makes my skin crawl knowing…”

His words trail off, but I can fill them in. Knowing that Gabe’s father, Lionel, tried to kill Sylvie.

I shouldn’t have to point it out, and I hate doing it because I can’t stand Gabe Mardraggon either, yet I find myself saying, “But he is the one who turned his father into the police. We’d have never known what happened without him.”

“Yeah, I know, and I hate to give the bastard credit, but it still doesn’t mean I have to like working with him.”

I’d hate to work with the asshole too, but that doesn’t stop me from saying, “Let me handle all the winery stuff with Gabe.”

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