Brock

by Roxanne St Claire

  “Were you raised to consider not answering questions bad manners? I asked. I’m interested. Fascinated, even.”

  The timbre of his voice reached way down to something inside of her, warming her, encouraging her to tell him what that life was like. But he’d never understand, and it would sound like she wanted pity.

  “Jenna?” he prodded, stroking her knuckles with this thumb. “One thing. One deep, insightful real thing. It’s only fair, considering you’re taking my life and family apart to turn it into mass entertainment. This is just us. You and…David.”

  She knew that. It was why she held his hand and enjoyed the contact right down to her toes.

  “Okay, David. But I did just tell you something. Being an only child is lonely.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “No, no.” She practically cut him off, leaning forward to make her point. “Being an only child of career-driven parents who worked sixty, seventy, eighty hours a week and entertained VIPs the remaining time was…” What was a word that was worse than lonely? That captured the total solitude of her childhood? “It was…empty.”

  “Oh.”

  “See? Pity party. I knew you’d throw me one. This is why I didn’t want to share my life and upbringing.”

  “Okay. No pity, I swear. You were on your own a lot. I bet that’s made you independent and strong and resourceful and fearless.”

  “Is that what you think I am?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a nod, as if he’d just realized all that. “Also gorgeous, funny, smart, and, holy hell, do you look good soaking wet. Also naked.”

  She laughed, leaning her head toward his shoulder because he made her a little dizzy, or maybe that was the butterflies doing acrobatics in her stomach. “You’re…funny.”

  “I’m serious. Love that naked, wet look on you.” He smiled. “So let’s recreate our rain date with a trip to the waterfall when we’re done here.”

  Oh God. Everything in her wanted to say yes. Everything. “Are we almost there yet?”

  “You sound like Logan on a road trip.” He lifted their joined hands and pointed to a green sign that said Buxton was in two miles. “Now plug in Roger’s address, and let’s do whatever it is you do.”

  “I’m doing it alone.”

  “What?”

  “Brock, you can’t walk up to the guy and tell him who you are. He’ll never be honest with me.”

  He snorted, and she imagined all the arguments he was readying up. “I’ll tell him I’m David…Smith.”

  “I’m not going to lie to a source,” she said. “I’ll tell him I’m writing a book on the Blackthornes and researching history.” She tapped her phone and entered the address into the GPS. Then glanced around, frowning. “Oh wow. We’re already here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is his property. But I don’t see a—ahh! Watch out!” She shrieked as a man stepped right out into the road, forcing Brock to slam on the brakes, kick up dust, and stop about four inches from the end of a rifle barrel. “Oh my God.”

  “Welcome to the backwoods of Maine,” he muttered under his breath, opening the window to stick his head out. “Excuse me, sir, but—”

  “Get off my property!” The man was huge, at least six three, with a red beard and wearing camo from head to toe.

  “Sorry,” Brock called, holding up his hands as if he needed to show he was unarmed. “We’re looking for Roger Platt.”

  “He ain’t looking for you.”

  Brock let out an exasperated sigh. “Leave?” he asked Jenna.

  She almost choked. “Are you kidding? We just got here.”

  “Jenna, this isn’t New York. It’s Maine. It’s backwoods. It’s—”

  She opened her door very slowly, also holding up her hands as she stepped partway out. “Are you Roger Platt?” she asked.

  “Jenna.” Brock tried to grab her hand, but she slid just out of his reach, standing partially protected by the SUV’s door.

  Steely gray eyes narrowed. “Who’s askin’?”

  “I’m Jenna Gillespie. I’m an author and biographer, and I’m writing a book about the Blackthorne family.”

  He flinched at that, but never shifted his gaze or opened his mouth.

  “I believe there’s a…connection between the Platts and the Blackthornes.”

  “Who’s that with you?”

  “That’s…David.” Not a lie, not technically. “My driver.” Also true.

  The man’s sizable chest rose and fell a few times with slow, considered breaths. “What do you want to know?”

  “I just want to talk about…” She swallowed, took a breath, and lifted her chin. “The recipe.”

  She could have sworn she felt Brock bristle from where he sat.

  “’Bout damn time someone showed up.” He lowered the rifle and jerked his head for her to follow. “And for the love of God, you better write somethin’ that opens up their checkbooks. We ain’t had a Blackthorne payment in thirteen years, and we’re runnin’ dry out here.”

  * * *

  Brock’s jaw nearly hit his chest. And not just because the man, whoever he was, had just lied through his yellow teeth. Jenna was going with him?

  He shot out of the Range Rover, slamming the door and taking a few strides to head her off before she went into the woods with a guy carrying a shotgun.

  “What are you doing?” He put a hand on her shoulder, firm enough to slow her step.

  “You can come.”

  “Oh gee, thanks.”

  She gave him a look, then leaned closer to whisper, “I know you don’t like what he just said, but—”

  The man, now twenty feet ahead, turned around. “Hurry up.”

  Brock gave him a vile look. “I have a bad feeling about this, Jenna.”

  “He’s not going to hurt us,” she replied.

  “And you know that how?”

  “He wants money,” she said simply, quickening her step to keep up with the man as the wooded path ended, revealing a vast cornfield with stalks so high they towered over Brock’s six-two frame.

  He took an inhale and recognized the smell immediately. “Sugar gold corn,” he said. “This is what Blackthorne Gold is made from.”

  The man stopped at the edge of the cornfield, turning to eye Brock. “It’s what Sweet Willie is made from.”

  “Sweet Willie?” Brock frowned. “I’ve never heard of that. Is it a whisky?”

  “’Course you never heard of it. Blackthornes made sure of that.”

  Brock almost tripped at the shot of resentment that went through him, but Jenna grabbed his hand as if she anticipated his reaction.

  “What’s Sweet Willie?” she asked.

  “Best damn liquor you’ll ever taste in your life. Of course, if you drink Blackthorne Gold, you’ll recognize it.”

  Jenna squeezed Brock’s hand in warning, enough to silence him while they wended through what felt like a thousand rows of cornstalks, which broke for an occasional dirt road, then picked up again. It took ten, maybe fifteen minutes of nonstop walking.

  “Over here,” the man finally said, pointing to the last clearing.

  As they stepped out of the wall of cornstalks, Jenna sucked in a soft breath. “Oh, that’s pretty.”

  On a hill overlooking the fields stood a classic and massive log cabin with dozens of windows and about six cars and trucks and a bunch of motorcycles—two Harleys and a Ducati, to be precise—parked in front.

  It definitely wasn’t where Brock thought this mountain man would live. And whoever owned that fleet of expensive vehicles had some serious cash.

  “House used to be a lot nicer,” the man said. “Then the payments stopped.”

  What payments? Brock bit back the question and followed the man away from the house, down another path, stopping when they reached a barn. The words Sweet Willie were burned into the side of the weathered wood, and the entire left side of the grass in front of it was filled with wooden crosses in what looked l
ike a graveyard.

  He hoped like hell that wasn’t where they ended up today.

  “It’s in here,” he said, walking to a large door secured with a combination lock. “Can’t use the old distillery, of course. It’s haunted. But this works for our needs.”

  Haunted? Brock damn near choked before he opened his mouth to say something, but once again, he deferred to Jenna’s pleading look.

  “Wait right there,” the man said, leaning over to work the combination lock. He slid the door open just enough to stuff his large frame through, then closed it again, leaving them standing outside.

  “Jenna.” He spoke through gritted teeth. “I don’t know what you think this is going to accomplish, but that guy’s a lunatic with a gun.”

  “Do you or do you not want the truth?”

  “You think you’re going to get that from him?”

  “As soon as you heard ‘Blackthorne payment,’ you decided he wasn’t credible.”

  “Maybe, but what shred there might have been disappeared with the ‘haunted’ distillery. Oh, and…” He gestured toward the cemetery.

  “They all say Platt,” she said, ignoring his call for rationality. “We’re at the right place.”

  “If we were in a bad B movie.”

  “Brock, please.”

  “What? I’m here, unarmed and ready for whatever. What’s your goal in this?”

  “To find out if the recipe is stolen,” she said.

  “You’re seriously going to believe this guy?”

  She didn’t answer, because the door slid open a foot, and Rifle Man came back out. The gun had been replaced with a flip-top glass bottle filled with liquid that was a very familiar amber.

  “Taste it,” he said, holding two paper cups in one hand, then pouring with the grace and flair of a seasoned barkeep.

  Brock put his hand on Jenna’s arm before she could reach for a cup, though he didn’t think she was actually going to do that. “Hang on. Who are you?” he said to the man.

  “Roger Platt. And who are you?” the man demanded. “And don’t give me no lie, ’cause I can tell you’re one of them. They all have the same arrogant, smug expression.”

  “I’m Brock Blackthorne,” he said.

  “You his missus?” the man asked Jenna.

  “I’m exactly who I said I was,” she replied. “A writer looking for the truth. I’m writing a book about the Blackthorne family for Filmore & Fine. Have you heard of that publisher?”

  He shrugged, unimpressed by the famous book publisher’s name.

  “Was the recipe for Blackthorne Gold stolen?” Jenna asked.

  He snorted. “Ain’t got no proof of that—”

  “As I suspected,” Brock said, putting his hand on Jenna’s back. “Let’s get out of—”

  “But we did get checks for one million dollars a year signed by a Blackthorne.”

  Brock froze mid-step, staring at the man. “Excuse me?”

  “According to my granddad, the money started showin’ up every January, startin’ right after my great-granddaddy Wilfred mysteriously disappeared back in the ’30’s.”

  The emphasis left no doubt who he thought was responsible for that disappearance, which sent a punch of anger through Brock.

  “Well, my great-grandfather didn’t steal the recipe,” Brock said. “I’ve seen the paper that he wrote it on. I know his handwriting.”

  Roger lifted one meaty shoulder, forcing Brock to tamp down more fury.

  “There are pictures of him distilling the whisky at our King Harbor operation,” Brock ground out. “Journals that cataloged how they tested each step of the process, how they tried different flavors for the burn, soaked the barrels in exactly the right formula, and used techniques perfected by my ancestors in Scotland. We have documented proof that Blackthorne Gold is our family recipe.”

  The other man shook his head, letting Brock’s speech hang in the humid air for a moment, then he closed his eyes. “Come in here.”

  Brock glanced at Jenna, who gave a nod, and they followed him into the dimly lit barn, where familiar scents bombarded Brock. Vanilla, oak, and sweet corn mixed with the smell of aged, burned wood. The smell of the distillery he’d practically grown up in.

  In the corner, a small still was humming with life, mashing the corn and puffing out steam.

  Five or six barrels lined one wall, each with a tap.

  The man shoved an empty paper cup into Brock’s hand. “Take a pour. Any one of them. Tell me you ain’t tastin’ your Blackthorne Gold.” He practically spat the words.

  Brock rumpled the cup. “No, thank you.”

  “What about the payments you mentioned?” Jenna asked. “What were they for?”

  He turned to flip the valve on one of the barrels and filled yet another cup. “Only person who knows that is old Willie himself, and they ain’t never found his body. My guess is that it’s somewhere where Blackthornes bury people they want to shut up. Then they pay hush money to keep the family from—”

  “That’s garbage.” Brock squeezed the tiny cup in his fist, feeling that vein in his temple pulse.

  Jenna stepped closer. “If the money stopped coming, why wouldn’t you do anything about that?”

  “Like call a lawyer?” He snorted. “Blackthornes would bury us in legal costs.”

  “Or call a newspaper,” she suggested. “Why not set the record straight about the stolen recipe? Your missing ancestor? Why hide this all these years?”

  He gave her a long look. “Kinda hoped the money would start up again.” He grinned at Brock. “Is that why you’re here, Blackthorne?”

  Fat chance.

  When Brock didn’t answer, the other man stuck the glass under Brock’s nose. “Smell familiar?”

  As familiar as his name.

  “Let’s go, Jenna.” He eased her back with a little force. “Now.”

  On a sigh, she came with him, as if she knew arguing was fruitless. Brock led her out the door into the heavy, storm-laden air. Even this air smelled like his childhood, his life, his family, his name.

  Could Alistair have stolen the recipe and paid the family off for decades and no one knew that? And what happened to Wilfred? Was that hush money or had Blackthornes been blackmailed for years? And how the holy hell did he not know any of this?

  Outside, the clouds had gathered and thickened, and the air was rich with rain about to fall. And they had to find their way through that damn cornfield, because Brock couldn’t take one more minute with this lying son of a bitch.

  Silent, still holding the detestable bottle, Jenna took his hand and went with him into the cornfield. Ten feet into the first row, he had to face two facts: The recipe might have been stolen, and he had no freaking idea which way to go.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Brock, we’re lost.” Jenna had waited a good fifteen minutes before stating the obvious and really wouldn’t have said a word, because she trusted Brock to get them out of this field, but then she heard thunder, and that was a game changer.

  “Not…exactly.” He stopped when they reached one of the paths that didn’t seem wide enough for a car, but had to be a way out. Except the last three they’d followed had taken them…nowhere.

  He wiped some sweat from his brow and adjusted his glasses. “I can’t believe I got out of the Range Rover without my phone.”

  “I left mine, too.” At the next rumble, she made a face and looked up at the cloud-covered sky. “That storm isn’t far away.”

  He exhaled and put his hands on her shoulders. “Guess you’re furious I made you leave that outstanding interview.”

  “I was for a minute.”

  He lifted a brow.

  “Okay, five minutes. I did want to pepper that guy with questions and…” She lifted the bottle. “Compare.”

  “There’s no comparison,” he said. “But I didn’t trust myself to stand there and listen to that crap any longer.”

  “There’s more to the story, Brock. And I though
t you wanted to put an end to these rumors.”

  “I do. And now I’ll go back to King Harbor or Boston and start looking into who paid his family for so many years and claimed it was Blackthorne money. We have a top-notch security team who can look into it. And he’s right about the lawyers. He won’t know what hit him.”

  And then you’ll cover it all up, Jenna thought. “Maybe it was Blackthorne money.”

  “Do you seriously think I wouldn’t know about that? Or have heard something? I’m at every board meeting, Jenna. Nothing goes on at that company that one of my brothers or cousins or uncle doesn’t know about, and no one would keep something like that a secret.”

  “Even Claire?”

  He drew back. “Do you think… No. It’s impossible. It’s—”

  A clap of thunder made her jump. “Getting closer.” She glanced around, her heart sinking. “Brock, this is pretty much the most dangerous place in the world in a storm. Please. I don’t want to die for this book. Can we find shelter?”

  “Okay. This way. I think we’re getting closer to Salmon Falls.”

  “Why there?” she asked as the first fat drops hit their heads.

  “There’s shelter,” he promised, taking her hand. “Might be a challenge to get inside, but if it hasn’t changed too much in fifteen years, I think I can do it. Come on.”

  She clung to his hand as he picked up speed and weaved them through the rows of corn, the sweet smell mixing with the fragrance of the drizzle as it picked up intensity, the sound of thunder getting closer every moment.

  But then they stopped, and it wasn’t thunder she heard, but one solid noise of rushing water, even louder than the rain.

  “We’re close,” he said, taking off his glasses and clipping one arm in the collar of his T-shirt. “I know where I am now. I can find the distillery from here.”

  “Another distillery?”

  “The original one,” he said.

  “The haunted one?”

  “Ghosts or lightning, babe. Take your choice.”

  She curled her lip. “I’ll take ghosts.”

  They headed toward the sound of the water, but before they reached the falls, he detoured into some woods. The rain picked up to full force, soaking her hair and shirt, sluicing down her face.