“Like you?”
“We can work together, but I’d never try to date the man. And he’s not had much luck in that department since the wife left him. As the clearinghouse of all Craig County gossip, you must know that, CiCi.”
They watched Jon help Pepper into her dark brown wool coat, smiling as he swept her long red hair from her shoulders.
“Or maybe,” CiCi said, “the right one for him has been there all along and he’s not done anything about it. Sound familiar?”
Goose was at Harriet’s side before Harriet could form an answer. CiCi left them to find Walker, and they went to say good-bye to Lucy, waiting at the door with Rachel and Brady.
“Please tell me you have an overnight bag in your car,” Goose said after they had said goodnight to his mother and the judges.
“Of course I do.”
“Give me a fifteen-minute head start.” When she expressed confusion, he winked. “You’ll see.”
Harriet did as he requested, taking the time to say good-bye to Hannah and Kyle; CiCi and Walker were already gone. Before leaving, Harriet took one last look at the floor where the bourbon flavor wheel was destined to be installed. She was truly excited at seeing the project come together since she had been present at the birth of the idea.
After waiting a few more minutes, Harriet left the distillery and drove the short distance to Goose’s house. He had swept the snow from the stairs to his front door, which was bedecked with a Christmas wreath adorned with minibottles of Old Garnet. Upon entering, Harriet dropped her bag on the floor and was about to shrug out of her coat when Goose emerged from the kitchen and told her to stop.
“Leave your coat on for just a little bit longer.” He was still wearing the black dress coat she’d seen him in when he’d left the distillery.
She took his hand but wondered why he would lead her back out into the snow and cold.
Goose opened the back door to the deck. All along the railing were small lanterns, each lit and glowing brightly and warmly as the snow fluttered down. On the table was a bottle of Old Garnet, two glasses, and a jar of cherries. He led her to the far edge of the deck where they could see through snow-covered trees the waters of Old Crow Creek flowing slowly away from them.
It was like a dream, she thought as he pulled her close and studied her face.
“This is really—girly,” she said and immediately cringed. “Sorry. Bad word choice. It’s just so—romantic, I guess.”
“I can do romantic.”
“Yes, you can,” she agreed and looked around, her eyes falling on the bourbon. “And I love it. Makes me feel very special.”
“Good. Because you are, Harriet. I did all this so you would always remember this moment.” He paused, took her head in his hands, and stroked her cheek with a thumb. “I love you,” he whispered. “Drink this in. Remember every small detail, every taste, every feeling, every breath we take and which passes between us.” He stopped, and the white vapor of their breaths mingled together in the small space between their lips. “Because no matter how old and addled we become someday, know and remember that we were here, together on this night. Remember that I love you and told you that.”
She was trembling, and the tears fell freely from her eyes.
“Change that pronoun,” she told him, and swallowed “We love each other, and we told each other that. Because I love you, too, Goose.”
They kissed, and she wanted to melt into him, to be as close as possible to this man she loved. Her desire was more than merely physical; it was spiritual. This was not what it had felt like with Mark or Cameron or anyone else. Nothing so shockingly wonderful, nothing like this elation of her very soul when she was with Goose.
He pulled away first, and she moaned a little as he broke the kiss.
“I just wanted to look at you again,” he said, brushing a strand of her hair from her face.
Harriet’s eyes again wandered to the bourbon, and he led her to the table, still keeping one arm around her waist.
“Do you remember what you were drinking at Rob and Linsey’s wedding?”
“I drank a lot of things, as I recall,” Harriet said, “including some wine with you.”
“But you drank Garnet, remember?”
“Pitted Garnets,” she giggled. “I had two or three, I think.”
“At least three.”
Goose took the jar of cherries, opened it, and put three cherries into each glass. He then poured the bourbon and handed one glass to Harriet.
She was nosing the bourbon when he told her not to drink.
“Not done yet,” he said. He then scooped a little bit of snow from the railing into her glass, and did the same to his.
“Maybe we’ll have to think up a new name for this.” She held up her drink. “Because this isn’t a Pitted Garnet.”
He swirled the bourbon, snow, and cherries in his glass, watching the snow quickly dissolve into a miasma of reddish brown liquid.
“You’re right,” he said. “For starters, it’s a bigger glass, and there are three cherries in it, not one.”
“I noticed that. But why three?”
He pulled one of the cherries from his glass and held it in front of her lips.
“One for the past,” he said, dropping the cherry into her mouth. “One for the present,” he continued and nearly drained his drink. He sucked a cherry into his mouth, positioned it between his teeth to show her, and then ate it. He looked at the remainder of his drink and fished out the last cherry. Goose held it between a thumb and forefinger as he finished his drink and put the emptied glass on the table. He bit the cherry in half and fed one half to Harriet. “And one…”
“…for the future,” she said, finishing his sentence and swallowing the tiny piece of fruit.
Harriet put her drink on the table and placed her hands on the back of Goose’s neck.
“I love you, Goose,” she said. “And I’ll always feel like an idiot for wasting five years of my life to figure that out.”
The ensuing kisses were not gentle or soft, but the kisses of lovers desperate for the touch and body of another. Within their embrace, Harriet sensed his nature quickly shift from romantic and sweet to passionate; he was ready for her exuberantly willing offer of self and soul. Goose’s hands swept from her waist down to her ass as he moved himself against her. Even through the thickness of his coat, she could feel his hardness, wanting to be inside her, with her, one with her.
To love her.
Harriet reclaimed her drink from the table, and she slowly sipped the liquid until the tops of the cherries were exposed. She then hand-fed all three cherries to Goose. His tongue licked her fingers clean of every last drop of bourbon or syrup, and as she fed him the last little piece of fruit, he sucked her forefinger into his mouth. When she removed it suddenly, the ensuing pop caused them both to laugh. Harriet finished her bourbon as his hands again glided around her waist inside her coat.
Goose took the empty glass from her hand and placed it on the table. He brought a hand to her cheek, and she leaned into his touch.
“Time for us to warm up inside,” he announced and led her back indoors. The bottle of Garnet remained on the table, forgotten as unnecessary.
They threw their coats on the kitchen table as they migrated to the bedroom. Goose’s hands were all over her body as he backed her into the room and up against the bed. By that time, he was out of his suit jacket, his belt was unbuckled, his shoes were off, and Harriet was furiously working on undoing his tie and the buttons on his shirt.
“This dress,” she said in a whisper as he planted kisses along her collarbone, “will come off over my head.”
“So you dressed for the occasion.” He helped pull the dress over her head and tossed it aside on a nearby chair.
“Yes, so you could undress me.”
Harriet kicked off her shoes and slipped his tie and shirt from his broad, smooth chest as he groped for the clasp on the front of her bra.
“Hey
—what the—”
“New one,” she said. “You’ll have to show me how skilled you are at—”
He silenced her with a kiss, moved one hand to her back, and unhooked the bra. It fell away as he tore his lips from hers. “Want me to demonstrate some more of my skills?”
“Want to see some of mine first?”
She pressed her naked chest against his and put her hand between their bodies, slipping her hand down his pants, under his boxers, and onto his erection.
Harriet gripped him and pumped lightly before he put a hand over hers. He sighed, let his head fall back, and groaned as Harriet stroked him in rhythm with his own hand. With her other hand, she slipped his pants and boxers down around his legs.
“Time to get horizontal yet?” she whispered before kissing his chin.
Kicking away his clothes, he scooped her into his arms, put her on the bed, and peeled away her panties. Goose hovered above her, his hands caressing her breasts as his eyes did not waver from hers. Harriet found his length and stroked him, enjoying the changes in his expression as she varied the intensity of her attention.
He reached toward his nightstand. “You want to put it on?” he asked as he opened the drawer and withdrew the packet.
“No.”
He blinked at her, openmouthed. “Oh, well, okay, I can—”
She pulled him closer, her hand sliding down his back until her palm rested aside his thigh. “Do we have a reason to use it? I mean, I take the pill, but are you—um—”
“Clean?” he blurted. “Yes, of course. Had to have a physical every year when I worked in law enforcement, and my last one just a few months ago came back just fine. You can trust me on that.”
She put her hand on his face. “Of course I trust you. That’s why I suggested not using one.”
“How did I win that level of trust so fast?” He turned into her touch to kiss her palm.
“You didn’t win it fast. You earned it over the past five years by not telling a soul about our hookup at The Cooperage.”
He smiled, yet it was a serious look. “That wasn’t a hookup, Harriet. That was the first time I made love to the only woman I’ve ever loved.”
His stare seared her, excited her, humbled her. She blinked, embarrassed at his confession and her description of what they had shared five years ago.
“Goose…” She choked.
“There’s never been anyone like you in my life, Harriet Hensley. No woman has even come close. You’re my idea of perfection. You’re my love. Why do you think I made such a big production out of telling you I love you? I’d never said it, and I wanted the moment to be special.”
The tears trickled from the edges of her eyes, tickling as they fell along the side of her face and down her neck.
“I love you, Goose,” she whispered against his lips.
He positioned himself at her opening, and she moved to claim him, their bodies joining perfectly and completely for the first time.
This lovemaking took longer by design. She didn’t want this encounter to be quick or intense. Like the experience on the porch, their confession of love, she wanted the act drawn out as much as possible, to remember every moment, every stroke, every touch, and every breath. When at last she climaxed after Goose’s hand moved between their bodies, he buried himself deep into her, filling and shuddering against her.
Still joined, Harriet cradled his head to her chest and was startled to feel his tears on her skin. She kissed the top of his head and relished the feel and weight of him inside her and against her, knowing that she had finally found her own definition of perfection.
* * *
Who the hell invited Monday back to town?
It was quite unwelcome after such a splendid long weekend.
She’d spent most of Sunday with Goose, even after going home in the early hours. Later that morning, he’d come over to her condo and made pancakes with bourbon maple syrup and candied pecans; he’d swiped the syrup and nuts from the gift shop at the visitors’ center to make the dish. The only awkward moment came when her parents deigned to call her. Harriet had seriously considered not picking up, but Goose had nagged her to answer, and she did so. It wasn’t a pleasant conversation. Harriet told her parents about Thanksgiving and the wedding, and they’d acted hurt, like she’d deliberately excluded them from her plans when they had been the ones to treat her that way.
By Monday morning, the weekend snowfall had started melting, leaving a mushy gray mess instead of a crisp, clean carpet of whiteness. She knew she’d have a lot of work to do that day. Since the office had been closed, there would be plenty of phone messages to return. Also, there was a motion hour in Judge Craft’s court later that afternoon she had to attend on behalf of Jon. He had to be in court in Lexington and had asked her to cover a motion for default judgment, which should be a simple thing.
She was checking her e-mails when she saw a message pop into her inbox from the person with the state with whom she’d been communicating about the property line issue.
The subject line was simply Update.
Dear Ms. Hensley:
Sorry it has taken us so long to get back in touch with you, but it turns out that this matter has become more complicated than we anticipated.
We have various surveys for this area, some of which contradict each other. Our most recent survey, however, would indicate that the property in question (we’ll call it “the island” since that was a term that you used to describe how it had appeared in the past) is probably within the distillery grounds.
But “distillery grounds” is an imprecise term.
In the course of our investigation, we performed a title search in Craig County and came up with the same results as you did as far as a title owner of record for the property in question.
However, when we searched our own records, we discovered another deed. A copy of it is attached.
The deed is dated almost ninety years ago, from George Davenport to Parker Davenport. The deed transfers one acre of property along the creek—what appears to be the island area—from George to Parker. Even though the deed was never recorded, it would appear that Kentucky law would hold in these circumstances (there being no other claimants of record to the same land with a recorded rival deed), that Parker did have title to the land and that it passed down to his heirs through his will or by intestacy.
Thus, whoever happens to be Parker’s heir or heirs would presumably hold title to this acreage unless the piece of property was sold to some third party. Again, that would seem unlikely considering the results of the title search and since we are aware the distillery has been operating under the belief that it owns the land in question (which is the subject of our entire communications).
We will be glad to resolve any boundary dispute—but only once the proper owner of the land can be agreed upon or otherwise established by a court of law.
After reading the e-mail three times and trying not to succumb to a panic attack in light of the news, Harriet pulled the probate file on Fuzzy Davenport, which had been handled by Jon. She plopped the file onto her desk and began wildly flipping through it to get to a copy of the will.
She quickly discerned that Fuzzy had had no clue he might have owned any distillery property; there was no mention of it in the will. Fuzzy had left almost everything to Lucy, with a few small bequests to Goose.
But Goose got what was called the remainder, or whatever hadn’t been specifically mentioned by Fuzzy in his will.
Unless that piece of property had been sold at some point, a possibility that looked unlikely, Goose had a very good claim to it.
“I’m going to do some title work,” she declared to her secretary, and rushed by her with a legal pad, rule book, and copies of some items from Fuzzy’s probate file. “I’ll be gone for a while.”
The ball of unease that had flared in her stomach when Bruce had been talking about conflicts and problems and looking ahead was now a big flaming pit of dread burning a hole inside
her.
26
Harriet was gone for the rest of the morning and well past the lunch hour.
She went to the county clerk’s office, where deeds were recorded, and confirmed the chain of title for the distillery starting in the middle of the nineteenth century. This same work had been done by Jon in his representation of Bo earlier in the year, but Harriet felt compelled to do the work again, to dig into the past to see if something had been overlooked.
The deed from George to Parker was not recorded, which meant there were no other deeds in that chain.
It didn’t necessarily surprise her that the deed wasn’t recorded. Since they had been trying to keep the operation a secret, recording such a deed could’ve clued in the government to the illegal activity along the creek.
Now she had to identify Parker’s heirs.
Goose had told her that Elijah and Fuzzy had been only children. His mom could possibly have some widow’s rights claim, but it would be negligible and likely settled by the probate of Fuzzy’s will.
Goose was the heir.
Even though the deed had not been recorded, Goose had a colorable title claim to that little strip of land—how much had it been? An acre or less, according to the copy of the old deed that had been e-mailed to her.
Just enough of a claim to cloud the title.
Just enough of a claim to cause a problem.
Just enough of a claim to cause a conflict of interest for her.
The words of the ethics opinion echoed in her head… should conditions change… a conflict could develop which would prevent you from continued representation of the distillery.
Conditions had changed. Hell, she wasn’t even sure what the conditions were.
She was in love with a man who not only had a claim to part of the distillery grounds, but who also worked for the distillery, her client.
Bourbon Springs Box Set: Volume II, Books 4-6 (Bourbon Springs Box Sets Book 2) Page 54
