Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
Tommy
Blackburn Farms, Kentucky– Summer 1978
I shoved another shirt into my suitcase, barely bothering to fold it.
The damn thing was already stuffed full, but my mother had been in here no fewer than three times, tsking at me about forgetting something important.
Long-sleeved shirts, because Ireland could get chilly, even in the summer.
A proper coat, because Ireland was wet.
A Bible, because Ireland was Catholic—though I was pretty sure they had their own supply of those.
Fuck if I wanted to go.
This was the summer between my freshman and sophomore years at the University of Kentucky.
It was supposed to be the summer where I drank too much, slept too little and chased every girl back home in Shelbyville who so much as looked my way.
Instead, I was packing for a summer working abroad like some schoolboy being shipped off to learn manners.
Granted, my manners had been decidedly lacking as of late so my parents had decided enough is enough.
I shoved the suitcase shut and cursed when the zipper caught.
“Language, son.”
I turned to see my father standing in the doorway, arms crossed.
Thomas Blackburn Senior, the man who cast the longest damn shadow in the state of Kentucky.
He was a big man—strong, his hands weathered by hard work with the horses.
He was the toughest man I knew and also the fairest.
It’s why I couldn’t grumble too much about them sending me away.
The last little stunt I pulled landed me in jail for joyriding.
Not a crime that would ruin my future but enough of a wake-up call to my parents that I needed more structure this summer.
“You finished sulking yet?” he asked, voice deep and rumbling.
I bit back my irritation and yanked the zipper the rest of the way closed.
“Not sure I’d call it sulking,” I muttered.
“Oh?” He stepped into the room, his presence alone demanding attention.
“What would you call it?”
“Maybe disappointment,” I said, sitting on the edge of my bed.
“I had plans this summer, Dad. You know—fun ones.”
His lips twitched like he was fighting a smirk.
“Drinking, wasting money, chasing women?”
“That about covers it.”
He shook his head, rubbing his jaw.
“That’s exactly why you’re going to Ireland. You’re too damn comfortable, Tommy. Too used to having everything handed to you. It’s time you start earning something.”
I clenched my jaw.
I hated that he was right.
Blackburn Farms had been in our family since before the Civil War, providing our beloved American Saddlebred horses to Union troops and becoming the most preeminent breeder in the nation.
Our empire had grown and flourished, surviving through economic collapse and industry shifts, and here I was—the only heir to a multimillion-dollar family business, more concerned with having a good time than preparing for my future.
But damn it, I was only nineteen.
I had time.
“I’m working toward something,” I said, not quite believing it myself.
Dad laughed sharply.
“Boy, you’re working toward getting yourself in more trouble than I have connections to bail you out.”
I didn’t argue.
He sighed, pacing the room like he was trying to rein in his frustration.
Finally, he stopped, pinning me with a cutting look.
“You’re going to run this place one day, Tommy. You’re the only one who can.”
I knew that.
Had always known that.
The weight of it sat square on my shoulders, even if I pretended not to feel it.
Blackburn Farms wasn’t just any horse farm—it was the best saddlebred breeding farm in the country with the finest bloodlines in existence.
And it was all going to be mine.
Dad exhaled sharply.
“That’s why you’re going to Glenhaven. You need to learn more than what’s in your backyard.”
I scowled, running a hand through my hair.
“We breed saddlebreds, Dad. Not thoroughbreds. What the hell am I supposed to learn from a racing farm?”
His eyes narrowed.
“Breeding is breeding, boy. And if you think you don’t have anything to learn, you’re dumber than I thought.”
I bit my tongue because I wasn’t dumb—I just didn’t care about thoroughbreds.
Dad sat on the edge of my desk, arms crossed.
“Glenhaven is one of the top breeding and training farms in Ireland. Their horses are legends, just like ours. Rory Conlan, the man running their training side, was a friend of mine back in college. One of the best horsemen I’ve ever met. If he can’t get you to grow up this summer, there’s no hope for you.”
His words were in jest, because I knew damn well my dad could easily take me in hand.
He was sending me away, far from the comforts of home, and forcing me to become a man without looking to him or my mom for help or guidance.
They were throwing me into the deep end of the pool, assuming I’d quickly learn to swim and return home a changed man.
I sighed, slouching back onto the bed.
“So I’m getting saddled with some old friend of yours who will make me muck stalls all summer?”
Dad smirked.
“Likely.”
I groaned.
“You’ll live.”
That was still up for debate.
?
We pulled out of the long driveway, past miles of rolling pastures lined with pristine white fences.
In the distance, the grand main barn stood atop the highest hill, its steepled roof silhouetted against the early-morning sky.
I didn’t want to leave it.
Despite all my bitching, this was home.
These were my horses, my land, my future.
And I was getting shipped off like some damn boarding school brat.
The radio hummed low in the background, the steady rhythm of tires on asphalt filling the gaps between static and music.
Then, like a beacon of salvation, Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London” crackled through the speakers.
A grin tugged at my lips as I reached for the dial, twisting it up.
“‘Aaoo, werewolves of London!’” Zevon howled, the beat kicking in, and for a moment, it almost felt like summer again.
But my father, ever the killjoy, grunted and turned the volume right back down with a flick of his wrist.
“Christ, Tommy, you call this music? Sounds like a man stranglin’ a cat.”
I huffed out a laugh, shaking my head.
“It’s a hit song, Dad. Number one a few weeks ago.”
“So’s that Gibb boy and his whinin’ disco noise, but that don’t mean I gotta listen to it,” he shot back.
“You boys and your nonsense music.”
“It’s not nonsense,” I argued, though I knew better than to press it.
Dad was a Johnny Cash and Merle Haggard kind of man, and anything that didn’t come out of a steel guitar or a storytelling ballad was garbage to him.
We fell into a comfortable silence, the road stretching ahead, the tires humming beneath us.
I watched the pastures pass, the rolling green hills I’d spent my entire life on.
And yet, by tomorrow, I’d be in another country entirely, working a job I didn’t ask for.
Dad tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, exhaling through his nose.
“Gas is up to seventy cents a gallon.”
I glanced over at him, raising a brow.
“Yeah? What was it before?”
“Was under fifty not too long ago,” he muttered.
“Inflation’s got everything climbing. Feed’s up, wages are up, costs to run the farm—damn near double what they were five years ago.”
I didn’t say anything.
I wasn’t oblivious—I knew times were tighter than they used to be.
But in my head, Blackburn Farms had always been untouchable.
“It ain’t the end of the world,” he continued, reading my silence.
“We’re still strong. But things change, and if you’re not payin’ attention, it’ll slip right through your fingers before you even realize it.”
I shifted in my seat, staring out the window.
“That why you’re sendin’ me off?” I asked, my tone a little sharper than I meant it to be.
“Because you think I’m not payin’ attention?”
Dad sighed, adjusting his grip on the wheel.
“I’m sending you because it’ll be good for you.”
“Coulda been good for me right here,” I muttered.
“Maybe,” he allowed.
“But this will be better. Trust me.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but I knew deep down that he wasn’t wrong.
He glanced at me, his expression softer than I expected.
“Tommy, I know you work. I know you know horses. You make good grades in college. But workin’ under your own father, in your own backyard, that’s easy. You always got a safety net. This? This is different. You go to Glenhaven, you prove yourself to men who don’t give a damn about your last name. You’ll see a different side of the business, a different breed. You might even learn something worth bringing back home.”
I gave him the side-eye.
“You just want me outta your hair for the summer.”
Dad chuckled, shaking his head.
“Nah. I’d rather have you here. But sometimes, the best lessons ain’t learned where you’re comfortable.”
I let that sit for a moment, still resisting, still wanting to hold on to my frustration, but it was hard when he wasn’t lecturing me—he was just telling me how it was.
“You’ll be fine,” he added, tapping the wheel with his fingers.
“And who knows, you might even love it.”
I snorted skeptically.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t bet on that.”
“Always stubborn,” he murmured.
“I expect you to do me proud over there.”
I stared at the road ahead.
“Glenhaven is a dynasty just like Blackburn. They do things different, yeah, but that’s why you need to see it. One day, when you’re running this place, you’ll understand that knowledge is power.”
I stayed quiet.
He continued to drum his fingers on the steering wheel.
“Besides, if you’re lucky, you’ll find something worth your time over there.”
I snorted.
“Like what? A woman with an accent?”
Dad chuckled.
“A pretty girl with a cute accent? There could be worse things.”
When we pulled up to the airport, I felt the first pang of reality settle in.
This was happening.
Dad threw the truck into park and turned to me, his expression unreadable.
“Last chance to tell me you’re excited about this.”
I gave him a flat look.
He grinned.
“Figured as much.”
I grabbed my suitcase and stepped out.
The air smelled different here—too sterile, too far removed from the pastures of home.
Dad got out too, and for a second, we just stood there.
Then, in a rare show of something deeper than words, he clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder.
“You’re a Blackburn,” he said, his voice steady.
“Remember that.”
I swallowed, nodding.
And with one last glance at the life I was leaving behind, I turned and walked into the airport.
Not knowing that the summer ahead would change my life forever.