Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“You’re definitely a Mardraggon through and through.” That gets Sylvie’s attention and she lifts her head to glare at me. I can see the question in her eyes and her defiance in not wanting to voice the words, so I provide more. “From what I know about the Mardraggons, they are incredibly closed off and suspicious. They don’t like opening themselves up to outsiders. Yes, firm in their convictions no matter how wayward they are, but they’re never willing to give people a chance. You are definitely a Mardraggon.”
Sylvie’s mouth pops open in surprise and her glare melts from one of frigid ice into confusion. I continue. “I will have to say though, there is one thing I do respect about your family.” I know it’s a risk to put her firmly on one side of the battle line. Saying the Mardraggons are her family and not acknowledging the Blackburns are an equal part. “I admire their strength. It’s true… Your grandfather is as strong and tough as they come. Your mother was too, for that matter. I suspect you inherited every drop of that DNA.”
“And your point?”
“The opposite of strength is cowardice. And frankly, you hiding up in this room smacks of it. I would have never taken you for that type of Mardraggon. In fact, you seem to have so much antipathy for this family, and you think we’re nothing like the Mardraggons, I can see how you would think we are the cowards. Maybe you are a lot more Blackburn than I’ve given you credit for.”
Sylvie shoots straight up on her bed and tosses her book aside. “I am not a coward. Ma mère m’a appris à être forte et courageuse. Je ne suis pas une Blackburn. Je ne crains pas de prendre le petit déjeuner avec vous.”
I have no clue what she just said, but she rolls off the bed and storms out of the bedroom. My lips quirk into a smile as I hear her stomp down the staircase.
♦
Ultimately, it’s Kat who gets through to Sylvie.
Somewhat.
When I come back downstairs, I find Sylvie sitting at the breakfast table while Miranda loads her plate with pancakes and bacon. It’s painful to watch my mom attempt to bridge the gap, first offering to take Sylvie shopping and when that doesn’t appeal to her, to bake cookies.
Sylvie’s response is terse. “I don’t like shopping or cookies.”
I can see for just a few seconds that my mom is crushed, but she shores up her resolve quickly. “That’s alright. We can do whatever ye fancy.”
“I just want to read a book in my room,” Sylvie says.
It’s Kat who jumps in and doesn’t give Sylvie a choice. “Nonsense. It’s too beautiful a day to stay inside. You’re going to come with me to the barn and watch me give lessons.”
Sylvie opens her mouth to argue but Kat rolls right over her. “You don’t even have to interact. Don’t have to say a word or carry on a conversation. You can sit on a bench and watch and learn. At least get some fresh air and you’ll be around amazing animals. And I’m also amazing, if I don’t say so myself.”
Kat shoots Sylvie a wink and it does nothing to crack the child’s austere glare. She merely drops her head and begins to eat her breakfast. I’m happy to see that she does in fact eat, which means she was hungry. I consider that a small victory.
I leave the house and go about my chores. My first stop is the broodmare barn to check on things. No one is in active labor though two of our mares are due any day. As I’m getting in my truck to go check on the yearlings, my phone rings. I answer without checking to see who is calling because I’m not the type to filter communication. As the one in charge of Blackburn Farms, I have to be available twenty-four seven.
“Ethan Blackburn,” I say as the call connects to the truck’s Bluetooth speaker.
“Hey, darlin’.” Diane Turner’s voice fills the interior of the truck, my jaw involuntarily clenching.
“What’s up?” I ask in such a way as to convey that I’m busy and have no interest in chitchat.
“I was hoping you and I could get together tonight. I thought I would cook dinner for you.”
“I’m busy,” I reply, not offering more.
“You do know that when I say I’ll cook you dinner I mean I’ll have sex with you.” She sounds frustrated that I’m not willing to flirt.
But, honest to God, she should know by now that I don’t flirt. I don’t have it in me, nor do I understand the concept. It’s not egotistical when I say I’ve never really had to work for it where women are concerned, mostly due to the fact that I only do casual relationships. I’m not looking to woo a woman or develop something committed. That takes work and I just don’t care enough to do so.