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

by Jennifer Bramseth

  “I certainly feel like both today… and you actually told Kurt that I was,” she said before she could think the better of it.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “And maybe we’ve both been fools for trusting each other, Prent. Have you ever thought that?”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “After you told Kurt I was going to back out of the wedding? And after you failed to tell me about the terms of your inheritance? Yeah, I do have a bit of a trust problem.”

  “But—”

  “And why the hell should you trust me, for that matter?” she continued, turning her vitriol inward. “I let you believe for years that you were the one to walk away. And today I finally did run away from you, leaving you at the worst possible time. We’re both cowards and fools, Prent. We’re a disaster.”

  A clear image of the stately and unmoving Old Oak flashed into her mind. The site of their first proposal—their only proposal—was now gone.

  The metaphor was complete. It hit her how they could not return to that physical and emotional space even if they had wanted to revisit the site. There was no going back, and she felt too tired, ashamed, and sickened to go forward.

  “I love you, Miranda,” he said. “Don’t walk away, especially now. I’ve lost my son, now my business partner and uncle. Everything has changed in just a day. I need you now more than ever.”

  “I’ll be there for you, your mother, and Minerva in the upcoming days, Prent,” she said. “But beyond that—”

  “Miranda, please—”

  “No. Now it’s my turn suffer through what you went through. Karma or payback or whatever you want to call it for me not being strong enough to tell you the truth all those years. It’s my turn to take the blame.”

  She hung up before he could argue further and ran to her car in the rain, not bothering to put her hood up, allowing the storm to wash away her tears.

  25

  The news of Kurt’s death and the destruction of the Old Oak rattled Littleham.

  But Prent thought people mourned the tree more than the man.

  While the funeral had a respectable turnout, Prent noted that attendance was much lower than what he could remember for his father. Granted, some of those mourners had been friends of his mother, a local social butterfly, but there were people Prent had expected to see who were notably absent.

  Although every distillery the cooperage served sent someone to the funeral, there were old professional acquaintances that just weren’t there, unhappily confirming Prent’s long-held suspicion that Kurt had lost touch with people in the industry—or had simply lost their respect.

  Dealing with the funeral arrangements had been made more complicated by having to deal with the disaster of the loss of the Old Oak at the cooperage. The ancient tree had crashed onto the roof of the offices at the far end—right over the clinic room. They had taken the tree and saved what they could of it to make—what else—barrel staves.

  Prent had directed that the wood be placed on the back lot to age in a special place, with a fence erected around it. That wood had significant monetary value since many people in the area and the industry knew the tree was historic, and he didn’t want thieves to think that it would be a good idea to try to nab some of the precious oak.

  The fact that the Old Oak had not only toppled but fallen on the roof over the clinic room was an occurrence which Prent found miserably ironic. But Miranda had internalized the destruction as an unmistakable omen of doom.

  She had been as good as her word and been by his side over the previous two weeks, helping him through the visitation, the funeral, and other attendant unpleasant tasks in the wake of unexpected death.

  Yet her presence had been tinged with lingering bitterness and guilt, despite Prent’s ongoing combination of apology mixed with repeated declarations that he didn’t blame her for not returning to the cooperage the day of Kurt’s death.

  Miranda couldn’t or wouldn’t release her doubts about herself and about him, resulting in their estrangement. It was almost as though they had never reconciled, except this break was worse because he had believed they’d moved beyond the insecurities and fears that had held them back.

  Even though they had seen each other as she continued to help him with things like cleaning up Kurt’s house and trying to get the estate prepared for probate, that hadn’t meant they were truly back together.

  Exhausted and edgy, they had made love the afternoon of the funeral after returning to his house, both needing comfort and release. What had started as a nap when they both had collapsed together onto the couch soon transitioned to several frenzied lovemaking sessions in front of the fireplace, which lasted into the early evening. Prent had thought that their physical reunion foretold their complete reconciliation, but he was wrong.

  Although he’d approached her several times in the ensuing days, she rebuffed his advances until he got the message. He wanted to know when, if ever, he could completely find his way back to her body as well as her heart .

  Yet he feared asking that question because she might at last tell him to get the hell out of her life.

  Two weeks passed in a blur of activity and grief, and Cord was on his case to get the probate petition filed. That meant he had to go through Kurt’s belongings, including financial records and accounts, to compile an accurate picture for the court of the contents and value of the estate. Davina and Minerva had taken on the tiresome job of listing personal assets, like furniture, clothing, and other household items.

  Kurt had had the foresight to tell Prent where his will was—in his desk drawer at work—so Prent hadn’t been forced to go on a search-and-destroy mission for that all-important document.

  But he had discovered that Kurt’s financial information was at his house, stuffed into an old filing cabinet in his uncle’s cluttered home office. Needing room to organize and not liking being alone in Kurt’s empty former abode, Prent boxed up the materials and took them to his place where he deposited them in his dining room.

  So instead of watching basketball tournaments on television one Friday afternoon in March, he was stuck going through reams of his uncle’s financial materials.

  Fun times.

  He put the boxes on the floor and began the task of trying to put the documents in some semblance of order. As much as Kurt claimed to be a good businessman, he had been crappy at organizing his own personal records. Bank statements from various institutions were mixed together without regard for orderliness. It took Prent a good hour or more to create the piles of documents and records for each financial institution.

  The most interesting thing he came across was the account information pertaining to his trust. Kurt had never given him the statements but instead provided a yearly summary or audit of the funds as required by the terms of his father’s will. As he picked through the envelopes, some of which weren’t even opened, Prent wondered how Kurt managed to compose the yearly summary considering the haphazard state of the records.

  After finally getting the various accounts organized by nothing more than stacks of paper, Prent stood back and surveyed his work. His rational mind was telling him he needed to first review Kurt’s bank account statements, brokerage accounts, and review the few insurance policies he’d come across. But his instincts pulled him to the jumble of trust materials at the end of the table opposite where he stood.

  Prent sat at the head of the table, ready to digest the helpings of documents placed before him and having the distinct feeling it all wasn’t going to go down easily. After taking some more time to attempt to put the items in chronological order, he started picking through the statements, beginning with the most recent ones, dated a month earlier.

  As he reviewed the items, he realized the information was incomplete. There had to be other trust accounts since the balance for the one account was so low. He had a general recollection of how much money his father had put in trust for him—over eight million dollars in assets at the time of his
dad’s death.

  But the statements he saw had amounts only around a quarter of that.

  The money for his house had been a direct bequest from his father and thus had not depleted the trust. Nor had Prent lived so extravagantly over the past decade that the trust should be so substantially diminished, even considering the occasional lawsuit he’d caught.

  Prent stood, walked around the table, and shuffled through the remaining piles for any statements he had missed. His mission turned up nothing he’d overlooked, and he was soon back in his seat at the end of the table, a sense of disquiet settling upon him.

  He began to pull the other statements out of the envelopes, finding a few more which had been unopened although the postmarks on them were a few years old.

  Seeing the pattern unfolding before him, he had to accept the truth of it.

  The numbers didn’t lie.

  There it was.

  A decade-long pattern of theft.

  His uncle had started writing checks to himself for nice round numbers a few years after his father had died. Perhaps Kurt had needed time to figure out just how stupid his nephew was before he started stealing from him.

  The man must have determined that Prent was as sharp as a box of rocks considering how much he stole.

  The amounts started small, perhaps to see how much he could get away with.

  A thousand here or there for a while, then more frequently. Then the amount went to a few more thousand, with Kurt dipping into the account at least monthly. Prent had understood that Kurt was entitled to a reasonable fee for his work as trustee, but he knew that these withdrawals went far beyond what anyone could consider reasonable, except for perhaps the decedent himself.

  Interestingly, Kurt’s withdrawal frequency and amounts noticeably declined about the time Miranda appeared in his life.

  In fact, a few months before the wedding that was not to be, Prent couldn’t find any suspicious withdrawals. Kurt’s antipathy toward Miranda was now explained.

  As his wife, she not only had the potential to unlock Prent’s access to his inheritance, she would also expose Kurt’s shameful thievery from his own flesh and blood.

  But over the past year, Kurt had taken money from the trust fund about every other week. He’d treated the money as though it were his own. Prent’s trust had been Kurt’s own personal ATM.

  Prent did some quick calculations and determined that his uncle had stolen at least three-quarters or more of his trust fund, maybe more if one factored in interest and appreciation of assets.

  He broke out in a cold sweat, began to shake, and bolted from the room to the bathroom, where he threw up. His uncle’s complete betrayal was too much to handle, and he collapsed to the bathroom floor where he curled up in the fetal position and cried.

  He didn’t know where the money had gone; he didn’t think that Kurt had a substance abuse or gambling problem since those issues tend to manifest in many areas of life and are not easily hidden.

  Then he realized that Kurt had stolen from him because he thought he could, that he thought it was his right, and that he could do it because Prent was stupid and trusting.

  It was a total power trip. The thing Kurt had always demanded, craved, and fought to maintain.

  While the loss of the money stung, Kurt’s complete contempt for him was worse.

  And maybe Kurt’s disregard for him was right.

  He had been stupid.

  Stupid enough to believe that Kurt wasn’t a completely worthless man.

  Stupid enough not to ask for more detailed information about his trust and blindly accepting Kurt’s fabricated statements.

  Stupid enough not to cut Kurt out of his life a long time ago.

  Stupid enough to leave the perfect woman at the altar.

  God—what about the business? Had Kurt been cooking the books at the cooperage as well?

  He dreaded telling Miranda what had happened. He was embarrassed and feared the revelation would only confirm her opinion that they shouldn’t be together.

  After washing his face and hands, Prent stood and stared at himself in the mirror as the most terrifying thought occurred to him.

  A life without Miranda.

  He had no idea where he could find the path back to Miranda’s heart, but he also knew it was there. It had to be there.

  After cleaning himself up in the bathroom, he went to the sitting room and parked himself on the couch in front of the cold hearth. He pulled out his phone and tried to get in touch with Cord to tell him what he’d discovered, but his attorney was in court and couldn’t be reached until later that day.

  He then almost called Miranda but stopped. The hesitation about sharing this with her was immediate and sickening. Only a few weeks ago, he would’ve told her without thinking twice. But now that they were in this strange limbo, he didn’t want to do anything to rock that boat.

  Yet wasn’t that almost the same reason he hadn’t told her about the inheritance condition?

  Putting aside his fears, he called her but only reached her voice mail on her cell. Frustrated and suspecting she might be avoiding his call, he called her office.

  “Sorry,” drawled Grace, “but she’s at the hospital delivering a baby. No idea when she’ll be available.”

  How had they known?

  It was Lila’s due date to the very day—March 18—and Angelica Marie Davenport had decided to arrive although she’d cut it rather short by showing up at half past eleven at night.

  “Told you so,” said Bo as he sat in Lila’s hospital room holding his daughter.

  “So you did,” Miranda agreed and slipped her hands into the front pocket of her scrubs. “She’s just gorgeous, you two. And she has that red hair just like her cousin Jamie.”

  “Just like his grandmother,” Lila said, looking at Bo.

  The baby started to fuss, and Lila told Bo to hand the child to her so she could nurse. Lila moved her hospital gown and put Angelica to her breast, where the baby began to suckle. After watching his wife and daughter engage in one of nature’s most intimate and natural acts, Bo stretched and announced he was going to get a snack and go to the bathroom.

  “Should we let them back in here yet?” He dipped his head in the direction of the waiting room.

  “Not yet,” Lila said, her attention fully fixed on her child. “I want to enjoy this a little longer. Tell them another fifteen minutes.”

  Bo kissed Lila and departed, where Miranda knew he had the unenviable task of telling his sister that it would be just a little bit longer before they all got to meet the newest Davenport.

  Miranda looked on as Lila nursed and realized she could be intruding.

  “I’ll leave if you like,” she said.

  “I don’t mind if you want to stay. Besides, I wanted to ask how Prent’s doing—as well as you.”

  The news of Kurt Oakes’s death was still the subject of considerable talk in Bourbon Springs, considering the business connection between the cooperage and the distillery. Lila had been one of the first to learn of the passing since the news had arrived at the distillery the day of her baby shower.

  Miranda took Bo’s seat.

  “As best as can be expected.”

  “That doesn’t sound very good. What’s wrong?”

  Before she could stop herself, the entire story of what had happened the day Kurt died came tumbling out, even including the part about Prent not being Peter’s father. Lila soaked it all in quietly, turned her head from time to time to check on the baby or to burp her and switch her to the other breast.

  When Miranda came to a stop, she apologized.

  “I can’t believe I dumped all that on you,” she said. “That was unprofessional.”

  “Miranda, you’re my friend and you need to talk. Besides, nothing in the world could rattle me right now I’m so happy,” Lila said, glancing at her baby. “I’m really sorry you and Prent are going through all that, but I’m sure it will all be better soon.”

  “
I’m not so sure. We’re not—I’m not sure what will happen with us.”

  “You broke it off?”

  “Not exactly. I can’t see a way forward, but I don’t want to walk away either. I’m scared of both choices.”

  “So which choice scares you more? Answer that, and you’ll know what to do.”

  “I’m not sure which one is scarier. And I don’t know whether I can just forgive him and myself for everything that’s happened. It just seems like we’re destined for failure, that we’re a bad idea from the start.”

  Angelica began to grunt, and Lila pulled her from her body, sat her up on her lap, and burped her.

  “I can relate to that. The forgiveness thing is tough.”

  “You had to forgive someone?”

  “Two someones, and one of them was me. That was the hardest part. Getting over myself. And I also get the whole feeling of inevitable doom—that was of Bo and me. We’re so clever and smart that we fell in love while in the middle of suing each other. Talk about a recipe for disaster.”

  “How did you possibly make it work?”

  “What I said. Forgiveness. Letting go of the fear and resentments.”

  “But how?”

  “You have to be completely honest with yourself and the other person. You can’t hold back any secrets or problems. And that’s really scary, I know. But I also know it can be done.” She stroked Angelica’s cheek with a finger before bending down to kiss her daughter’s forehead.

  Miranda thought back to Lila’s original question.

  What scares you more?

  Moving forward or walking away?

  She knew what walking away felt like. A wilderness of confusion and loneliness. She and Prent had lived that way for over two years, entirely due to her ambivalence and guilt, both of which still remained and were magnified.

  And there was one more thing—an assumption made by him and others that she had never corrected. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t that important, but if revealed in the midst of the near-collapse of their relationship, she wondered whether they could survive yet another admission.