Bourbon Springs Box Set: Volume III, Books 7-9 (Bourbon Springs Box Sets Book 3)

by Jennifer Bramseth

  “Me? But… why?”

  “Because if I’d only shown you my songs I wrote, maybe you would’ve understood why I had to leave—and why I always knew I would come back.”

  “Your songs?”

  He nodded. “I didn’t sell them, and I didn’t file for bankruptcy. The debt has been paid off,” he added, hoping that Jorrie wouldn’t ask questions.

  “That’s great. But why do I need to see the songs to understand?”

  He kissed her so quickly she didn’t have time to react.

  “Let me show you. Get your coat.”

  “What? Why? Where are we—wait—it’s too damn cold to go up on the Knob today.”

  “It will be plenty warm in the truck.”

  Ten minutes later they were at the spot on the Knob where they had spent the night of the Fourth of July. Instead of sitting in camp chairs or rolling around on blankets, they sat in the truck, the cab pointed east. The day was cold but clear, and as usual, a spectacular view was before them.

  Even though the riotous colors of fall were faded, the land below—the Bluegrass stretching eastward, the town of Bourbon Springs, and the wooded grounds of Old Garnet—looked peaceful, calm, and inviting. With the faded colors of cold weather draped over it, the land looked as though it was at rest, joining in the weekend’s celebration of stopping to give thanks for the blessings bestowed upon it.

  Mack removed the keys from the ignition and reached under the seat, producing a bright blue three-ring notebook. He handed it to Jorrie.

  “What’s this?”

  “My songs. Actually, those are your songs.”

  “Mine?”

  He nodded.

  “Open it. Read.”

  Jorrie placed the notebook in her lap, opened it, and saw multiple tabbed dividers, each one marked with a number. She began to flip through the contents until she counted up to over one hundred different tabs.

  Moving back to the front, she turned to the first tabbed divider and saw a sheet of notebook paper filled with Mack’s handwriting. At the top of the page Mack had scrawled the title of the song: New Hopes, Old Gifts. She read the lyrics, and immediately recognized the scenario he described, which was the first time they’d met at Goose and Harriet’s wedding.

  She hastily flipped through the stack of songs, noting the titles…

  Windswept

  Private Picnic

  Fireworks and Forever

  Joyful Noises

  Returned and Renewed

  Burden of My Heart

  Promise and Pride

  The Music of Memories

  Nashville Bound

  Although not named, she recognized herself and the times she had shared with Mack in every lyric. Jorrie kept paging through the sheaf of papers, looking for a song that wasn’t about her.

  She couldn’t find one.

  “I should’ve shown you these,” Mack said, “so you’d understand why I couldn’t give them up. All that,” he said and pointed to the open notebook on her lap, “was us falling in love, struggling with how we felt, finding each other and losing each other. How could I walk away from that? That’s our beginning, that’s our life, that’s our love, right there on the page.”

  “Why… why didn’t you show me these?” she asked as he took her hand. Jorrie was so overwhelmed by the outpouring of his soul on the papers in her lap she could not look at him. She stared straight ahead, looking through the front window of the truck into the clear November skies over Craig County.

  “At first, I thought it would scare you off,” he said as Jorrie dropped her gaze back to the notebook and continued to peruse its contents. “Then it became my special secret. I didn’t share with anyone how much I wrote, and it was like that secrecy fueled my writing, and I became prolific—I’d never written so much in my entire life, Jorrie, and it was all because I was in love with you. I was going to start playing them at the concerts for you, but then we broke up. I’d wanted to give each song to you one by one, like a gift.”

  She turned to him.

  “They are, Mack, they are,” she said and squeezed his hand. “I’ve never had a gift like this. I just wish you’d shared it sooner.”

  “I know, and that was my big mistake. I should’ve revealed this to you sooner, even though I felt on some level like it was a work in progress, as though it was incomplete. Kind of like we were, uncertain about where we were headed.”

  Jorrie checked the notebook and saw that behind the last tab—number 106—there was nothing.

  “You have something to put in here?”

  He nodded. “Yes, but I’m still working on that one.”

  She closed the notebook and put it on the seat between them.

  “So you’re really back?” she asked in a small, disbelieving voice. Her head was bowed and her hands were in her lap.

  Mack took the notebook, put it under the seat, and pulled Jorrie into his arms. She trembled, feeling his arms around her for the first time in months and anticipating what he was about to tell her. Was this really happening? He had returned and wanted her back? Jorrie thought that Christmas was the time of miracles, but on this day after Thanksgiving, she already felt the blessings of the season.

  “I’m back. I want a life with you here in Bourbon Springs, Jorrie. I’m not going anywhere, unless you’re with me. My home is here, with my friends, the people who care about me. And with you, my life and my love.”

  “I thought music was your only true love,” she said, feeling the strain of loneliness ebbing away.

  “That’s right. And you’re my music.”

  He kissed her, and Jorrie heard the howl of the wind as it whipped around the truck and up the hill, the land singing to them as they reclaimed their love and soared again.

  Epilogue

  Last week, it had been pink tulips, her favorite.

  Week before that, three dozen carnations of various colors.

  Week before that? Irises? Or orchids? Something purple and dainty…

  Miranda turned from the window overlooking her backyard and stared at the vase filled with two dozen perfect red roses. Prent had really cranked it up this time.

  Maybe it was because it was close to Christmas.

  Or maybe it was because he wanted to get in her pants again.

  She sipped her coffee and looked down at the card in her hand.

  Three years ago today

  I still love you

  Forgive me

  Love, Prent

  Miranda tossed the card on the table and returned to her vacant gazing out her back window, mug at her lips. Any other woman would’ve fallen right back into Prentice Oakes’s arms and bed long ago.

  But she wasn’t just any woman.

  She was the one he’d left at the altar.

  The one he’d publicly humiliated in tiny Perryville, Kentucky, on what was supposed to have been the happiest day of her life.

  Stupid thing was that she’d expected it to happen.

  As if knew it was all too good to be true, so she’d never bought into the fairy tale of marrying a rich, handsome guy.

  Three years ago… the day Prent had proposed to her.

  Miranda closed her eyes as the memory returned, just as she knew he’d wanted. Those roses meant memories, every one of them, every single petal. He wanted her to remember that spectacular, special night. The happiest night of her life, now coated and tarred with the bitter memories of what followed.

  Prent had taken her to the cooperage, of all places, and presented her with a special scavenger hunt. He’d arranged twenty-four different barrels throughout the factory, each with a clue to the placement of the next. She found the last barrel under the ancient oak tree behind the cooperage. On top were two dozen red roses in a vase, two glasses of bourbon, and a used barrel stave carved with two simple words, the words etched into the black, flaking char of the wood.

  Marry me

  When she’d inhaled in shock, Prent had revealed himself from behind the oak
tree and fallen to one knee. He’d presented her with a small round wooden box that resembled a flattened barrel, with the date engraved on one side and their names on the other. She’d turned it over in her hand, pulled out a small drawer on the side, and discovered a two-carat oval solitaire engagement ring.

  After accepting with glee and despite the cold weather, they’d made love right underneath that tree, the leaves rustling above and under them.

  Six months later, Miranda had removed that ring from her finger as she sat in that hot, tiny room at the church in Perryville. She knew it wasn’t going to happen as she waited for him to arrive, which he never did.

  Nothing had changed since that day except that Prent had been bugging the shit out of her since that time. He’d increased the frequency of his pestering noticeably since the summer. He claimed he still loved her, was sorry, and still wanted to marry her.

  Although she didn’t doubt his feelings, she feared stronger, ulterior motives. He wanted her back because she was well-respected in Bourbon Springs and he needed to maintain a good relationship with the Davenports—and she was doctor and friend to Hannah, Lila, and Harriet.

  She suspected that Prent’s mother, Davina, was behind the whole win-her-back campaign. It was widely rumored that Prent and his Uncle Kurt, the co-owners of Commonwealth Cooperage, were nearly constantly at odds over the operation of the family business, with most people in Littleham, the site of the cooperage, taking Kurt’s side as the long-suffering co-owner who ran the business while his wayward, playboy nephew did little to help run the century-old family endeavor.

  So winning back the spurned fiancée was part of a charm offensive for Prent, whose family business had been allegedly struggling in the past few years reportedly due to the family infighting. Miranda had heard Hannah say that due to the recent boom in bourbon production in Kentucky, there was absolutely no excuse for a cooperage not to be thriving other than poor management.

  Miranda felt like a toy, a pawn, a symbol to Prent, with nothing but a fat engagement ring and a broken heart to show for her troubles. And try as she might to hide it behind the face she showed the world, she still nursed that broken heart. The passage of time had done little to heal that wound.

  Because the truth was that she still loved him.

  And she believed him when he said that he still loved her.

  Chilled from standing at the window, Miranda craved another cup of coffee. Moving across the kitchen, she got a whiff of the roses and her stomach turned a little at their sickly sweet smell. Or maybe it was just the memories making her feel crappy rather than the scent.

  As she poured herself another cup, her doorbell rang. Who the hell showed up at half past seven on a weekday morning in December? Frowning and realizing she needed to leave to get to the office on time for her first appointments of the day, Miranda went to the front door, expecting to see a delivery man.

  She checked through the peephole. It was Prent, shivering in the dim and icy morning in a camel hair coat and no hat.

  Miranda opened the door and looked at her former fiancé in astonishment.

  “What are you doing here?”

  From behind his back, Prent produced a bouquet of two dozen red roses.

  “Happy Engagement Day.” He held the flowers out to her and took a little bow.

  “What the—but—you already sent me some!” she said, pointing over her shoulder toward her kitchen.

  “So I can’t give you more flowers?”

  “Get in here.” She hurried him inside and took the bouquet.

  Miranda left him in the foyer as she went to the kitchen to put the flowers in water, and Prent followed.

  “Those look nice,” he said. He pointed to the roses on the kitchen table as he unbuttoned his coat. “Glad they got here on time. That’s why I brought those extras. Wanted to make sure you had roses today.”

  Miranda said nothing and fumed as she pulled out a vase from under the kitchen sink, trimmed the ends of the roses, and put them in water. She placed the filled vase on the table next to the other roses, stood back, and surveyed the floral bounty.

  “Why did you do this?” she asked wearily and with a shake of the head.

  Prent walked to her side. “Because it’s Proposal Day,” he said with a smile, hands in his pockets.

  “Big deal.”

  “It is to me, Miranda.”

  Miranda sighed.

  “Prent, I appreciate that you’ve tried to make amends, so to speak, but you don’t have to keep doing these things. I’ll admit that I’ve been flattered by all the attention, and it’s been more than a little fun to have you doing little things for me, but this has got to end.”

  “You’re telling me you never want to see me again?” he asked calmly.

  “Well, no, that’s not it.” She walked back toward the kitchen counter and began to tidy the debris from arranging the roses. “I just don’t think it’s fair to either of us for you to continue to—to—”

  “To what?” he challenged, standing close to her.

  Miranda stepped back.

  “To keep acting like I’m going to change my mind about us getting back together.”

  “Miranda, the only thing that has kept me going these past two years is the hope that you will.”

  Miranda shook her head and began to walk away, but he grasped her hand and pulled her to his side.

  Prent looked down at her, his gaze intense.

  “Why haven’t you told me to go to hell, Miranda Chaplin? Answer me that. After all these months with me hanging about, taking you places, doing little things for you, giving you flowers and little treats—why haven’t you said that? All you have to do is say the word, and I’ll never darken your doorstep again. I’ll be out of your life for good, just like I told you on our wedding day. You couldn’t tell me then to stay away. Are you finally saying it now?”

  Damn.

  Why couldn’t she say that?

  And why did he have to be so good-looking as he asked her? His hair, teeth, cheekbones—all Ken-doll-fucking perfect. And how did he know she still—

  Miranda couldn’t move. She was captured not by his light touch but by his entire presence. He had a good six inches of height on her, and at that moment she felt like a dwarf looking up at a giant. She swallowed as he moved his face closer to her and she felt his breath on her lips.

  She hadn’t been this physically close to him since—when? The rehearsal dinner for the wedding that wasn’t? She knew that was the last time she’d kissed him—

  And why the hell was she thinking about the last time she kissed this bastard?

  “I don’t hear you saying anything,” he said in a low, rough voice. “So I’ll say the same things I’ve been saying for the past two years: I’m still in love with you and want to marry you.”

  “Don’t insult me,” she said, finally finding her voice. “You need me to help pull your image out of the toilet, to satisfy your mother, to make nice with that nasty uncle of yours. I’m not buying what you’re selling.”

  “So tell me to leave.”

  Her lips moved, her chin quivered, yet Miranda could not bring herself to tell the man in front of her to get the hell out of her life.

  Prent took his free hand and slowly put it to her cheek.

  “Tell me and I’m gone.”

  She was silent.

  Miranda did not resist as he leaned in and kissed her softly, and to her surprise and disgust she found herself responding to him and kissed him back. She tentatively put her hands on his chest, thinking she would gently push him away.

  But when she felt his strong, broad chest under her palms, her body craved more, and her hands crept upward until she had her arms around his neck and her fingers were in his thick brown hair. Her light touch caused him to shudder and pull back. His face was filled with astonishment, and for a moment she thought he was about to move away and finally get out of her life for good. She took a deep breath, trying to awaken from her haze of des
ire, and readied herself for their final break.

  Instead, Prent cradled her face in his hands, pinned her against the kitchen counter with his legs, and kissed her hard. By the time he traced the outline of her lips with his tongue, Miranda was reeling from her misconception; what she’d mistaken for shock was joy and hope.

  She disintegrated under his attentions as her body recalled that this was a man with whom she had repeatedly and intimately shared herself and who had the power to make her feel very, very good. Miranda longed for that again. There had been no one for her since he jilted her, only long lonely nights of wondering whether she should relent and give her heart and body to him once more.

  Was she really ready to do that again?

  Her body said yes.

  Miranda invited his further reclaiming by opening her mouth wider, allowing him to taste her, and giving herself free rein to tease him with her tongue. Prent slowly moved his hands up her torso and under her shirt until his hands cupped her breasts. She moaned and let her head drop back on her shoulders while his lips moved to her neck and he ground his erection against her hip.

  Oh, God, it had been so long since he touched her like this. When was the last time they’d made love before he jilted her? She vaguely recalled a tryst at his house the week before their nonwedding and how she’d teased him that the next time he saw her naked, she’d be his wife.

  And she still wasn’t his wife.

  The memory shattered the spell.

  Miranda pulled away, leaving them both breathless and gaping at each other.

  “I can’t do this,” she said, shaking her head. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  “We just did.”

  She opened her eyes and saw him nearing her.

  “No.” She held out her hand, immediately stopping his advance. “I can’t—we can’t go there again, Prent.”

  “Don’t say that,” he begged. “I’ve waited over two years to feel you in my arms again like that, to kiss you—”

  “You left me…,” she whispered. “You left me there in that church with all my family and all Perryville wondering where the hell you were. I can’t forget that, Prent. How can I?”