The Feud, page 18
The sweet scent of her perfume fills my senses and the softness of her lips is intoxicating. As our lips touch, I taste the sweetness of her lip gloss, a hint of strawberry. But more than that, I taste the rush of adrenaline and anticipation that comes with kissing a woman like Marcie DeLeon.
The only sound is our shared breath and the breeze kicks up a soft rustle of leaves but as my tongue slides into her mouth, the only thing I can hear is the thundering of my own heart. Time seems to stand still, but then Marcie moans and it breaks the sweetness of the moment because my entire body reacts to that symphony of desire. I regretfully pull back before I toss her over my shoulder and haul her into her bedroom.
Her dark lashes lay against her skin and I wait for her lids to flutter open, those blue eyes hazy with dreams unfulfilled. She smiles and murmurs, “That was some kiss.”
“Yes, it was,” I agree as I take a step back. But I don’t want her to think I’m not interested in more, so I ask, “What are you doing for dinner? Can I take you somewhere?”
Marcie tosses her head toward the door. “I put a pork loin in the Crock-Pot this morning. Feel like eating a home-cooked meal instead?”
“Only a fool would say no,” I reply.
Laughing, Marcie digs her keys out of her purse to unlock the door and I follow her inside. Over the next twenty minutes, Marcie serves me a beer and pours a glass of red wine for herself from a bottle that sits already uncorked on her counter. She refuses my help, so I watch as she efficiently moves around her kitchen, pan-searing green beans and slicing sourdough bread that looks homemade.
I marvel at the woman who is dressed like a fashion icon rather than a conservative educator. She’s got on black skinny jeans that come just above her ankles and up until the time she walked through the door, black high heels. She kicked those off and ditched the tan-colored blazer she had on over a white blouse with little black bows over each button. She then rolled up her sleeves and set to preparing dinner.
“How was your day?” I ask, because that first night we ate dinner together at the bar, I learned that her career is high stress and usually filled with managing crises.
“No calls to child protective services,” she says acidly. “But I did confiscate a knife that a fifth grader snuck onto campus. He swears he forgot it was in his backpack but word on KGV said he intended to scare another kid with it.”
“KGV? Sounds like Russian intelligence.”
“Kid grapevine,” she corrects, shooting me a wink over her shoulder before grabbing her glass of wine for a sip. She turns and leans against the counter, studying me. “What about you? You look tired.”
“Hmmm… let’s see. I had two grooms quit this morning without notice, a parent threaten to sue the farm because her kid doesn’t get to ride the horse she wants, our hay delivery was late and we had to buy some off a neighboring farm at three times the normal price, one mare delivered a foal breech and that was very touch and go for a while—”
“Is the baby okay?” Marcie blurts out.
“Fine,” I reply with a chuckle, loving her concern. “Our veterinarian was able to reposition and do an episiotomy. Both mom and baby are fine.”
“Thank God,” she says, tipping her wineglass again.
“That was just representative of the morning.”
“Oh,” she says quietly. “Assuming the rest of the day was more of the same?”
“Worse,” I say, propping one of my socked feet on my knee. I left my boots by the door. “I had to meet with Gabe about Alaine’s trust and the winery.”
“Okay, that story needs food and another round of drinks.”
“Agreed,” I say, rising from the chair and taking her glass. “I’ll do drinks, you plate food.”
Once we’re at her small kitchen table, I hold my beer bottle out and she taps her wineglass against it. “Thank you for inviting me to dinner.”
“Thank you for fixing my shutter. And for a great first kiss.”
“More where that came from,” I promise and she blushes. I’ll never get sick of seeing that.
We dig into the food, which is divine, and I tell her about the unpleasant hour I spent with Gabe Mardraggon. I wasn’t in the best of moods because we had planned to meet at my office at the farm since I like sticking close when we know a mare is in labor. But he insisted I come to his office almost thirty minutes away because he had far too many boxes of paperwork to transport easily and he was lined up with back-to-back meetings after.
I conceded, although I didn’t like it. I presumed we’d have a lot of things to fight about. My lawyers have already been provided with the actual trust agreement and I’m clear on the terms. Essentially, Alaine owned eighty percent of the winery and only twenty percent belongs to the company that holds the Kentucky bourbon distillery. Conversely, her parents and Gabe hold ninety-five percent of the bourbon side of the business with Alaine only having five percent.
“Why was ownership split like that?” Marcie asks.
“From what I gather, Lionel wasn’t interested in the winery. It was started a few generations back by the original line of Mardraggons before emigrating to the United States. Lionel was most proud of his Kentucky bourbon that their family pioneered before the Civil War. He offered to give Alaine majority shares of the winery if she gave up most interest in the bourbon, which she readily did. But what he didn’t know was that Alaine was turning it into quite the moneymaker, having gone out and recruited private investments, bought two additional vineyards, and made that part of the Mardraggon legacy as lucrative as the bourbon.”
“I bet Lionel felt stupid,” Marcie says with a snicker.
“I imagine he did, but weirdly… Gabe seems quite proud of his sister’s accomplishment. Of course, he still hounded me to sell the business to his family and promised all kinds of monetary reward for Sylvie, but I declined. It’s not mine to give away and should be up to Sylvie when she gets older.”
“So, that child essentially owns eighty percent of a very lucrative winery,” Marcie muses.
“And I have to manage it with Gabe,” I mutter, the bitterness of such a thing heavy on my tongue. “Luckily, there is an accomplished overseer named Esteban something or other who is able to manage everything from harvest to production to final packaging and sales, but Gabe and I will have to meet at least monthly to make sure everything operates smoothly.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Marcie says before taking a small bite of the pork loin.
“Oh, it’s bad. Gabe says he has lots of ideas to expand the winery even more but he can’t do any of that without my agreement, and frankly… I don’t have time to devote to figuring those things out. So, I basically told him I want things to remain status quo until I can get through foaling season. He wasn’t happy about that.”
Marcie wipes her mouth with a napkin, takes another sip of her wine. “I admire you for handling all this. You know, you could have designated a legal representative to deal with Gabe, but you’re doing it yourself.”
“I’m the best one to protect Sylvie,” I point out. “I don’t trust anyone else to look out for her interests the way I would.”
“You have a lot on your plate,” she says. “I don’t know how you do it all.”
“I wonder that myself sometimes.” My laugh is mostly mirthless but I have to find some amusement that I’m taking an evening off—whereas I’d normally do office work after Sylvie goes to bed—to spend it with a woman.
And not in a woman’s bed, because I have no intention of going that far with Marcie tonight. Just being in her company is enough. There’s something about being near her that makes ignoring my responsibilities worthwhile with little guilt associated.
“I’m wondering why you have to shoulder everything.” Marcie’s head tilts in curiosity, her fingers playing with the rim of her glass. “I get that your parents wanted to retire and Lord knows, they deserve it, but you have three very capable siblings who have chosen to work the farm with you. And correct me if I’m wrong, you only have them doing the training. Why don’t you give them some of the load?”
I tip my head back and laugh at the absurdity, but maybe Marcie hasn’t quite figured me out yet. “Don’t you know? I’m an absolute control freak. I don’t trust things to get done the right way unless I’m involved.”
She shakes her head, her red waves shimmering under the small pendant light over the table. “I don’t buy that. I mean, yeah, I can totally see you’re a control freak, but you trust your family.”
Perceptive woman. I’m impressed that she’s gleaned so much from our family dynamics. I nod in agreement, gaze dropping to my beer bottle before lifting again. “I don’t like to burden them. I took on this role and when I tell you it’s a lot of work, that’s just part of it. Blackburn Farms is a legacy reaching back almost two hundred and twenty years from the very first saddlebred horse we purchased. Generations of Blackburns have worked their fingers to the bone to make this business what it is, and I’m not talking about the money. I’m talking about the reputation of our horses and the respect we’ve garnered throughout the world for what we’ve created. It’s about the preservation of this breed and creating something amazing that will go on to be loved. Creating something that will go to a good home, be adored, be shown to its full capacity… do what it was meant to do. I’m the one who’s in charge of this generation’s duties and I don’t want that pressure on Kat, Trey and Wade. They’re all three doing what they love and have no interest in the drudgery of what it takes to maintain everything.”
“Are you sure about that?” she asks, as if she knows something I don’t.
“I’m sure.” But am I? It’s not like I’ve ever discussed it with them. It’s not like I’ve ever even considered asking them to help on the business side of things. It’s never felt right because of all the reasons I just gave Marcie, plus none of them have ever exhibited any interest in doing so. I’m happy for my siblings that they are pursuing their passions on the training side of things, even if I had to give up those same passions to be the CEO of the whole enterprise.
“You carry a lot on your shoulders, Ethan Blackburn.”
Something about the empathy in her voice makes me feel like a little kid, like when I was sick and my mom would care for me. While I know my family loves me and respects the work I do for this business, I’ve never had a woman speak to me with such worry and care. The machismo in me wants to brush off her soft words but instead, I revel in them. At the very least, it means Marcie cares for me and that’s not something I thought I needed before.
I’m thinking I do because just knowing she understands the pressures that weigh upon me somehow makes me feel more invincible. Still, I play it off. “I’ve got it all under control.”
“No doubt you do,” she says. “It’s impressive. But it doesn’t mean it’s not hard, maybe even draining. I’m only pointing it out because you now have Sylvie and—”
“She’s the most important responsibility I’ve ever had,” I cut in.
“Maybe it’s time to get some help. Learn to delegate. Take time for yourself so you don’t burn out.”
It’s scandalous for me to even consider what she’s suggesting since I’m capable of handling everything. But still I ask, “Would that include taking time to date a woman such as you?”
“Think you can handle me?” she retorts with a mischievous smile.
“I’m not sure,” I drawl, leaning forward in my chair and pulling her forward by the nape for a quick kiss. I murmur against her mouth, “But I’m willing to give it a try.”
CHAPTER 19
Ethan
The eagle has landed, I text to Marcie as I pull in front of the main house. I look in the back seat of my extended cab, the wire kennel I’d secured with bungee cords containing the cutest dog I’ve ever seen.
My phone chimes. You’re on the moon?
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.
