Bourbon Springs Box Set: Volume II, Books 4-6 (Bourbon Springs Box Sets Book 2)

by Jennifer Bramseth

  Sure enough, he’d been irked with her for changing their plans, even though it had involved only moving their get-together until the following night. When she’d told him the reason was work related, he’d sounded doubtful but grudgingly agreed to bump their date until Saturday night. Although she had expected irritation, she hadn’t anticipated Mark’s anger, a reaction which still puzzled her. Some of his comments had been borderline mean, but she attributed his edginess to the ongoing litigation in which he was embroiled.

  Harriet had walked across the expansive Old Garnet grounds, but only on paved paths or well-trodden earthen ones. She’d never been far out onto the property, some parts of which were downright remote, and even though her presence there with Goose that day was only marginally necessary, having the chance to better familiarize herself with her client’s vast acreage was a good idea.

  They passed the distillery, the old rickhouse, and a number of other buildings before the last remnants of civilization were behind them and they were looking at open, rolling country.

  There were a few rickhouses out this way, but as they moved farther to the north, the terrain became more and more uneven and rocky and thus unsuitable for structures. Eventually they were simply in the wilds of the Old Garnet Distillery grounds, and Harriet realized the journey could actually be dangerous. Goose was driving like a maniac over the terrain, but she said nothing, held on tight, and hoped they would soon come to a stop.

  He took her to a spot that was, according to the maps and surveys they had brought, very close to the property’s northern border.

  “Most people don’t know this, but according to the survey, there’s an island out here somewhere in a wide part of the creek,” he said conspiratorially, as though they were two little kids off on some adventure and their parents had no clue to their whereabouts.

  “Have you seen it?”

  “No, but I’ve always wanted to, and I thought this would be the day to do it. According to some stories I’ve heard, there used to be an illegal still on the island. I’ve always wanted to investigate, but Hannah and Bo don’t believe it existed.”

  “What about Lila?”

  “She’s not sure but thinks if it did exist, it would be to the south, along her property. She said her father had told her stories like I’d heard, although she’s never seen any evidence of an island or old still.”

  He parked the four-wheeler, and they started walking down toward Old Crow Creek. The sun was still high and the air warm, but as the sun started to dip lower, the temperatures would fall fast. She looked back to her far right. In the distance on a hill loomed Hannah and Kyle’s large (and rather ugly, as she had heard Hannah herself actually admit) home, perched on a wide, high knoll, providing a spectacular southerly view of the distillery grounds, Old Crow Creek Valley, and Bourbon Springs in the far distance.

  They trekked down to the water, Goose ahead of her. He stopped a few times to take some pictures and check his GPS. The creek was low, which wasn’t that surprising for that time of year, October, which was traditionally a dry month.

  “Could that be it?” Goose asked and pointed to a land mass in the middle of the creek bed. The water was so scarce, however, that they could pick their way across the slightly muddied and rocky expanse to get to the little island.

  “I don’t think this is it,” Harriet declared. “Too small.”

  They looked around, and Goose admitted she was right. This wasn’t the island they were looking for.

  “Crap,” he muttered, surprising Harriet with his orneriness. “What is it?”

  Harriet shrugged. “Just surprised you’re so upset, I guess.”

  “I really want to find this place.”

  They began to climb back up the embankment. “So you can prove Hannah and Bo wrong?”

  “No, but it would be nice to show the cousins and Little Miss History Nerd a thing or two.”

  Harriet snorted loudly.

  “Don’t you believe the story?” he asked, his face getting redder as they scaled the bank.

  “Oh, no, I believe you,” Harriet said as she slid into the four-wheeler. Goose dumped the camera and GPS device into her lap. “I was laughing at your title for Lila.”

  “Don’t squeal on me, okay?” he asked, half seriously. “Need to keep it nice with the bosses.”

  “Where to now?”

  “Proposal spot.”

  “Say what?”

  “Or maybe I should say proposals,” Goose laughed and put the key into the ignition. “We think Walker proposed to CiCi at the same spot where old Jacob supposedly proposed to Lucy,” he said, referring to one of the apocryphal stories about how the founder of Old Garnet had proposed to his future wife by asking her to wear a garnet brooch to a ball. “But Walker and CiCi won’t tell. Said it’s their secret.”

  Goose started up the four-wheeler, and they were off again. Harriet’s former client, CiCi Summers, was engaged to Walker Cain, the Old Garnet master distiller. To hear he’d possibly popped the question to CiCi on the same storied site where the Old Garnet legend was born was swoonworthy, and Harriet was excited to see the location.

  They were only briefly at the proposal spot, a clearing along the creek near a lovely waterfall. Goose got out of the four-wheeler, advising Harriet to wait, saying he only wanted to check something. He was back within a minute.

  “No way there was an island there,” he said dejectedly and slammed a fist against the steering wheel.

  “Why’s the island so important to find?”

  “Because if we can find it, it’ll look good on the application, of course.”

  “Of course,” she agreed as he pulled away and they headed south on the property. But she intuited there was something more to Goose’s pursuit.

  After a kidney-crushing twenty minutes of super-bouncy riding that made Harriet wonder how Goose could stand to drive like he did, they arrived at the southern border of the grounds. In front of them was Lila’s land: the springs, her farmhouse, and all the acreage, bounded by Ashbrooke Pike on the east and left and Old Crow Creek on the west and right. To the far south, she spotted the construction of two new rickhouses.

  Goose killed the ignition, and they both stepped from the vehicle.

  “Gotta walk it from here,” he said. “Lila’s rules.”

  He got out, retrieved the gear, and started to head down to Old Crow Creek.

  It was nearing five o’clock and the sun was low.

  “Wait, Goose. Let’s get to the springs first,” Harriet suggested, looking at the thick woods in front of them across an open meadow. “I don’t want to get into those woods,” she said and pointed, “while the sun’s going down.”

  He agreed, and they trudged to the springs together.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were standing in the middle of the springs at the highest cleared point. Below them, the water bubbled and trickled over harsh gray limestone as gravity drew it to Old Crow Creek.

  Harriet was humbled to be there. She’d heard how Lila zealously guarded access to this spot and had thought her a bit eccentric.

  No more.

  It was a tiny slice of peace, an escape from the inexorable passage of time. And while Harriet knew the springs had certain historic qualities, she had not understood until that moment the spiritual nature of the place.

  After taking a few pictures (Lila had demanded the right to approve the shots sent with any application), they pulled themselves away from the springs and made their way down to the creek. During the journey, she noticed a distinct chill in the air. The sun was touching the tree line, and Harriet was wondering why they didn’t get back to the four-wheeler and get gone.

  “Shouldn’t we go?” Harriet said, struggling to keep up with him. She was tired now, and the backpack weighed on her.

  “We’re so close…” He pointed toward the creek and a thick clump of pines and cedars. “I’ll just bet… maybe it’s down here. C’mon.”

  Goose Davenport was a man on a m
ission.

  That he was stubborn was no particular surprise, but the reason for his intransigence was intriguing. Goose was driven out of a sheer sense of wonder and love.

  He loved this land, and he loved his job. What a lucky, lucky man.

  Harriet followed, feeling the same sense of curiosity and excitement stealing into her thoughts. Had he always been this person and she just hadn’t taken the time to get to know him better until now?

  Goose stopped to examine a map and a survey while Harriet, panting, caught up. He thrust the camera into her hands and asked her to be ready to take some pictures.

  “There,” he said and tapped the map. “Maybe it’s there.”

  He was off before Harriet could ask another question or snap a picture.

  The bank was steep, and they had to go slowly and carefully as they descended. They soon found themselves by the water, a rocky and rough area with a few fallen trees across the span of the creek. The pines and cedars were thick, and the sun’s thin rays barely penetrated the vegetation. In short, it was a little too dark for Harriet’s liking.

  Goose walked carefully to the left, south along the creek, scouring the area. “The island is supposed to be on the other side of a big tree,” he said.

  “Yeah, that narrows it down,” Harriet sniped. Giant trees towered above them, and Harriet felt like an ant in the grass looking for a slightly larger blade of grass.

  Goose kept heading south, but Harriet stopped. “Wait. If the tree is gone, then what you’re looking for is—”

  She spun around and faced north.

  Those trees across the creek there…

  Harriet demanded the maps and surveys, and Goose provided them to her with a sigh and frown.

  “Look,” she said, ignoring his arrogant words and posture. “Those fallen trees. And one of them is huge.”

  He looked where she pointed beyond the creek and then snatched one of the maps from her hands.

  “Hey!”

  After a mumbled apology, Goose walked toward the creek his nose in the map with her following.

  They hastened to the water’s edge and stared at three fallen trees, one of which was significantly larger than the other two. Its massive base was on the far side of the creek, but even at a distance of many yards, its tangled, clawlike roots could be clearly seen in the twilight, reaching up like a zombie’s desiccated hand as it emerged from a shallow grave.

  “You’re right,” Goose said and stowed the map in the back pocket of his jeans. “That’s gotta be it.”

  He was about to head toward the spot, but Harriet grabbed his upper arm and stopped him.

  She immediately released him, but not because of the startled look he gave her.

  Harriet hadn’t touched Goose since—

  Those muscles—

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I… uh… I…”

  Under other circumstances, the place and time in which they found themselves would have been nothing short of magically romantic.

  A babbling brook.

  Fall at twilight.

  A little chill in the air.

  The earthy smell of dank leaves mingling with the mash cooking at the distillery and the faint aroma of a fire somewhere far away.

  And an extremely hot, hunky, and probably horny guy she knew could make her feel like—

  “Oh, are you worried about falling?” Goose asked.

  “Wh-what?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s just as shallow here as it was up on the northern end of the grounds,” he assured her. “We can pick our way across to that spot over these rocks, although there will be mud.”

  “Yeah, right,” she said, trying to sound like she’d recovered from whatever little lust-and-guilt episode she had just endured. Harriet squinted in the gloom. “Are you sure about that water? Looks deeper here.”

  Goose started to walk across the creek over a small waterfall that was barely a trickle. “I don’t think it’s deeper, but even if it is, we can still be careful and not fall in, right?”

  “I’m still not clear on what we’re looking for or why.” She realized with an inward cringe she sounded awfully whiny.

  “It could be a wild goose chase, but—”

  “Bad one,” Harriet said, commenting on the quality of Goose’s inadvertent pun.

  “Yeah, whatever,” he said, sounding annoyed and amused in equal parts.

  While they crossed, Goose revealed how he’d heard stories from his grandfather about a small island on the property where, starting during late Prohibition, his side of the family had set up a still.

  So that was why he’d been so eager to find this mythical island in the middle of Old Crow Creek.

  “But why do that?” Harriet asked, trying to keep a firm foot on the slippery-looking and uneven rocks as darkness descended. “Old Garnet had a medicinal license, didn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it did,” Goose said with admiration in his voice. “Not everyone knows that, even a lot of people in Bourbon Springs these days. Impressive.”

  “I was a history major, you know,” she reminded him.

  It was true that many in Bourbon Springs had forgotten or never knew that during Prohibition, Old Garnet was one of a handful of distilleries in the nation which did not have to completely shut down. It had been fortunate enough to obtain a medicinal license from the federal government to bottle and produce whiskey for medicinal purposes, and the business had remained open. This meant that Old Garnet had been operating on the site for at least one hundred and seventy years—probably longer—a point which was proudly noted during every tour and in promotional literature. Before that time, distilling activity could be intermittently traced back to the early years of the nineteenth century. Someone had been making whiskey or bottling it on the land that was now the Old Garnet grounds for nearly two hundred years, give or take a gap of a few years here and there.

  “So why have a still out here?” Harriet asked.

  “Because it wasn’t supposed to be seen, if you know what I mean,” Goose said as he ducked to avoid an overhanging branch. He was almost across the creek and standing in about an inch of water. “Here, give me your hand,” he told her, “this spot looks a little tricky.”

  Harriet held out her hand to him and realized she was trembling and cold.

  “Damn!” he said as he pulled her toward him and solid ground on the opposite creek bank. “Your hands are like ice! And you’re shivering too.”

  “Hate the cold,” she said as she tried to secure a foothold and slipped a bit. But Goose caught her arm before she could fall.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, just got a chill. And, no, I don’t know what you mean about that still. Why wasn’t it supposed to be seen?”

  “It was illegal, of course,” he said and headed toward the fallen tree.

  “But why have an illegal one if you’re making what you need up at Old Garnet?”

  “Because the stuff they made and bottled legally during Prohibition was hard to come by. The government watched, and you had to have a prescription to get it. And my side of the family—well, we weren’t that well off, see? We just weren’t making it to have it for personal use. We sold it too. But we needed a place to make the stuff. The story I always heard was that our cousins—the owners of the distillery, not us—let us set up shop on a remote spot on the grounds and let us stay there even after Prohibition was over. We still needed the still because we needed to make money, even if it was against the law.”

  Harriet didn’t know the whole family dynamic behind the Davenport clan, but apparently there were the haves and the have-nots. She hadn’t been aware of this split until Goose’s story.

  They walked on, and she could see why the place was hidden; there wasn’t an island any longer. At one point, there could have been a discernible flow around what was a wide, flat, and treed spot, but it was hard to tell.

  “Aren’t we on the nature preserve property now? We crossed the creek.
”

  “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure where we are. It’s hard to tell from those old surveys and maps.”

  “If you’re thinking we can include this on the application—this long-lost still site, if it exists—now we’ve got a title issue.” Her mind raced as she thought of all the work necessary to get a title problem cleared up. Although Bo had recently had title work done during his dispute with Lila, that work had focused on the southern boundary of the distillery property and not so much the western boundary along Old Crow Creek.

  “I’ll leave it to the lawyers to draw the line. Right now, I just want to find the site.”

  “I don’t like the idea of being trespassers,” Harriet whispered but still loud enough that Goose could hear her and chuckle.

  They moved into the thick of the trees, and it was like going into the forest around Lila’s springs, except with extra helpings of impenetrable darkness and sharp blackberry brambles. She pulled her flashlight from her backpack after seeing him unhook his own from his belt. Goose entered the undergrowth and shined his light in quick, wide swathes around the bushes and trees, but no metallic object flashed back. Harriet mimicked his actions, but similarly had no luck.

  Until she had some bad luck.

  9

  “Oh, shit!”

  The toe of her boot had caught on something that did not feel like a natural part of the landscape, and she tumbled to the ground.

  Goose spun on the spot, shining the flashlight on Harriet’s prone form, and dropped the GPS. He rushed to her and was soon on his knees with his arms around her waist. “Please, please tell me you’re not hurt.”

  “I’m good, really,” she said, although she was a bit dazed. He pulled her to her feet, one arm around her waist and the other gripping her upper arm. If she hadn’t just wiped out and embarrassed herself, she knew she’d have a problem with him having his arm around her. The problem being she liked it too much.

  “Hurt anything?” he asked.

  “Just gonna be a little bruised. Maybe we should get out of—wait—what’s that?” She pointed to the ground in front of her near her feet.