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

by Jennifer Bramseth

“Or Goose’s,” Harriet added with a wicked little grin.

  “Exactly! Remember it isn’t a one-way street. It’s not all about you. Goose wants to be with you, right? If there’s a chance you can give him that gift—the gift of yourself—you owe it to him to ask the questions of the ethics nerds you’re afraid to ask.”

  Hannah was right. Harriet had to ask whether a relationship with Goose was permissible. She owed it to herself and the man who was willing to wait for her.

  15

  After Harriet returned to her condo, she found the contact information for her district representative on the ethics panel and composed a long e-mail detailing her situation. It took her four hours to perfect her draft, and even after all that polishing, she still couldn’t hit the damn send button. Not yet.

  It was hard to believe it had only been a week since the creek, her confrontation with Goose at Lila’s house, and her breakup with Mark. Now she’d written a formal, stuffy e-mail to some ethics nerd (as Hannah had so eloquently described the recipient) she didn’t know from Adam or Eve, spilling some of her most delicate professional and personal secrets. Harriet had been grateful to Hannah when she said she’d tell Bo and Lila about the situation and refer any questions they had to her.

  Harriet wanted to tell Goose that she’d revealed the situation to Hannah, but she couldn’t; the conversation was confidential, and she didn’t feel comfortable asking Hannah for permission to tell him. She wasn’t even sure she could tell Goose she was getting an ethics opinion, so she defaulted to silence, hoping she could tell him someday.

  It was a sick, twisted echo of five years ago: keeping secrets.

  Feeling ornery and defiant, and after downing a Garnet Center Cut with just a splash of water, Harriet hit the send button. She sat at her computer for a few more minutes, sending an e-mail to another client and checking the weather forecast.

  Harriet was surprised when, in less than five minutes, she received a responsive e-mail from the ethics panel member to whom she had sent her inquiry. The member acknowledged receipt of her request for an opinion and said he would get an opinion to her in about two weeks.

  Harriet left her computer and retreated to her bedroom, where she flopped into her favorite chair and sipped the remains of her drink.

  Now she waited for an answer, even though she had little hope she’d get the answer her heart and body wanted: go for it!

  She put her head back against the chair and rested her arms on the wide armrests, her drink in her right hand. Harriet started to fantasize about what if she got a yes. How would she tell Goose? Where?

  There was one thing for certain: she knew what they would do—with and to each other—in light of that kind of answer.

  She finished her drink, restless at the thought of Goose’s hands on her body again.

  Oh, his hands. Those big hands and wide, flat fingers…

  She could still feel his thumb on her clit that night long ago, moving in soft then harder circles and—

  Harriet opened her eyes and jumped out of her chair. She started pacing in her bedroom.

  This was torture.

  She finished her drink, changed into her pajamas, and got ready for bed.

  But once in bed, all Harriet could think about was Goose.

  His face. His mouth. His body. His hands.

  His hands…

  She tossed and turned but could find no rest.

  Harriet knew what she needed. She needed him.

  But since that was an impossibility at that moment, there was something else she could have.

  Release.

  Her right hand moved beneath her waistband and down to her moist center. She slipped a finger, then two, inside herself, as her other hand found her nipple. Harriet concentrated on Goose, on his face, on her memories of that night, and the promise that one day she would be coming hard around him instead of mildly flexing on her own little fingers. She managed to bring herself to climax, just barely, but it was enough to dissolve the tinge of anxiety and allow her to drift off to sleep.

  The last thing she thought about before she succumbed to sleep was how, as she had been climbing toward her peak, she hadn’t thought about his hands or his mouth or other parts that she knew could make her feel really good.

  No, the thing that had finally made her come was her memory of Goose’s face as he gazed down at her in wonder when he had found his pleasure inside her over five years ago, giving her the best sexual and emotional experience of her life.

  * * *

  “No, really, I insist,” Harriet said into the phone as she put on her jacket. “I’ll be doing the driving.”

  “Oh, come on, Harriet. It will be fun to take the new van.”

  Goose had a new toy.

  He’d asked for another truck for Old Garnet; he had been driving the first one, with a vanity plate of GARNET-1, for a few months. Bo and Hannah relented and agreed to another vehicle but got a van.

  It wasn’t one of those big conversion vans but a minivan and, according to Goose, had some neat images painted all over it. The chance to use the pickup truck as a moving billboard broadcasting all the glories of Old Garnet Distillery was a little limited, but the windowless expanses on the side of the minivan greatly increased the opportunities to promote the brand.

  “You’re gonna love it,” Goose said. “The pictures on it—well, I don’t want to give too much away.”

  “Sounds like you think it belongs to you,” Harriet said.

  “I guess I think of it a little bit like my own,” Goose said. “When they didn’t want another truck, I suggested a van as well as almost all the images. Haven’t I said enough to make you want to see it?”

  “Yes, you have, but that’s not the point. I’d love to see it. I just don’t want to ride in the thing. With you.”

  “You don’t like my driving?”

  “Not in the slightest.” She picked up her purse and briefcase and walked out her front door. “After bouncing around with you in that four-wheeler, I never want to—”

  “Hey, I don’t always drive like that, okay?”

  But Harriet wasn’t listening to him as he launched into a vigorous defense of his driving habits. She was staring at her car. Specifically, at the two slashed tires.

  “Well, that’s just fucking great,” she muttered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Looks like you get your wish, Mr. Davenport.”

  “Who the hell is Mr. Davenport?” he laughed. “Nobody calls me that. But I like it when you do it,” he teased. “And just what wish have I been granted? I have several I’d like to call in if I could.”

  With difficulty, she ignored his taunt and explained her situation. “So come pick me up in the new vehicle. But I’ll drive to Frankfort.”

  Ten minutes later, Goose pulled into one of the spots in front of her condo with the new Old Garnet minivan. When he got out of the vehicle, he immediately spotted her slashed tires.

  “Why the hell would anyone do that? Punks. Do you not have any security around here?” he asked as he looked around the parking lot.

  “Not really. Just some strategically placed streetlights and a few security cameras. These incidents happen once in a while here.”

  They hadn’t seen each other since the day at her office, and they both found themselves staring a little too long at the other.

  Goose looked extremely hunky. Instead of his usual uniform of jeans and an Old Garnet polo, he was in neatly pressed khakis and a twill button-down long-sleeved shirt with the embroidered Old Garnet logo over the left breast pocket. Harriet had seen Bo and Hannah often wearing these maroon shirts and knew Walker had one in red as well as black. But she’d never seen Goose in one, and he looked damn fine. As her mother might say (although never about Goose himself), he cleaned up nice. The only nod to the somewhat outdoorsy and blue-collar nature of his job was the pair of work boots he wore, but she saw they had been cleaned up for the occasion. He had no jacket; for late October, the weather
was unseasonably warm, with a high forecast in the 80s. Harriet expected that day to be the last nice one of the season, knowing how easily the weather could turn in central Kentucky at that time of year.

  Goose’s little side glances told her he was simultaneously appreciating her attire. She had chosen khakis as well but wore a dark red suit blouse and black jacket with a strand of pearls to dress up her look. She was also wearing black leather boots and realized the choice had been a mistake once she’d walked out her front door and felt how warm it already was.

  “So show off the van,” she said, and Goose’s face lit up.

  He offered his hand to help her step off the curb. She took it, smiled, and stepped toward the vehicle. Just before she released him, she gave his hand a small squeeze, which he returned with a smile.

  “Look—isn’t it great?”

  It was.

  The images, surrounded by the expected colors of tan, black, garnet, and brown, were clear and vibrant.

  A bottle of Old Garnet next to a half-full glass of bourbon.

  The visitors’ center.

  Old Crow Creek.

  An antique garnet brooch.

  And a shot of Hannah, Bo, and Lila—the three owners—on the back hatch of the van, their arms around each other.

  “You think the curator we’re going to meet with today would be interested in seeing this?”

  “Maybe,” Harriet allowed but thought the curator probably would not be tempted by the offer to see a minivan, regardless of the novelty the thing offered. “We can always ask. Let’s get on the road.”

  The drive to Frankfort was nothing short of spectacular.

  The sun was exulting in one last display of glory before retreating to those low places on the horizon it stalked during the coldest months, waiting for the Kentucky spring to arrive and release it from confinement. Most of the peak fall color had passed, so the landscape was a mixture of the bare trees, the plentiful cedars, and sparse, gaudily bright trees standing as the last harbingers of the season. Fields had been harvested save for a few places they passed which had pumpkins on the ground, the dots of bright orange set in stark contrast against dull brown earth.

  It had been about a year since Harriet had been to Frankfort to file a brief at the Kentucky Supreme Court Clerk’s office, but nothing of note had changed. The trip took the same time, and the landmarks, both natural and man-made, were all unchanged. Goose told her that he probably hadn’t been to Frankfort, the state capital, since a field trip in high school.

  “And it’s not like I remember much from that,” he admitted. “Just a dumb jock goofing off.”

  She didn’t challenge his assessment but thought how self-deprecating he sounded when he said it—and how the appellation did not fit him today. This was the man who not more than an hour ago had gone all fanboy over a new minivan.

  As they drove down Louisville Hill into the gorge where the heart of Frankfort was nestled along double curves in the Kentucky River, they passed an overlook on Goose’s right. It afforded a sweeping view of the capitol and the surrounding area.

  “Wow!” he exclaimed, excited by a sight she’d seen a thousand times. She’d driven this road to and from work when she worked at the state auditor’s office. “Think we could stop there on the way back?”

  “Sure. But there could be a few more places you’ll want to see before we go.”

  When he looked at her skeptically, she smiled in a you’ll-see fashion and headed down the hill.

  After passing what purported according to the sign to be the oldest funeral home in the Commonwealth, they turned left at a light in front of a fire station and went across a bridge over the Kentucky.

  The Singing Bridge.

  Made of metal, it produced a resonant, metallic whirring as one crossed it, and Harriet explained that it was very old and had been used in the days of the streetcars.

  “Look in front of us,” she said.

  A few short blocks away was a prominent squarish building fronted with columns and topped with a dome.

  “What is it?”

  “The Old State Capitol,” she explained as she continued to drive straight toward it and stopped. “If we have time, we’ll walk around over there. Perfect day for it.”

  Harriet turned right, skirting the railroad tracks which split a broad avenue—Broadway. After one more short block and another light, Harriet pulled into a large parking lot across from a nearly windowless, multistoried orange brick building.

  The Thomas Clark Kentucky History Center.

  They parked easily in the lot, which faced the Center across the railroad tracks, and got out and stretched. In front of the Center was a long trailer painted with characters in a graphic-novel style.

  “What’s that thing?” Goose said. He took a few steps away from the van and pointed across the street.

  “The History Mobile. It’s a moving history exhibit. Goes around to schools, fairs. See the images on the side? Those are all real people from Kentucky history, very important historic figures.” She highlighted two images: Henry Clay, the senator, secretary of state, and presidential candidate; and US Supreme Court Justice John Marshall Harlan. Above the justice’s head was a scales of justice, and it hovered over his pate such that one side of the scales looked like his own golden halo.

  Goose’s interest in things she had taken for granted when she’d worked in Frankfort was gratifying. Harriet had been a history major and had never lost her love for the subject. That was the whole point of her presence with Goose that day in fact: to help Old Garnet expand its historic site designation.

  Before going inside, Harriet told Goose to take some pictures of the van in case the curator could not be tempted to come outside and check out their ride.

  “Already have,” he said and held up his phone. “Got a ton of ’em on here.”

  “Of course you do.” She walked to the rear of the van, popped the hatch to retrieve her briefcase, and was surprised by the mess she discovered. “Hey, what’s all this stuff?” Goose had stowed her briefcase for her when they’d left Bourbon Springs, so she’d had no idea of the clutter they’d been toting around.

  “Oh, that stuff belongs to Lila. She used the minivan the other day to move some things from her old home to her place with Bo. But all that crap,” he said and gestured toward the dark and cluttered interior of the van, “is what she didn’t want. I need to pack it up and take it to charity.”

  Before Harriet was a negligent mixture of the tidy (a few boxes, clearly marked and unopened) and the disheveled (old pillows, blankets, and sheets which had been discarded).

  “Not a nice way to treat your new girlfriend,” Harriet said as he closed the hatch.

  “Huh?”

  “I was referring to the van.”

  The Center on the outside wasn’t the most interesting thing, but what the exterior lacked, the interior made up for in spades.

  In the middle of a three-story-high lobby was a spacious floor with a sprawling mosaic of the entire Commonwealth down to the tiny tip of land at the far western edge which was not contiguous to the state. It looked like a mistake by the craftsman, but the map was correct. A glob of Kentucky soil was cut off from the rest of Commonwealth by the mighty Mississippi River, an eccentric hiccup of geography and geology.

  On the left was a broad winding staircase leading up through the middle of the hall to a second level.

  “Up there,” Harriet said, pointing heavenward. She’d been conferring with someone at the welcome desk while Goose had been gawking at their surroundings.

  They ascended, and a few minutes later they were being escorted into a windowless meeting room where they were greeted by a woman likely in her sixties with short white hair and a wide blinding smile.

  “Hi! So nice to meet you!” She enthusiastically shook hands in turn with Harriet and Goose. “I’m Barbara Peyton, the curator of historic sites and properties.”

  Harriet and Goose introduced themselves, and the trio
sat at the plain rectangular conference table with Barbara on one side and Harriet and Goose opposite her.

  “So,” she said, rubbing her hands together eagerly like someone who was about to receive a much-anticipated present, “what do you have for me today?”

  Harriet and Goose exchanged anxious smiles before beginning their somewhat-practiced presentation. They had discussed the pitch they wanted to make but had not actually met to go over it. And now, in the presence of this happy and pleasant woman, Harriet felt strangely intimidated by the woman’s aggressive niceness.

  Harriet moved through her talk, and when she stumbled (which was often), Goose picked up the narrative. Eventually Harriet sat back and let Goose take the lead. He knew more than she did about the property and had a passion for what he was talking about she simply couldn’t match. Harriet wished that Bo, Hannah, and Lila (especially Lila, the history teacher) could have been with them to see Goose enthusiastically talking about Old Garnet, its history, its historic boundaries.

  And that’s when they came to the fly in the ointment.

  16

  “An issue has recently popped up,” Goose admitted. He proceeded to explain about the discovery of the abandoned still site. “We’re working on getting the boundary determined.”

  “I see,” Barbara said. She pulled a map across the table so she could better examine it. “Well, we’ll need to resolve that before we can properly consider whether to grant your application to expand the state historic site location.”

  “So what does that mean?” Harriet interrupted. “We’re on hold until the boundary is decided?”

  Barbara smiled sadly and told Harriet that was the case. “But once that’s done, I don’t see any problems here. I’ll be able to approve the application barring something really strange. If it’s just a matter of a few yards, as you describe this problem with the creek and the little island and so on, once you can present me with a plat that has that fixed boundary, you’ll get your expansion designation. And I know that’s what you want so you can go for National Historic Landmark status. How exciting!”