Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70174 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70174 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
“This is where I grew up,” I say, admiring the large manor house with pastures and barns scattered across undulating hills in the background. “It’s called Glenhaven Estates and it’s just outside a town called Fethard in County Tipperary.”
“It was a horse farm, right?” she asks because she’s not completely uninformed about the deep lines of horse blood that run through us all.
“More than just a farm… it was one of the largest breeding and training facilities for Irish thoroughbreds in our country. Still is, for that matter. It was founded in 1925 by my grandfather, Patrick Conlan.”
Sylvie leans in as I speak, her small fingers tracing the edges of the photographs, her voice soft with curiosity. “What was it like?”
The mix of feelings that hits me makes the answer a little difficult. “At times, it was magical.”
“Like how?”
“Well, Ireland’s a country of great beauty and magic.” Sylvie cocks her eyebrow at me and I chuckle. I tap on a photo of the farm. “Ye can’t see it here, because it’s black-and-white, but if ye were standing here on this ridge, ye’d be dazzled by the colors. There are a million shades of green alone, but nowhere near as pretty as yer own eyes.”
My granddaughter blushes, her eyes a mirror image of my own.
“And did you work at Glenhaven the way everyone in the Blackburn family does here?”
I shake my head. “My father didn’t believe girls had much value when it came to horses.”
Sylvie’s disbelief is evident, because she’s seen her aunts work hard and be accomplished horsewomen here at Blackburn Farms. “What did he think girls were good for, then?”
“Marrying,” I say with a disapproving expression. “He wasn’t very progressive.”
Sylvie makes a scoffing sound. “He doesn’t sound very nice.”
“He was a hard man,” I say softly as I stare down at the pictures. It’s of him and Uncle Rory, helping to foal a mare. I don’t know how many times I’d stand outside the stall door watching, wanting to help, but never being invited in.
“But you rode horses,” Sylvie points out.
“Aye,” I agree. “And truth be told, I did things on horses that yer great-grandfather never knew about.”
“Like what?” she asks in awe, an impish smile on her face.
“Well, Uncle Rory secretly trained me to run steeplechase.”
“Did your dad ever find out?”
“Aye, he did. And he wasn’t happy with me at all. But that was low on the list of my transgressions.”
“Mami,” Sylvie says with a sidelong glance. “You were a rebel.”
“Yer grandfather seems to think so.” I laugh.
“She wasn’t a rebel until I taught her how to be a rebel.”
My skin prickles and my heart pulses at the sound of my love’s voice. I look over my shoulder to see Tommy standing in the doorway. Grief over the loss of our son is still written on his face, but the soft smile tells me he’s been standing there listening for a while. He loves the story of how we met.
Sylvie glances back and forth between her grandmother and grandfather. “Papi taught you how to be a rebel?”
Tommy walks into the room, as always, his large frame commanding attention. He sits on the other side of Sylvie, drapes his arm across the back of the sofa and his fingertips brush against my shoulder in a show of love and support. “Your mami was already a rebel deep in her heart. I just helped pull it out a bit.”
“Tell me more about how you two met,” Sylvie demands, cuddling in closer to me, and I relish the release of my grief, which has been replaced by pure love for this sweet girl.
I look to Tommy and he gives a tiny nod that says, Go back. To the place where it all began.
I smile at the greatest love of my life and fall back in time.
And just like that, the past welcomes me home.
CHAPTER 2
Fiona
Fethard, County Tipperary, Ireland – 1978
Summer in Fethard stretched out in long, lingering days and when they were over, just before fall crept in, I always forgot what darkness felt like. The sun rose early, and if the skies were clear, the sky was painted in pinks and golds. More often than not though, the mornings started cool and misty, with fog curling low over the fields and paddocks, but by mid-morning, it would burn away.
This land was called the Golden Vale and if you ever stood on one of the hills at sunset, you’d understand why. The land was a patchwork of rolling green pastures and meadows that stretched farther than the eye could see, and the soil was so rich you could smell it in the air after the rain—deep, earthy, full of life.
“’Tis the finest land in all Ireland,” my da Seamus would often say. It was perfect for grazing cattle and even better for horses. That’s why the best breeding farms in the country—maybe even the world—were rooted here. Horses thrived in this valley, their coats gleaming, their strides strong, as if the land itself was woven into their DNA. The hills sheltered them from the worst of the wind and when the breeze was mild, it carried the heady scent of sweet clover, fresh hay and the occasional sharp tang of horse sweat and leather. They were the best smells in the world to me.