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FILTERED THROUGH BLUE: Chapter 1
So this is what it feels like to fly like a bat out of hell.
Thank God it wasn’t raining or snowing or the middle of the night because Hannah knew that at the speeds she was flying on the back roads just outside Bourbon Springs, she would’ve crashed and burned under anything other than the perfect driving conditions on that day.
But it was a perfect sunny day in the middle of the damned winter. And she’d just had to go home early that afternoon and get out of that boring bank to enjoy the rare treat of sunshine in February in Kentucky.
Stupid woman.
She wasn’t referring to the whore she’d just found her sorry excuse for a husband screwing.
In Hannah’s own bed.
No, Hannah was referring to herself.
Hannah was the stupid one.
She took a corner too quickly and the tail of her Cadillac spun out and almost went off the road as she unwillingly kept replaying the images and sounds in her brain.
She had seen Josh’s car and wondered why he was home early that week. He was supposed to be in Frankfort for at least another day. So when she saw he was there, she was initially happy. They could go out to dinner, come home and maybe even—
Then she saw the other car. A car she’d never seen. A car with a Franklin County license plate, not a Craig County tag. Not a plate from somewhere nearby like Boyle or VanWinkle or Washington County but Franklin County, home of the state capital, Frankfort. The same town where Josh Cassidy, the Craig County School Superintendent, allegedly had been working so much with the state department of education on a big project.
Hannah had walked upstairs quietly, that sense of foreboding and betrayal already stabbing at her heart and making her stomach churn with fear and despair.
When she got to the top of the stairs, she heard them.
Moaning.
Groaning.
Making that sleigh bed that she’d insisted on having creak and slam against the wall.
Noises that had never come from that bedroom when she and Josh had made love. Or whatever it was that they had done. As in the past—because she sure as hell wasn’t letting that asshole in her pants ever again.
Not that he would want to go there, she had to remind herself.
Hannah had dared to peek between the small crack between the door and frame and saw Josh underneath some woman, his fingers digging into her impossibly narrow hips and tiny ass and pumping himself into her with a frenzy. And Hannah had seen the look on his face as he came. A look she’d never seen when he’d been inside her.
Then she’d heard him say it, just as the whore came as well and screamed her husband’s name.
“Oh, God, I love you, Suzanne…”
Hannah knew she had made a kind of noise—it was a breath, a scream. Hell, she might have thrown up for all she could remember, and part of her actually hoped she’d tossed her cookies right there on the ivory carpeting in the hallway so the two lovers would have to step in it or over it to get out of that accursed bedroom.
But instead of doing the things that had almost always come so naturally to her—to fight, to confront, to scream, to get in someone’s face and poke them in the chest and say what the fuck do you think you’re doing?!—Hannah had done the most uncharacteristic thing of all.
She had fled.
When presented with irrefutable proof of her mate’s infidelity, an existential threat to ego and survival, the fight-or-flight switch in her brain had been thrown to RUN!
Her hands gripped the wheel and her knuckles bulged white and angry against the tautness of her nearly translucent skin. Every twist and turn she met on the road caused her to hit her rings against the steering wheel, and the more she drove the more frantic she became. It was like there was a mocking, snarky little devil right there in the car with her, teasing and reminding her that she could run but she was still married and she need look no further than the end of her fingers to see that the bond was still technically there. But she knew that her grief had already dissolved what remained of the link—the love she’d had for her husband.
The tears were blinding her and she knew she had to go somewhere—but where? Not back to work. She didn’t want her co-workers to see her like this. They’d go a-gossiping the minute she turned away and the whole town would know what had happened by the time Over a Barrel, the downtown deli, ran out of bourbon balls just after lunch that Wednesday, as it always did.
She sure as hell wasn’t going to the distillery. Her brother either wouldn’t have the time for her or wouldn’t give a flip since Bo Davenport had all the sensitivity and warmth of a moldy turnip, particularly when it came to women. The only thing he loved was that damned distillery and making sure everything was working and going as planned at Old Garnet. He was, without a doubt, the most uptight man she had ever known.
And—oh, God—her mother.
Emma Davenport would be at the distillery working in the gift shop that day. That was a conversation Hannah wanted to avoid for as long as possible. Because her mother wouldn’t come right out and say I told you so but she’d give Hannah a look for the rest of her life that shouted I’m so disappointed, as if everything had been Hannah’s fault.
Well, Hannah had to admit it had been her fault to choose Josh in the first place. That’s why she was stupid. Out of the billions of guys on the planet she had chosen him. Bo had always been indifferent to Josh, and her mother had only mildly warmed to him. Only her father had had the guts to tell her she deserved better, and they’d had a big argument over his objection. Cass Davenport still walked his only daughter down the aisle on her wedding day, but she never saw her father smile during the entire wedding or the reception.
She couldn’t call Rachel; they were barely on speaking terms. And this wasn’t the day to try for an emotional reunion with a former best friend you had treated like shit because she’d had the temerity and fabulous good luck to fall in love.
The problem had been that Rachel, a judge, had fallen for her fellow judge, Brady Craft, against whom Hannah had decided to run. The two lovebirds had neglected to tell Hannah they were involved, which had rather hacked her off when Rachel finally confessed the truth during the judicial campaign (but only after the amorous judges had been caught). Yet Hannah had acted like a superbitch and made their lives hell by telling tales how they only had a physical thing and that neither one of them could admit they loved the other. That, however, had been the biggest lie of the millennium. Brady ended up beating Hannah in the judicial race—in large part because he quite freely, spectacularly, and publicly admitted he was head-over-heels in love with Rachel. And to top it off, the two were now engaged and seen all over town and the courthouse looking like two happy, lovestruck, and very horny teenagers.
So not knowing where to go and with the little knocks of her rings against the wheel starting to make her even crazier—and, finally, angry—Hannah turned west and headed out to the bridge over Old Crow Creek.
There was no traffic there in the middle of a workday in the middle of the week in the middle of winter in the middle of Kentucky. She parked right on the old bridge, left her emergency lights on, and stepped out of her car.
She went to the edge of the bridge—there was a small pedestrian walkway—and took off her rings. Hannah stood with her hands resting on the railing, the rings held tenuously by the tips her fingers.
Trembling, but not due to the chill in the air, the memories of her life with Josh came flooding back, unbidden, washing over her like a corrosive and stripping her of hope and the last crumb of self-confidence she possessed.
She remembered the magical evening he had proposed and pulled out her engagement ring. Josh had taken her to her favorite Italian restaurant in Louisville and then they had enjoyed a night cruise on the Belle of Louisville on the Ohio River. The weather had been perfect: early fall, still warm but not hot, and the moon overhead was nearly full. Josh had led her outside o
n the deck and had fallen to one knee when there was no one around. She accepted at once, screamed a little, and out popped the ring, a round, two-carat solitaire with channel-set diamonds in the band.
It was a bit tight, but she managed to squeeze it onto her finger. She later got it adjusted, but never forgot the look of disappointment and the taint of disgust on Josh’s face as he realized the ring was too small. That was probably the first time she’d seen his look of disdain, the little dig about her weight.
Because she was curvy, no doubt about it. While not anywhere near obese, Hannah still saw herself as a bit on the Rubensesque side of womanhood. She’d gained weight shortly before she met Josh several years ago and it hadn’t seemed to bother him there had been a little more of her to hold onto compared to other women he’d probably dated. But even though she’d lost the weight she’d gained, Josh never lost his bad attitude about her looks—and she’d never recovered her confidence.
Her mother once had insinuated that Josh was using her to develop connections in the region. It wasn’t that he looked at Hannah as a meal ticket, but as a stepping-stone. He’d managed to snag the job of Craig County School Superintendent when he was only thirty-three years old. She knew there was no way he would’ve gotten the gig if not for being married to a Davenport. He’d recently been looking for other work in Louisville and Lexington, and Hannah had contacted lawyer friends in those cities, looking for a job. She hadn’t followed up on the inquiries, which she’d made only a few weeks ago. Now she knew those efforts had been a complete waste of her time and effort. Josh had never had any intention of taking her along whenever he moved on from Craig County.
And she also finally accepted that they’d never been on equal terms. It had always been a one-way street, emotionally. While the relationship and the marriage at first were warm and physical, she wasn’t sure she could ever call what they had passion. Not that she hadn’t felt it. He’d been the cold one. It wasn’t mutual and shared. That wasn’t passion to her.
And how many women had Josh slept with after they married? Somehow, she couldn’t believe that whore in her bed was the first. Josh had become increasingly physically remote, to the point that they hadn’t made love in weeks. Or had it been months? The distance began shortly after they had exchanged vows, and she suspected that’s when Josh’s infidelity had started as well.
So the rings were meaningless tokens to her now. They represented nothing and were merely tangible reminders of epic personal failure.
Stupid woman!
Hannah realized she was now a cliché—the cheated-on, dumbass wife whose jerk of a husband didn’t even have enough sense not to do his mistress in the marital bed.
She was crying, shaking, wanting to drop or fling the rings into the cold waters of Old Crow Creek, the same body of water that was drawn upon by the distillery to make the finest bourbon in the world. If Hannah dropped those rings into that blue limestone-filtered water, she knew that each time she took a sip of Old Garnet she would question whether those very drops of distilled perfection had passed over these little symbols of love which had become gut-wrenching representations of disaster. Every single time she drank her family’s handcrafted bourbon, she would wonder whether she was swallowing her failures and feelings all over again. God, she couldn’t get away from it—the loss, the disappointment, the shame. And she’d already had to swallow a lot of that to ensure her family’s success, as well as the town’s continued well-being.
Because the distillery and Bourbon Springs were inextricably intertwined; the latter largely depended upon the good fortunes of the other. And Hannah had had it inculcated into her pretty little hard blonde head at a very early age that what was good for the distillery was good for Bourbon Springs and that the Davenports had not just a right but a duty to keep the distillery not merely up and running, but thriving. Her brother had certainly taken that to heart. He was killing himself with too much work.
But Hannah had been killing herself by keeping up appearances.
Craig County Sheriff Kyle Sammons was enjoying his day.
He was driving south toward Bourbon Springs after lunch at The Cooperage, the fancy restaurant-resort that he rarely visited. For the price of the cheapest steak dinner on that menu, Kyle could easily buy a week’s worth of groceries, possibly two weeks’ worth. But today he’d been there at the invitation of a business group, speaking on crime and taxes. He’d loved it. Finally, some of the big wigs of Craig County had accepted him. It had only taken, what—three years?
He’d won that crazy election for sheriff and everyone was shocked—even him. Kyle had thought he had a chance to beat Fuzzy Davenport, the so-called ‘sheriff for life.’ Fuzzy had been sheriff for thirty years—almost all of Kyle’s life—and Kyle had sensed it was time to try to move on with a new generation of leadership in his home county. So he ran, much to the derision of some local people, although his boss, the Bourbon Springs police chief Jim Waters, had been a stalwart if silent supporter. Kyle figured that’s how he’d won: people who were either silent or outwardly supportive of the feeble Sheriff Fuzzy had gone into the voting booth that November day and cast their ballot for the young upstart with the marginally-good reputation but who wasn’t addled by the rigors of time and years and years of free bourbon.
The Davenports and their allies had demanded a recount and threatened litigation, claiming that Kyle must’ve won by sleight of hand. In other words, they had accused him of fraud or dishonesty. The recount firmly established him as the winner, but the ordeal and the character slur still stuck in his craw. Kyle knew he was far from perfect but he sure as hell wasn’t a liar, cheat, or crook.
He had accepted that the Davenports would hate him. He’d beaten one of their most prominent and beloved members, a second—or was it third?—cousin to the ones that owned and ran the distillery. So amongst the Davenports, his name was mud, if his name was even allowed to be mentioned at any of their gathering places. Especially the distillery.
Bo Davenport hated Kyle with a passion, a hatred that had been sown years before the election. But Kyle couldn’t do a damn thing about it. He let Bo think what he wanted to think. There was only one way to change his mind, and Kyle wasn’t going to tell him the truth. Not that Bo would believe him.
Kyle drove leisurely in his large cruiser, enjoying the antics of the sun as it illuminated the faded fields of Bluegrass all around him. The light danced across the softly rolling landscape in a sinuous, living chain of shadows and sunbeams. He longed for spring, when this land would awaken with such color and life that he could only pray that he might someday see a Heaven as lustrous and joyful.
He couldn’t say why, but he decided to drive out over Old Crow Creek, just to see the light washing over the creek as the water headed downstream toward the distillery and its nine-year date inside a brand-new charred oak barrel. After he turned the last corner, his senses went on alert when he saw a car stopped on the bridge with its emergency lights on. Didn’t look like an accident but—
Alarm and panic flared in his gut as he saw a lone figure standing at the edge of the bridge. Old Crow Creek wasn’t that deep, but deep enough to drown someone, especially in the cold weather when one dip into the frigid water could so quickly induce hypothermia and death.
As Kyle positioned his car behind the parked one, a sense of shock and dread filled him as he recognized the person on the bridge.
***
BITS ABOUT BOURBON
Suffice it to say that research for these books was fun and easy.
Now for a bit where I talk about bourbon, about Kentucky, about the Commonwealth, about the Bluegrass.
I am a native Central Kentuckian and have never lived anywhere else. The Land of Bourbon and Bluegrass is, and always has been, my home. My house backs up to a large horse farm and I live close to Woodford Reserve Distillery.
Bourbon is very hot again. Since 2012, the number of distilleries in Kentucky has rocketed from ten to thirty. Bourbon is everywh
ere. It always has been in my neck of the woods. There are more aging bourbon barrels in Kentucky than there are people.
In 1999, the Kentucky Distillers Association formed the Kentucky Bourbon Trail™, which is now a major tourist draw in the Commonwealth. The Trail has nine member distilleries. After every book, I will write a little bit about each member distillery of the Trail.
The first distillery I will write about is Woodford Reserve, which is only about ten minutes away from where I live.
WOODFORD RESERVE
Nestled in a small valley along a creek about ten miles north of Versailles, Kentucky, in Woodford County, Woodford Reserve was my main inspiration for Old Garnet Distillery. The physical descriptions are not exactly the same when it comes to the landscape, although I do imagine the old limestone rickhouse at Woodford Reserve as the very same as the fictional old rickhouse at Old Garnet. I also imagine the bottling house at Woodford Reserve looking much the same as the one at Old Garnet.
Whiskey has been made at Woodford Reserve since 1812 (although not continuously). Elijah Pepper bought the property along Glenns Creek, and his son, Oscar, continued distilling there into the middle of the nineteenth century. Sometimes you can see references to the site as the Old Oscar Pepper Distillery, and it was at this site that Dr. James Christopher Crow, an immigrant from Scotland, allegedly perfected the sour mash method. Dr. Crow is buried in the cemetery in Versailles.
Woodford Reserve is the oldest operating distillery in the Commonwealth, and is owned by Brown-Forman Corporation (they also own Jack Daniels and Old Forester—they are a huge whiskey and bourbon manufacturer). This distillery has the distinction of being a National Historic Landmark.
Secret Blend (Bourbon Springs Book 1) Page 29