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)
Stable workers, groomers, trainers, veterinarians and administrative staff. I’m considered the general, having taken over the business almost five years ago when my parents decided to move into full-time retirement. My two brothers, Trey and Wade, as well as my sister, Kat, help out in all aspects of running the empire, but the great weight of responsibility to keep it all churning rests on my shoulders.
And yet, I’m still out there every day getting my hands dirty if need be. I can sit in my office in a suit and tie and negotiate a seven-figure deal on a horse and then turn around and muck stalls because one of the stable hands called in sick. I’m responsible for all of it and I do whatever it takes to make sure things run like clockwork.
I would never not do the work it takes to make Blackburn Farms a success and someone like Diane—who doesn’t work for anything—could never understand that.
When I don’t answer Diane’s question, she huffs and instead asks, “When will I see you again?”
“It’s foaling season. Probably not for a good long while.”
“Why do you have to be that way?” That gives me pause.
I don’t want to fight with her and I don’t appreciate having to provide an explanation when she knows the answer to her own question. Pivoting to face her but with one hand on the doorknob, I respond, “This is all we have, Diane. You know that. It’s worked fine for a long time, but I’ve got nothing more to offer.”
“Maybe I want more,” she says with challenge glinting in her eye.
“Then you need to look somewhere else.” Lifting my chin, I double down on my resolve because this isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation. “It’s not like you don’t see other men. This was never exclusive.”
“I only see other men because you won’t commit,” she whines.
Christ, I despise whiners. Can’t stand weakness in general. And I most definitely don’t like being manipulated. “I think this has run its course, Diane.”
She snorts, waving her hand as if to brush aside my statement. “You’ll be back.”
I don’t need her to acknowledge or agree to my suggestion. I also don’t agree with her prediction that I’ll be back, but I keep that to myself. I turn on my booted heel and walk out the door.
It’s a chilly April morning and while it will warm up significantly throughout the day, I still need to crank the heat in my truck. By the time I hit the north side of Shelbyville, the hot air is flowing nicely. I drive slowly through the small town—my birthplace. The early-morning light casts a soft glow over the storefronts lining the main street. Shops that I’ve been in and out of hundreds of times throughout my life. Vintage signs hang above cozy cafés and family-owned retailers, their windows adorned with displays of local crafts and antiques.
Leaving the town center I pass by the Shelby County Courthouse, its grand, redbrick facade and towering white columns a marker of the town’s rich history. In a few hours, the sidewalks will be filled with pedestrians and children will play in a nearby park. It’s an idyllic place to live and I can’t imagine being anywhere else.
As I continue out of town, the landscape gradually transforms, the neat rows of houses and businesses giving way to open fields and the iconic rolling hills of Kentucky. The early sun casts long, undulating shadows over the lush greenery, creating a tapestry of light and dark. Fences, painted in pristine white, stretch as far as the eye can see, marking the boundaries of prestigious horse farms.
My eyes sweep across the sprawling estates, each a realm unto itself with clusters of old oak trees, verdant fields and sparkling creeks. Majestic barns, with their red or dark wood facades, stand proudly among the hills. Horses grazing peacefully dot the landscape, their coats gleaming in the sun. The sight of these magnificent animals, with their elegant strides and noble bearing, is a testament to the region’s deep equestrian roots.
As I approach our family’s land, I welcome the familiar swell of pride and belonging. Blackburn Farms is a legacy, a symbol of a lifelong bond with the American Saddlebred stemming back six generations to the mid-1800s. Enclosing the pastures is a network of fencing painted a brilliant white, which gleams with cool morning dew. Built to be both practical and aesthetic, their crisp lines run parallel to the land’s contours and are an iconic feature of Shelby County and the numerous saddlebred and thoroughbred farms.
I pass the entrance to the main barn, an architectural wonder that sits on a high hill a quarter of a mile in the distance. Its white facade matches the pristine fencing. The roof is adorned with multiple steeples, each capped with a patinaed weather vane. The arched doors on the southern end are already wide open and the stable hands should be hard at work feeding and watering the competition horses stabled there. Soon the groomers and trainers will be in to start working them in the outdoor arena adjacent to the structure. Across the top of the barn, rows of windows and open hayloft doors trimmed in black add to the combination of rustic elegance. The use of cross-bracing on the doors adds both strength and character to the structure, a nod to traditional craftsmanship.