Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
Kat
H ustling through my shower, I ignore the rumbling in my belly. I haven’t eaten since breakfast because I’ve been going at a hundred miles an hour since I woke up at five a.m. I’m already bemoaning the fact I won’t be joining the family tonight for some of Miranda’s amazing meatloaf and mashed potatoes.
Agreeing to help Ethan with the medical management of the show horses was far more work than I’d anticipated, and I did a horrible job of planning out my day. Trying to manage the training schedule, actually training horses and giving lessons, and the host of administrative complications that come with it is a full-time job in and of itself. Add on the nightmare of managing the more than three hundred horses between the broodmares, foals, yearlings, studs, show horses, lesson horses and retired horses, it’s enough to make my eyes cross.
What I learned today is that I can’t bounce back and forth between the two. I tried to pour through the countless spreadsheets that track routine vet visits, supplements and vitamins, chiropractic appointments, floating teeth and other illnesses in between training and lessons, and it was a disaster. I learned today that I’m not a multitasker of any great magnitude so my game plan on how to manage my day has changed.
Before leaving the barn today, I worked out a feasible schedule to compress my training lessons and hand off some to the other instructors. I then opened up my afternoons to be able to work on all the administrative stuff, including the medical management. I vowed I would do that here in my apartment so I wouldn’t get distracted by the horses or the slew of people who are in and out of the barns each day. When it’s all said and done, I’m proud of myself for figuring this out. It’s vital that I’m able to help Ethan. Even if I have to put in twenty-hour days and sleep only four, I’ll do my part to take the burden off his shoulders.
And it’s with utter resolve and determination to include the unpleasant necessity of having to deal with Gabriel Mardraggon.
I’m already soured to our upcoming meeting this evening because his unwillingness to meet during the day means I’m missing Miranda’s meatloaf. I’ve been trying for three days to force a meeting, but it seems he’s as reluctant to work with me as I am with him.
Can’t say I blame either one of us, given our history.
After my shower, I work at breakneck speed to dry my hair enough that I can put it in a messy topknot. I don’t bother with makeup because I’m not trying to impress anyone and I slip into my favorite jeans before tugging on a Blackburn Farms T-shirt and a worn pair of Adidas. I glance at myself in the closet’s full-length mirror, smirking as I think of the contrast between my casual comfort and someone like Gabe Mardraggon who dresses in only the finest designer clothing. I suppose if I made an effort to dress nicer, he might see me as more professional, but I really don’t give a rat’s ass what he thinks of me. I’ll never care about that.
Glancing at my watch, I realize I’ve got enough time that I can probably swing through a drive-through for a hamburger on my way to see the Mardraggon. Nowhere near on par with Miranda’s cooking but at least my stomach won’t be threatening to eat itself.
I snag my keys, phone and purse before heading to the door. I switch off a tasseled lamp as I move past it, crossing the entire space in about ten steps.
My abode is small but full of charm and I can’t imagine living anywhere else. Yes, I live above the main tack room next to one of the training barns but this place is wholly mine, not only in possession but in character. I’ve spent time over the years upgrading and decorating the place, mostly by myself, but sometimes with Trey and Wade helping out with the heavier lifting. The walls are beadboard, painted a soft cream that contrasts beautifully with the natural wood beams that stretch across the ceiling. A squishy, deep-blue sofa adorned with throw pillows featuring horse motifs is the focal point of the living area which is only big enough to hold said couch. There’s a small, antique coffee table overloaded with The Saddle Horse Report and National Horseman that I really need to clean out.
Adjacent to the living room is the kitchen, separated by a breakfast bar made from reclaimed barn wood that Trey and Wade helped me install. The kitchen is practical yet charming, with open shelving that holds mismatched plates and cooking pots above the compact, four-burner stove.
My bedroom sits on the other side of a sliding barn door, reclaimed from one of our yearling barns that we renovated a few years ago. The space is so small it only fits my queen-size wrought-iron frame and one tiny wooden nightstand with a vintage coin glass lamp with a beaded shade.
It’s cozy but perfect for me.
When I throw open the front door, pausing to pat my back pocket to make sure I do indeed have my phone, even though I know in my head I picked it up just seconds ago, I’m brought up short by Sylvie standing on my stoop at the top of the wooden staircase. Her right hand is raised as if poised to knock.
She gives a startled yelp and then a sheepish grin. “You scared me.”
Laughing, I press my hand to my own beating heart. “Ditto. What’s up, kiddo?”
Her smile falters a tiny bit. “Can we talk?”
I don’t glance at my watch or try to calculate how this will cause me to miss a swing through a fast-food joint or even possibly be late to my meeting. I only see my niece, who I’ve known for just a handful of weeks but for whom I would lay down my life.
Brave, sweet Sylvie who has the weight of the world evident in her eyes but is still trying to keep my worry at bay by projecting a shining smile.
“Of course. Come in.” She slides by me and I set my purse, phone and keys on the kitchen counter. Sylvie moves to the blue couch and settles in. We’ve had a few movie nights here and I’m happy to see she’s comfortable in my place. I didn’t know I was born to be a doting aunt until I became one. I plop down on the opposite end, throw my arm over the back. “How was school today?”
I know she came here to talk about something specific but figured a little chitchat would be good. Today was her second day back as Ethan kept her out all of last week. Not only did he want Sylvie to have some more rest after her overnight hospital stay necessitated by the allergic reaction after her grandfather intentionally dosed her with penicillin, but Ethan knew the town would be rife with gossip following Lionel’s arrest. He wanted Sylvie to have time to settle into the notion that her grandfather is a very bad, evil man and people are going to be extremely interested in following this developing story.
Sylvie lifts a shoulder. “It was fine. I mean… most of the kids were nice but a few were assholes.”
God, she’s so cute cursing with her sweet French accent. I don’t chastise her. I’m the cool aunt who lets her get away with that stuff when times are tough and she’s been swept up in a shit show. Six weeks ago, her mother died. Five weeks ago, she came to live with Ethan, the father she’d never met, and with him, she inherited the motley Blackburn lot. It’s been a difficult adjustment, but Sylvie is starting to flourish. Then, ten days ago, her own grandfather tried to kill her, all so he could gain control of the winery his daughter Alaine had left to her daughter.
My inclination is to pull Sylvie into my arms to comfort her, but she looks at me with pleading eyes, not to help her fracture but to be strong. “Bullies feed on reactions, my dear sweet niece. Starve them of it, and they lose their power.”
She considers my words and nods. “I know.” She then lifts her chin. “It doesn’t bother me.”
“That’s my warrior girl,” I praise.
“Much,” she adds on. “It doesn’t bother me much.”
“You wouldn’t be human if it didn’t affect you in some way.”
Her gaze drops to her hands and I know she wants to get to the heart of the matter, the reason she sought me out. When it comes, I’m not prepared for it.
Her green eyes—same as Ethan’s, same as mine, same as all my siblings and my sweet Irish mom—rise to meet mine. “I know you’re going to see Gabe. I overheard you and Dad talking.”
“Oh,” I murmur, mind racing to the conversations I’ve had with Ethan the last few days about this meeting with Gabe and whether we specifically talked about Sylvie, or rather… Sylvie and Gabe’s relationship.
“I was wondering how he is.”
“How who is?” I ask, not trying to play dumb but to give myself more time to make sure I will say the right things. Gabe is dangerous territory to discuss.
Sylvie rolls her eyes, knowing I’m being deliberately obtuse. “I want to know how Uncle Gabe is. I want to see him.”
“Oh, wow. Um… okay, that’s not up to me, kiddo. That’s your dad’s call.”
“I know,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest and settling back against the cushion. “He doesn’t want me to see him, but I thought maybe you could talk to my dad. And since you’re going to be seeing my uncle today, I was hoping you could… you know… let him know that I don’t blame him.”
I ignore that for the moment. “Honey… have you really talked to your dad about this? Does he know how you feel?”
She shakes her head. “I only asked once but he’s got a lot of worries on him. I don’t think he wants to hear that I want to see Uncle Gabe because he hates the Mardraggons so much.”
“He’s just protecting you.”
Sylvie’s face screws up with frustration. “Yes, I know. But I don’t believe Gabe had anything to do with it. Do you?”
I can’t tell Sylvie that I probably know Gabriel Mardraggon better than any Blackburn does, including herself, and while what I know gives me far more reason to despise him than any of the others, I truly can’t see him being involved in a plot to kill Sylvie. I know he was close to Alaine. I know he loves Sylvie.
I shake my head. “No, I don’t think Gabe had any idea Lionel was going to do that. But it’s very complicated, Sylvie. That’s his father and he will be loyal to his family. Maybe not to Lionel in particular but to the Mardraggon name. Gabe’s interest in protecting that worries your dad.”
“But Uncle Gabe wouldn’t hurt me,” Sylvie insists, and my heart constricts painfully as I see how tortured she is about this. “He’s the last tie to my mother.”
“I know,” I murmur, reaching over to rest my hand on her shoulder. “Tell you what… I’ll talk to your dad after I meet with Gabe, okay? We’ll try to figure out something.”
“And you’ll tell Uncle Gabe I don’t blame him?” she presses.
“Of course I will. In fact, would you like to write him a note and I’ll give it to him?”
Sylvie’s eyes light up and she nods exuberantly. “Yes, that would be awesome.”
I have no clue if Ethan would approve of this, and I fully intend to let him know what I’m doing.
But after I hand the note over.
This is important to Sylvie and I’ll take the heat if it pisses Ethan off. But at this point, I can’t see the harm in making her feel good about maintaining the hope of a relationship with the one person who loved her mother the way she did.