“Right, of course.” Mr. Gillam holds up his briefcase and nods toward the barn. “Do you by any chance have someplace private we can chat for a few moments? I promise I won’t take up too much of your time.”

  “I have legions of attorneys that handle the farm’s legal matters—”

  “This is private, Mr. Blackburn.”

  Something about his tone sets me on edge and while I’d like to run the guy off, my gut tells me that isn’t feasible.

  “Yeah… sure.” I nod over my shoulder toward the barn, leading Mr. Gillam inside. There’s an office here where the staff vets and other medical personnel keep records and write notes during each foaling.

  Fortunately, it’s empty when I enter and I motion the him in before closing the door for privacy. I watch as he puts his briefcase on the old metal desk and pulls out a manila folder.

  Turning back to face me, Mr. Gillam says, “What I’m about to tell you is going to come as a big shock, Mr. Blackburn. I’d appreciate if you’d listen to the entire story—”

  “How about you just get on with the story?” I reach out and place one hand on the doorknob, an indication that I have better things to do and need to get going.

  The attorney nods, tapping a finger along the edge of the folder in his hand. “Almost ten years ago, you had an affair with Alaine Mardraggon.”

  For a moment the words make no sense, but as he stares at me with laser focus, I finally understand what he means. “I hardly think a drunk hookup in the coat closet of the country club would constitute an affair.”

  Mr. Gillam nods as if to say touché but is otherwise unperturbed by my correction. “Ms. Mardraggon became pregnant after that encounter. She gave birth to a daughter named Sylvie.” When I don’t flinch or show any reaction at all, he says with emphasis, “Your daughter.”

  “Bullshit,” I growl, a low, rumbled snarl of denial. “I don’t know what Alaine’s game is or what she’s after—”

  “Ms. Mardraggon died at seven thirty-eight this morning.” Those words have the effect of a bucket of ice water poured over my head. “She hired me to represent Sylvie and my instructions were to come to you upon Alaine’s death and let you know about your daughter.”

  My ears buzz and my head swims. Legs feeling like they are about to give way, I lock my knees and brace my hand on the doorjamb. “Come again?”

  “She succumbed to cancer.”

  “I didn’t know,” I murmur. Of course, how would I? I haven’t seen Alaine since that drunken one-night stand. She lived in France. I live in Kentucky. We pretended it didn’t happen and I’d all but forgotten about it.

  “Look,” Mr. Gillam says with a sympathetic smile, handing me the folder, which I ignore. “Everything you need is in here, but this is the short story. It’s not lost on any citizen of Shelby County that the Blackburn and Mardraggon families have no love for each other.”

  “Our families despise one another,” I say. It’s the party line and I quote it to perfection.

  “Which does make it quite fascinating that you and Alaine had… an interlude… but that animosity between your families is why she kept Sylvie a secret from you. She refused to name you as the father on the birth certificate and no one knew, not even her family members, of Sylvie’s paternity.”

  I feel like I might pass out and that’s not something that has ever happened. “How can you even be sure—”

  “Trust me. I’m sure Sylvie’s yours, but you can take a paternity test. Regardless, Ms. Mardraggon hired me months ago when she was diagnosed, and it was her intention that you take Sylvie when she died.”

  Mr. Gillam pushes the folder forward again and I’m sure I look at it as if it’s a bomb about to explode. “Inside the folder is a letter to you from Alaine, along with the birth certificate. As instructed, I delivered a similar letter to Alaine’s parents not long ago, as well as an amended revocable trust drafted by an estate lawyer she hired that provides for Sylvie. That’s of no consequence to you, but I’ve been assured, there’s plenty of money to raise—”

  “I don’t need any Mardraggon money, and I’m not raising some kid who’s probably not even mine. This is ridiculous.”

  “Regardless,” he says, patience oozing from his entire bearing. “A preliminary custody hearing has been scheduled for Monday. You’re required to attend and make your intentions known. There’s also a subpoena for your attendance in that folder. If you don’t want the child, I’m sure the Mardraggons will petition for custody. For now, Sylvie will stay with them until the hearing.”

  I stare down at the folder, the contents inside having just turned my world upside down. Even if it isn’t true, I’m getting ready to enter a shitstorm because nothing good ever comes from tangling with the Mardraggons.

  “My card is stapled on the inside. Call me if you need anything but just know that I’m Sylvie’s legal representative and everything I do is in her best interests.”

  I nod, not bothering to look at the man. I hear him move to the door and step aside to allow him access. Before he steps over the threshold, I ask, “What type of cancer did Alaine have?”

  “Brain cancer. Glioblastoma. Very aggressive. Nothing could be done.”

  I acknowledge that news with a lift of my chin, although I can’t say I’m sad to hear of her passing. I grew up despising Alaine and her brother, Gabe, just as they hated me and my siblings. The bitterness between the families runs so deep that we avoid each other at all costs. That drunken one-night stand shouldn’t have ever happened, but we were both wasted and I can barely remember it.

  Maybe she didn’t remember it correctly either. In fact, I’m sure she was probably the type of woman who was sleeping around and any number of men could be the father.

  That has to be the answer.

  Regardless, this is a huge problem and needs my immediate attention. Whipping my phone out, I shoot a group text to my siblings.

  Emergency family meeting now at the main house.

  CHAPTER 2

  Ethan

  “You had sex with Alaine Mardraggon?” Trey asks for the third time.

  I shoot my brother a warning look to not ask again. I’ve answered it once and I’m not going to waste my breath when there are more important things to decide.

  “Do you believe what Alaine wrote?” Kat asks. She’s holding the single-page typed letter that I read a dozen times before my siblings congregated in the main sitting room. The heart of the restored Georgian mansion, an ever-present reminder of a bygone era, harmonizes historical splendor with subtle contemporary touches. The room is defined by its tall, paneled windows. These windows, with their traditional wooden shutters, frame the outside world and fill the space with a soft, natural glow that dances across the high ceilings adorned with ornate plasterwork. From the center of these intricate designs a crystal chandelier hangs like a jewel, scattering light in a warm, embracing aura.

  The polished oak floors wear a large Persian rug of deep reds and blues woven in intricate patterns. Chippendale-style chairs with their mahogany frames display graceful curves and carvings, while a matching sofa reupholstered in luxurious, deep green velvet whispers of modern comfort amid historical charm.

  In one corner, a Georgian tea table with cabriole legs and ball-and-claw feet stands and on the wall adjacent to the fireplace sits a Pembroke table perched by the window, which Miranda always fills with fresh flowers. It’s our mom’s favorite place to write letters back home to Ireland.

  Tall, built-in bookcases flank the wall opposite the fireplace, their shelves a mosaic of leather-bound classics and various keepsakes, echoing generations of intellectual pursuits. The walls themselves are a gallery adorned with oil paintings. Portraits of ancestral figures, stern and regal, keep watch over the room, their eyes following the passage of time. Landscapes in ornate frames offer views of pastoral scenes and historic landmarks, a visual escape to the world outside.

  Dominating the room is a large marble fireplace, its presence commanding yet inviting. Above it, a grand, gilded mirror reflects the life of the room, multiplying its light and space. On mantelpieces and side tables, small, tasteful decorations are carefully arranged: brass candlesticks, a silver tea set, a porcelain figurine or two, each a character in this elegant narrative. Over the years, my mom chose and placed many of the items, but most have been handed down through generations.

  Subtle modern touches are woven seamlessly into the fabric of the room, like plush throw pillows and a casually draped cashmere blanket on the sofa’s arm, offering a nod to contemporary comfort.

  I shrug, my hand resting on the mantel as I stare into the cold fireplace.

  “Of course you can’t believe what she wrote,” Trey says. His temper can run fiercely hot, particularly when his family is at the heart of the matter. “She’s a Mardraggon. Can’t believe a fucking thing they say.”

  The bitter feud between the Blackburn and Mardraggon families started in the mid-nineteenth century when a young Elizabeth Blackburn fell in love with a dashing Henry Mardraggon and all of Shelby County, Kentucky was abuzz. The two families had recently settled in the area—the Blackburns hailing from England and the Mardraggons from France. Times were perilous and the young country was engaged in a civil war, although Kentucky was a key border state and attempted to maintain neutrality.

  The Blackburns and the Mardraggons were both up-and-coming, influential families and looked upon with great favor by all who knew them.

  The Blackburns worked tirelessly to build up a saddlebred breeding farm, horses known for their versatility, beauty, smooth gaits and endurance. They saw great economic opportunity in selling their horses to the Union. The saddlebred’s speed, agility and ability to cover long distances were ideal for cavalry horses and officer mounts. It was through the placement of these horses with the Union that the Blackburns started their meteoric rise as purveyors of the best horseflesh in the country.

  The Mardraggons—who had some experience in making wine in the Burgundy region of France—started a new venture in distilling bourbon. Settling in Kentucky, they found corn abundant, and it became the primary grain for whiskey. Using charred oak barrels for aging, the Mardraggons were one of the original pioneers of distilling that defining characteristic of bourbon. By the mid-1800s, they were mass producing in sealed bottles and gaining a reputation for quality and authenticity in their alcohol. The Mardraggons also took advantage of the economic opportunity the Civil War presented but were not as discerning between the two warring factions of the Union and Confederacy, providing liquor to both.

  Elizabeth Blackburn and Henry Mardraggon cared nothing about horses, bourbon, or war. They only cared about each other. They were madly, deeply, and wholeheartedly in love. Henry proposed to Elizabeth after getting permission from her father, James Blackburn. The engagement was widely celebrated throughout all polite society. Two powerhouse families would be merging, and everyone knew that they would be controlling much of the economic interests in the region.

  But as with many love stories, things went disastrously wrong. After a blissful two months of engaged life, dark rumors started to circulate about Elizabeth Blackburn. Ugly, salacious gossip that, if true, spelled disaster for the young couple. It most certainly spelled ruination for Elizabeth. It had reached her father’s ears that Elizabeth had been engaged in an illicit affair with a young man of no importance in Shelbyville.

  The rumors were without merit, vehemently denied, devoid of proof and undoubtedly false. That didn’t matter to anyone because women whispered behind Elizabeth’s back, fueling the gossip, and both patriarchs of the Mardraggon and Blackburn families stewed over the potential truth.

  An argument ensued between the two fathers, James Blackburn and Edward Mardraggon. No, not an argument—a rageful, blasphemous feud between two powerful men tossing bladed barbs at one another. Young Henry, who refused to believe the worst about his love, tried to intervene and calm the situation. Tempers between the fathers flared hotter and pistols were drawn.

  Two shots were fired with the intent to kill but only one bullet landed tragically.

  Right into the chest of Henry Mardraggon, fired by Elizabeth’s father, who had been aiming at the elder Mardraggon.

  Edward Mardraggon’s own bullet went wide as he aimed at James, lodging in a door casing.

  Henry died instantly.

  Beautiful, heartbroken, ruined Elizabeth took a little longer to die. Two weeks after Henry was buried, she hung herself under the rafters of the grape arbor where Henry had proposed to her.

  Both families blamed the other for their children’s deaths. No one ever talked again about the rumors surrounding Elizabeth and whether they were true, for it hardly mattered. Two precious lives were gone, and two families entered into a war that some say raged hotter than the one between the North and South.

  “A paternity test is simple enough,” Wade says. The youngest of the three Blackburn brothers, he’s the most even-keeled. He brings logic to this conversation. “Let’s assume you are Sylvie’s father. What are you going to do?”

  “He’s going to take his daughter,” Kat exclaims, tossing a chastising glare at Wade. “Of course, he’s going to take her and raise her and she’s going to be a Blackburn.”

  “Except she’s a Mardraggon.” Trey drums his fingers on his knee, one booted foot propped on his knee. “She’s been a Mardraggon for her entire life. She’s been raised by those morons and therefore she’s probably—”

  I wheel around and growl. “Don’t even finish that thought.”

  It goes silent, none of my siblings willing to risk my ire. I truly don’t know what Trey is about to say, but if it’s going to in any way disparage my supposed daughter, some unknown force of protectiveness has welled inside of me, unwilling to let anyone say a bad word about a girl who may be my blood.

  Glancing at my watch, I see it’s still unfeasible to reach our parents, currently vacationing in New Zealand. Being as they’re on the other side of the world, it’s the dead of night there. I called and left a voicemail as well as sent a text, and the mere fact they’ve not responded means they’re deep in slumber. I need their advice and I’ll get it eventually. But right now, it’s helpful to have my siblings here brainstorming the issue.

  It’s not like there are a lot of decisions to make. Wade is correct. It’s a very simple matter of paternity and if it’s determined that Sylvie is mine, she’ll come live with us.

  I ruminate on Alaine’s letter.

  Dear Ethan,

  I know this letter and Mr. Gillam’s visit are going to come as a shock and I first and foremost need to apologize for keeping our daughter a secret from you. It is my only hope that you can understand my reasons for doing so. At the heart of the matter is our families’ deep hatred for one another. I’d like to say our one evening together was a mistake, but it gave me Sylvie, so how could that ever be true?

  Given the animosity we shared and the fact I lived in a different country, it was easier not to tell you. But I’m dying and that means I have to be truthful, not just with you but myself, and I admit that I was also selfish. I didn’t want to share Sylvie, nor did I want to deal with the scabs that would keep getting ripped off the wounds our families continue giving each other.

  Cancer is the great equalizer. It’s made me really think about what is best for our daughter. I love my family, but I know they are not without faults. I believe some of those faults could be detrimental to Sylvie. I can’t say that I know you very well. I was taught to hate your family. All I know is that I don’t want Sylvie to grow up under my parents’ influence.

  I believe Sylvie is best left under your care. You have the strength and fortitude to stand up to the Mardraggons. She comes with a large trust fund which includes controlling interest in the winery. My parents are going to fight you hard for her. Please stand strong. Raise her with the same love I gave her. Do right by our daughter.

  If you don’t, I will come back to haunt you.

  Sincerely,

  Alaine Mardraggon

  “Why in the hell would she keep that secret?” Wade muses.

  Kat nods at the letter in her hand. “There’s a lot of money involved. The Mardraggons would automatically assume we’d try to make a play for it.”

  “Because they’re assholes,” Trey mutters.

  I don’t disagree. Look it up in any thesaurus and asshole is synonymous with Mardraggon. Even after the original feud that split the families apart, the Mardraggons took any opportunity they could to try to ruin the Blackburns. Throughout our entangled histories, if there was a chance to knock our family down, the Mardraggons were behind it. Of course, we aren’t without backbone and will use any opportunity we can to take that family down a peg or two.

  Trey isn’t wrong. I can’t trust anything Alaine wrote in that letter. I’ll demand a paternity test and that will probably put all of this nonsense to rest. The more I think about it, the more I’m confident this is some ploy Alaine was putting into place to hurt my family.

  Are they trying to drain money from us via legal fees? Dangle a cute kid and a trust fund in front of me to get my focus off the business?

  Do the Mardraggons not understand our family wants for nothing? We’re beyond wealthy and we aren’t scheming backstabbers in maintaining that.

  I won’t be fooled. I’ll go to that damn hearing on Monday, demand a paternity test and then when all of this is proven to be a sham, I’ll figure out a way to make them pay for dragging me into shit I don’t have time to deal with.

  Moving to the love seat where Kat sits, I take the letter from her. My brothers and sister stare at me, their green eyes matching mine and handed down from our Irish mother, Fiona, and I stare right back.

  None of them has to say a word. They all have my back, as would my other sister, Kat’s twin, Abby, if she were here. As it stands, she lives in Pennsylvania, the only Blackburn to not work at the farm. It’s fine though because she is pursuing her passion for veterinary medicine and comes home often to visit.