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)
Thirty-seven years I’ve lived on this land and it never fails to take my breath away, especially the main barn. And while I’ll spend a good amount of time there today, I drive on past and take the next marked driveway leading to my home.
It feels weird… calling it my home, even though that’s exactly what it is. It’s where I was raised, along with my two brothers and two sisters. Up until about six months ago, my parents lived here. The imposing, ten-thousand-square-foot Georgian mansion has been the ancestral home to the last four generations of Blackburns, and now I’m the sole resident.
My mother and father, Tommy and Fi Blackburn, are off traveling the world. They’ve moved into a small cottage on the back acreage of the land, insisting I become the man of the house since I’m running the horse empire. For the last handful of years, I’ve been managing the family enterprise under my father’s watchful eye, but now I’m squarely on my own and I don’t mind the pressure at all.
The house is a two-story structure built with rich terra-cotta brick that contrasts harmoniously with the white trim. At the heart of the home is a grand entrance, accentuated by a white portico with a pediment that crowns the space, providing a sheltered welcome. Four slender columns support the portico, each featuring the smooth, round forms of the Ionic order, capped with graceful spiraling volutes. Flanking the entrance are evenly spaced, double-hung, sashed windows with slender muntin dividing the panes, a hallmark of Georgian style. Each window is framed by black shutters and above the entrance, a decorative half-moon window invites the eastern light into the foyer.
The home’s symmetry is emphasized by two wings extending from the main block, mirroring one another in size and form. The hipped roof supports two massive brick chimneys above each wing which tells of the presence of grand fireplaces on either side of the house, a central feature in traditional Georgian architecture.
Needing to grab a quick shower, I pull up next to the detached three-car garage. I don’t bother parking inside and most definitely don’t worry about locking my truck as I hop out. In the kitchen, our housekeeper and cook, Miranda Phelps, is at the oven, pulling out a batch of homemade biscuits. Even though I’m the only Blackburn currently living under this roof, my siblings all work on the farm and will be coming by for breakfast, as is their almost daily habit.
We work seven days a week because that’s just how much work there is to be done.
“Smells heavenly,” I say to Miranda, attempting to reach past her to grab a piping hot biscuit from the tray. She smacks my hand, hard, and I stifle a yelp.
“You keep your hands to yourself,” she snarls, and I obey. Nothing much intimidates me but Miranda has been a fixture in the Blackburn home since I was four years old, and I know better than to tangle with her. “I’ll have these stuffed with ham, eggs and cheese soon enough. Go on, get washed up, you ol’ alley cat.”
I snort but do as she says. In less than twenty minutes, I’m showered, skipping a shave, and I’ve put on my standard barn work attire of jeans, muck boots and a long-sleeve T-shirt over an athletic pullover to ward against the spring chill.
In the kitchen, I find a basket with the biscuits individually wrapped. “Take those down to the barn with you. Kat called and said they wouldn’t be up to the main house this morning.”
“Why not?” I ask, picking up the wicker basket by its wood handle.
“Said that someone was coming to look at Lady Beatrice.”
“Fuck,” I mutter, having forgotten that potential buyers for one of our best show horses have an early-morning appointment. While any one of my siblings can handle showing the mare’s qualities, I handle the pricing and negotiations. Between losing the two horses last night and drowning my misery in Diane, it had completely slipped my mind.
“Language, mister,” Miranda clucks.
“Sorry,” I mutter as I hurry outside and into my truck. Unwrapping a biscuit, I drive not back onto the main road but along a connector dirt lane that cuts through the massive acreage. Multiple passageways like this exist over the thousand acres and are mostly traversed by electric utility vehicles and farm trucks.
Such a UTV sits at the back of the barn when I arrive and I recognize it as my sister Kat’s. She lives in an apartment over one of the tack buildings near the lesson barn and had the camo paint job redone in shades of pink.
Nabbing the basket of biscuits, I hop out of the truck and enter the barn through the small office. Placing the breakfast sandwiches on the desk, I finish my meal and quickly wash my hands in the small bathroom off to the side.