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

by Jennifer Bramseth

  A soft knock at the door startled all three women.

  “I’ll get it,” Maisie said, again rising to the occasion.

  Maisie cracked the door open to reveal Davina Oakes, Prent’s mother. She stood there in a lovely mint-colored dress, her short blond hair perfect, but her face a mess of tears and bloated features.

  “I cannot believe Prent did this to you, Miranda,” Davina said and then caught Celia’s glance. “I am so, so sorry. I am mortified.”

  “Where the hell is he?” Celia demanded. “You don’t happen to have him behind you out there in the hall, do you? There are several things I’d like to say to that son of yours, but you’ll probably want to leave the room before I let it rip.”

  Davina burst into tears, and Maisie put an arm around the mother of the almost groom while shooting her mother a nasty glare.

  “Drop it, Mom.” Miranda walked toward Davina and gave her a hug. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she assured her almost mother-in-law, patting her on the back.

  “This is silly,” Davina cried and held Miranda at arm’s length. “I should be comforting you, but you’re cool as a cucumber!”

  “It beats falling to pieces,” Miranda said.

  “You knew he’d do this, didn’t you? That’s why you’re so calm. That’s the only reason you’re not a basket case right now.”

  Miranda felt the blood drain from her face. How could Davina reach down into her soul and pull that out? Probably because she knew her own son.

  Or maybe Davina knew Miranda a lot better than Miranda had realized.

  “I had no idea…,” Miranda said, releasing Davina’s hands.

  “No idea of what? That he wasn’t actually coming today? Because maybe you didn’t actually know that. But that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about that little flicker of doubt in the pit of your stomach. The little voice telling you as you came to this church today that you wouldn’t see Prent. Because as I’m looking at you, Miranda Chaplin, there’s no way that I’ll ever believe that somehow, deep in your heart, you just didn’t know, didn’t doubt, didn’t suspect. I know my son, honey. I love him. And I know you do—or did—too. But that kind of love imparts a knowledge that sometimes isn’t very pleasant.”

  “That’s a hell of a thing to say to a jilted bride!” spat Celia. “You’ve worn out your welcome here, Davina Oakes! Leave us in peace!” she said, pointing to the door.

  Davina frowned briefly at Celia, then turned back to Miranda.

  “I hope you move on from this and forget him, Miranda. I hate to say that since Prent’s my own flesh and blood, but I can’t abide what he’s done to you. And don’t let it eat you up inside. That’s how my husband handled things. Internalized his problems, dwelled on every last little imperfection, didn’t share the burden,” she said, shaking her head. “Burned him up, just like toasting a barrel too long. Prent’s like me though. Flies off the handle. Says and does impulsive things. And when the anger or fun or thrill is over, you’ve got to deal with the fallout. With the reality that’s left.”

  Miranda perfectly agreed with Davina’s assessment of Prent’s crazy personality. He was a bright and shining star, but he burned brightly like a meteor falling to earth. The intensity of his character was what had drawn Miranda to him, but she should’ve recognized that heat it for the danger it was.

  Hot, indiscriminate, and crazy enough to burn and singe and leave a permanent emotional scar.

  She briefly thought about that time he’d shown her the production line at the cooperage and how they charred the inside of the barrels with a blast of intense heat to the oak staves. Although Miranda knew that the char was instrumental to making a fine bourbon, it was frightening to see the barrel’s innards blacken in an instant. Great for the bourbon, not so great for the barrel.

  Davina left in a flurry of apologies and within a few more minutes the three women were ready to leave. Reluctantly, Miranda took the garment bag containing her wedding gown from the coat rack and draped it over her arm, a bitter reminder of failed love.

  At least the ring was valuable and she could sell the thing. Hell, she could probably buy herself a new car for the price she could demand for the unused marital trinket.

  Maisie and her mother offered to come to Bourbon Springs and spend the night with her, but Miranda declined. They all pulled out of the church parking lot at the same time. Miranda waved to them as they turned for homes and she headed northwest out of town on Mackville Road.

  But she had a stop to make first.

  Less than five minutes out of town, Miranda turned left into the grounds of Perryville Battlefield State Historic Site. Upon pulling off the main road, she saw that the park was overrun with picnickers to the immediate right, where tables were plentiful and there was a large playground. Many a day Miranda had played there with her sister under her parents’ watchful eyes. Only later had she learned that the place was the site of a bloodbath.

  On the ground now underneath swings and jungle gyms, Confederate troops had climbed, swarmed, and died as they pushed the Union back until the battle ended in a tactical defeat for the Rebels as the sun set on that blisteringly hot and horrific October day. When she discovered she’d whiled away many happy hours upon the ground of such horrors, Miranda had felt guilty for disgracing the place with frivolity.

  But with the passage of time came perspective.

  She could think of no better honor for the terrible sacrifice made on these gently rolling hills that people now lived in peace and gathered in this place to celebrate the simplicity of love and life, the ultimate gifts of freedom.

  Miranda bypassed the picnic area and the frenetic activity of a swarm of children at the playground and kept her car on the road toward the museum. There were only a handful of cars in this less-crowded part of the grounds, and she easily parked in front of the cemetery across from the museum. The solitude of the small graveyard felt appropriate that day, and she was drawn to the morbid isolation of the lonely area and comforted by its familiarity and stillness.

  She scaled the small incline to the square space, which was a Confederate memorial with a few markers and surrounded by a low stone wall. Miranda approached slowly and reverently, gazing up at the statue of the lone Confederate soldier staring out onto the now-tranquil battlefield. She walked around the monument and toward the rear of the square, knowing that a small gate in the wall afforded access to a lovely view beyond the cemetery area.

  As she rounded the memorial, she was surprised to see a figure hunched and sitting in the shade of a cedar tree on the wall next to the gate.

  It was Prent.

  BUY LINKS FOR TOAST AND CHAR

  Bits About Bourbon

  Buffalo Trace Distillery

  I usually take this space to write about members of the Kentucky Bourbon Trail, but this book requires me to write about Buffalo Trace (not a member of the Trail because they’re not a member of the Kentucky Distillers Association).

  Owned by Sazerac, Buffalo Trace has been known by many different names. Located near the site of old Leestown, Kentucky, distilling has taken place on the site on the banks of the Kentucky River since the late eighteenth century (under a variety of different distillery names). It is a National Historic Landmark and produces a variety of bourbons, including Ancient Age, Eagle Rare, and Blanton’s.

  Notably, next to the distillery are state office buildings. They are built to resemble the rickhouses on the distillery grounds.

  Buffalo Trace was one of the few distilleries to stay open during Prohibition to make whiskey for medicinal purposes.

  The Pappy VanWinkle brand is distilled by the family at Buffalo Trace, and was recently the subject of the “heist” story (mentioned in the back matter of a previous book). Parts of the plot in this book were inspired by the theft of bourbon barrels and the valuable bottles of Pappy VanWinkle.

  Did you notice the Blanton name mentioned above? Yes, Mack and Albert both have a namesake.

  �
�Colonel” Albert Blanton worked at the distillery for decades (when it was known as the OFC Distillery and the George Stagg Distillery; the distillery was renamed Buffalo Trace in 2001), rising from an office worker to become president.

  Buffalo Trace is very close to where I work; I pass it on a regular basis and smell the mash cooking all the time. I often can see the steam rising from the distillery, especially on cold winter days.

  Mackville, Kentucky

  Mack’s first name is derived from tiny Mackville, Kentucky. Battlefield Road, the road that fronts the Perryville Battlefield State Park, is also known as Mackville Road.

  No Playlist

  Considering that there are songs in this book (at least the lyrics), I couldn’t bring myself to make a playlist for it.

  The book is the playlist.

  Black Garnet

  No, I don’t have a recipe. Sorry! But if you’re in Kentucky, I highly recommend Crank and Boom’s Buttermilk Blackberry. This ice cream is sold in groceries in select locations in Kentucky. These are the same people that make Bourbon Honey Ice Cream and also offer a Bourbon Ball Sundae at their shop in Lexington in the Distillery District.

  James Christopher Davenport Sammons

  Hannah and Kyle’s baby boy is named for his maternal grandfather, James Christopher “Cass” Davenport. If you read the previous books, you’ll know that the “James Christopher” part of that name is in honor of Dr. James Christopher Crow, the man who perfected the sour mash method at the Old Oscar Pepper Distillery in Woodford County, Kentucky in the mid-nineteenth century. Old Oscar Pepper is now known as Woodford Reserve. Dr. Crow is buried in the city cemetery in Versailles, Kentucky.

  About the Author

  Jennifer Bramseth is the pen name of a practicing attorney in Kentucky. She lives within minutes of several legendary bourbon distilleries and her house is next to a major horse farm. She enjoys her Kentucky straight bourbon whiskey with water and ice.

  Goodreads

  Find my Pinterest board for this book—see the series logo, logos for Over a Barrel, Old Garnet, and lots more

  For more information

  greetings.jenniferbramseth.com

  jennifer@jenniferbramseth.com

  Copyright © 2016 Jennifer Bramseth All rights reserved No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotation in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  For my Family

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Victory Editing

  Thank you again, Mary Jo

  Cover design by Kim Killion

  1

  Thirty months ago…

  “Keep the ring.”

  Those were last words she heard before hanging up on her fiancé.

  Wait—former fiancé.

  Miranda looked down at her left hand and the glittering hunk of stone still resting on that certain finger. She knew the two-carat oval-cut solitaire in a platinum setting would fetch a tidy price at some fancy jewelry consignment in Lexington or Louisville. From the first time she’d seen the glittering and huge diamond, she’d wondered how much it cost.

  Today she found out.

  The price was a broken heart.

  She dropped the phone into her satin-and-lace encrusted lap, swallowed, and looked at her mother. Celia Chaplin stood in front of her, a sick mélange of mortification and rage.

  “He won’t… be here,” Miranda said, reaching up to remove her veil. “He said he already called his mother and uncle and they’ve left the church.”

  Shaking, Celia sank into a chair and began to cry.

  “We need to tell,” Maisie said. Her sister nodded in the direction of a door beyond which the guests waited in the sanctuary.

  Miranda pulled in a deep breath and stood, her wedding gown rustling around her like the hiss of dead leaves scattered by the fall wind.

  ”No.” Maisie put a hand on Miranda’s shoulder. “This is my job.”

  Miranda collapsed back into her seat as a mascara-streaked tear splashed onto her wedding dress, leaving a distinct gray mark. She felt a fleeting bit of annoyance at the stain, but then realized it would go unnoticed since she would not be putting the dress to further use. Miranda recalled one of her mother’s favorite sayings about the nature of such minor imperfections.

  It will never be noticed on a galloping horse.

  Miranda shuddered. She was the filly who wouldn’t cross the marital finish line that day, if ever.

  And certainly not with Prentice Oakes III as her bridegroom.

  “I don’t seem to remember that being part of a maid of honor’s duties.”

  “Then it’s a sister’s duty,” Maisie said in a firm voice. She gave their mother a quick look and proceeded into the sanctuary to deliver the news.

  Curious to hear the eulogy for the demise of the wedding ceremony, Miranda rose and crept to the door to listen an odd calm descending upon her.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” her sister began in a booming voice that harshly echoed through the tiny church. “On behalf of the bride and her family, I am here to announce that there will be no ceremony this afternoon. We appreciate your attendance and apologize for your inconvenience. We request that you respect the parties’ privacy in the days to come. If you brought a gift, please take it with you. We will make arrangements for the return of the other gifts. Thank you.”

  Miranda fingered her engagement ring and chuckled. She got to keep this gift, something she never wanted to see again after this hot and miserable day. She took the ring and moved it from her left hand to right and resolved to stuff it into her jewelry box as soon as she got home.

  Thank God the wedding had been small, she thought as she slipped out of her gown.

  Most of the guests had been very close friends and family and not her extended network of friends and acquaintances in Bourbon Springs. If she’d invited some of the patients she considered friends, like Hannah Davenport and CiCi Summers, news of her disaster already would’ve reached Craig County before those two even hit the county line.

  She was sure every soul in Perryville already knew she had been left at the altar, including the unearthly ones that still walked the battlefield at the historic site. The image of ghostly Yankee and Rebel soldiers sitting on the banks of Doctor’s Creek swapping gossip about the amorous travails of the living back in town almost made her laugh out loud.

  After changing back into the shorts and T-shirt she’d worn to the church, Miranda stuffed her wedding gown back into the garment bag. Why was she even bothering to take care of the thing?

  Maybe she should just leave it there, a monument to futility and ego, a reminder of the price of pride and hope. It could be a useful tool for a minister, she mused, and stepped back from the garment bag to seriously consider abandoning it right there in the parlor, as the ladies of the church called that particular room. She liked the idea a lot better than going off and burning it or destroying it, like many a jilted bride might do.

  A soft knock at the door startled all three women.

  “I’ll get it,” Maisie said, again rising to the occasion.

  Maisie cracked the door open to reveal Davina Oakes, Prent’s mother. She stood there in a lovely mint-colored dress, her short blond hair perfect, but her face a mess of tears and bloated features.

  “I cannot believe Prent did this to you, Miranda,” Davina said and then caught Celia’s glance. “I am so, so sorry. I am mortified.”

  “Where the hell is he?” Celia demanded. “You don’t happen to have him behind you out there in the hall, do you? There are several things I’d like to say to that son of yours, but you’ll probably want to leave the room before I let it rip.”

  Davina burst into tears, and Maisie put an arm around the mother of the almost groom while shooting her mother a nasty glare.

  “Drop it, Mom.” Miranda w
alked toward Davina and gave her a hug. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she assured her almost mother-in-law, patting her on the back.

  “This is silly,” Davina cried and held Miranda at arm’s length. “I should be comforting you, but you’re cool as a cucumber!”

  “It beats falling to pieces,” Miranda said.

  “You knew he’d do this, didn’t you? That’s why you’re so calm. That’s the only reason you’re not a basket case right now.”

  Miranda felt the blood drain from her face. How could Davina reach down into her soul and pull that out? Probably because she knew her own son.

  Or maybe Davina knew Miranda a lot better than Miranda had realized.

  “I had no idea…,” Miranda said, releasing Davina’s hands.

  “No idea of what? That he wasn’t actually coming today? Because maybe you didn’t actually know that. But that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about that little flicker of doubt in the pit of your stomach. The little voice telling you as you came to this church today that you wouldn’t see Prent. Because as I’m looking at you, Miranda Chaplin, there’s no way that I’ll ever believe that somehow, deep in your heart, you just didn’t know, didn’t doubt, didn’t suspect. I know my son, honey. I love him. And I know you do—or did—too. But that kind of love imparts a knowledge that sometimes isn’t very pleasant.”

  “That’s a hell of a thing to say to a jilted bride!” spat Celia. “You’ve worn out your welcome here, Davina Oakes! Leave us in peace!” she said, pointing to the door.