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)
And I was the prize on display.
Before I could say anything more, my father strode in, instantly changing the vibe from one of sullen acceptance of my fate to feeling like I was traversing on a thin wire. Seamus Conlan never walked—he arrived, his presence filling every inch of space, even when he didn’t speak. He cut an imposing figure, sharply dressed in slacks and a crisp button-down, his sleeves rolled just enough to make him look like a man who still worked with his hands, though I knew better.
As the king of Glenhaven, he was a delegator, a procurer and a dictator.
He barely glanced at the meal preparations before giving me a hard stare.
“Behave yerself tonight, Fiona.”
Not a request. A demand.
I wiped my hands on a cloth and turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “I always behave.”
Seamus snorted, stepping closer. “Ye’ll be respectful to the Kavanaghs. I won’t have ye embarrassing me.”
The implication was clear. He expected me to be pleasant, charming, accommodating. I was already bristling, but then he added, “If Brian asks ye to go out, ye’ll say yes.”
The words landed like a slap. I stared at him, heat rising in my chest. “What?”
“Ye heard me. I have a feelin’ the boy wants to court ye, so ye’ll accept his offer.”
I scoffed, shaking my head, anger burning in me hotly and giving me the courage to stand up to my father. “That’s ridiculous. It’s 1978. No one courts anyone anymore. And I should have a say in this.”
Da’s face hardened. “Ye’ll go if he asks and I won’t have ye talking back to me.”
A slow burn of rage crept up my spine. It wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t even a command. It was a foregone conclusion. My father had already decided, just as he had decided everything for me my entire life.
I clenched my fists, my nails pressing into my palms, but I forced myself to keep my voice even. “And what if I don’t like him?”
A dangerous silence settled between us. My mother, who had been stirring the gravy, turned the spoon in slow, methodical circles, her lips pressed thin.
Da took a step closer, voice dropping to something colder. “Learn to like him. Merging our families will make Glenhaven more powerful than any other farm in this country. Ye’ll do as ye’re told, girl. Or ye can leave this house.”
That hit like a punch to the gut. Not because I didn’t expect it—because I did. But hearing it out loud, feeling the full force of his control… it made me sick.
Mam turned then, her hands gripping the wooden spoon a little tighter. “Seamus…”
Her voice was quiet, a plea rather than a protest.
But her husband didn’t soften. He simply waited for my obedience.
I swallowed hard, my teeth clenched so tight my jaw ached in my refusal to acquiesce. His features were stoney and I feared I might get a slap across my face, but then the doorbell rang, slicing through the tension.
My father glared at me—a last warning look before turning on his heel and heading to the door. I inhaled sharply, pushing my frustration down, smoothing out my expression.
He will not break me.
♦
Michael Kavanagh was a rotund man with graying black hair and a belly that spoke of indulgence. He owned a moderately sized thoroughbred farm in Newbridge and although not a close friend of my father’s, they ran in the same circles. As the two men enjoyed a pre-dinner drink in the front salon, Mr. Kavanagh surveyed the space with the air of a man inspecting a fine horse before a purchase. I stood politely to the side with my sister, Siobhan, and my brother, Paddy, while Brian Kavanagh participated in the conversation.
My mind wandered and I thought about training with Uncle Rory on Sunday at Kildare. I knew Saturday night I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep as I’d be too excited to hit the course. My love of steeplechase started when I was young as my family attended many events in the area because our horses competed. Rory let me ride on Glenhaven’s course whenever we could swing it but getting actual training time at Kildare meant I could race against other riders.
“Miss Fiona,” Michael Kavanaugh said, his voice deep and sure of itself. I jolted out of my fantasy. “I see what all the fuss is about. Even prettier than Brian told me.”
His son, who had been ignoring me until now, smiled. A year older than me, he looked smug and full of himself. He was tall, well built, with dark hair styled just enough to look effortless, and the unmistakable gleam of a man who had never heard the word no. All the thoroughbred people knew each other well and I’d known Brian for years, although we hadn’t really talked that much. I used to be beneath his notice and I wish it had stayed that way, but apparently Glenhaven makes me even prettier.