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

by Jennifer Bramseth

  Would he start craving a larger audience, a bigger stage?

  Jorrie got her ice cream—a double scoop of something called Cinnamon Garnet, which Hannah had once recommended to her. She took one lick of the lightly pink concoction and could feel her eyes bulging as the mélange of flavors—vanilla, bourbon, and cinnamon—hit her tongue. She was so captivated by the unique taste that she stopped in the entrance to the café and caused a minor pedestrian traffic jam until someone nudged her out of the way.

  Jorrie wandered into the middle of the visitors’ center with her treat, happily captivated by the sweetness in her hand and getting increasingly excited about the rest of the evening before her. She checked a clock over the entrance and saw that it was nearly eleven.

  Jorrie examined the bourbon flavor wheel in the middle of the visitors’ center floor. She’d seen it the day of the wedding but hadn’t had much of a chance to appreciate the piece. The lights in the visitors’ center were reduced, making it a little difficult to see some of the lettering on the smaller slices of the wheel.

  On the day of the wedding a few weeks earlier, the amber-colored planks of the piece had positively glowed in the light of a late-spring morning. Lila had mentioned to her that some other distilleries were purportedly going to copy the idea and put something similar in their visitors’ centers, which irritated Goose since the design had been his idea.

  She was staring at the small red circle of the wheel and trying to make out the lettering when she felt arms encircling her waist.

  “Can I have some?” Mack kissed her on the neck.

  She turned around immediately and took a long lick of the ice cream, watching Mack as she did so.

  “Ever tried this?” she asked as she brought the cone away from her mouth.

  “I’ve only had a little taste.”

  She grinned and offered the cone to him, but he refused. Jorrie then took another lick as he continued to watch her.

  “So now what?” she asked. “I guess I’m not really in the mood for a late-night snack at The Windmill since I’ve had this thing,” she said, waving the cone around a little. “But if you want to go—”

  “Care to go for a ride?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve got the keys to the Old Garnet four-wheeler. Wanna go down by Old Crow Creek?”

  She moved back and tilted her head, studying him. He wasn’t joking.

  “Why the creek?”

  He leaned toward her and again whispered.

  “Because I’m pretty sure it’s a hell of a lot warmer down there than it is up on Springfield Knob.”

  She smiled and took in a deep breath, hoping she didn’t betray how excited she was.

  “Let’s go.”

  He grabbed her hand and they ran from the visitors’ center into the warm summer night.

  11

  Mack led Jorrie beyond the old rickhouse and distillery to the back of the bottling house where a four-wheeler was parked.

  “Why is this thing here?” she asked.

  “Bo sometimes uses it to go out to some of the more remote rickhouses, according to what some of the folks in the bottling house say.”

  “So why isn’t it parked at the visitors’ center, near his office?”

  “I think they want to keep it away from Goose,” Mack said as they both got into the cramped vehicle. “He wrecked in it earlier this year, and I guess they think out of sight, out of mind.”

  Jorrie looked in the back of the four-wheeler and saw that Mack had packed for the trip: a cooler, some blankets, and, of course, his guitar. She also thought she spied a few flashlights but didn’t think they would need them that night since the moon was nearly full.

  He moved the vehicle slowly out onto the distillery grounds, which were relatively flat near the bottling house, and headed into the distance. However, as they put space between themselves and the distillery buildings, the terrain and the ride became rougher.

  “I can see how Goose wiped out in this thing,” Jorrie said as they rumbled along. The cooler and Mack’s guitar case rattled behind them as they bounced along.

  “From what I understand,” Mack said to her over the din of the motor, “he was going a lot faster than this—and was on steeper terrain. I promise to be a much better driver.”

  Jorrie had no idea where Mack was taking her, except that they were headed in the general direction of the creek, to the north and west. For several minutes, he drove parallel to the stream and keeping several yards away from the bank. He finally headed closer to the water and found a worn path through the trees which looked to be more of a footpath than a route for vehicle traffic.

  The woods closed in about them, and the moon’s light was obscured by the tree canopy. He eventually stopped the vehicle next to a large fallen log.

  “Ready for a little adventure?” he asked.

  “As in what?”

  “As in crossing that old bridge down there?” he said and pointed toward the creek.

  Mack hopped out of the four-wheeler, and Jorrie followed him to the edge of the bank. They were at a narrow spot along Old Crow Creek, and a rickety-looking bridge spanned the stream. She squinted in the moonlight, trying to assess the soundness of the structure; it had definitely seen better days, although no boards along its path across the water appeared to be broken or missing.

  “You sure that thing’s safe?” she asked. “And if we cross the creek, won’t we be going onto state land?”

  “The bridge is perfectly safe,” he assured her and began to walk back to the four-wheeler while Jorrie continued to study the bridge at a distance. “And who cares if we go onto state land? They don’t have rangers or anything over there, haven’t had ’em for years because of budget cuts, from what I hear. Just a big nature preserve.”

  She returned to the vehicle to find him removing the cooler and his guitar case. He asked her to grab the blankets and the bug spray, and then they were off.

  The bridge give an unwelcoming creak when Mack set foot on it, and he momentarily paused before carefully taking another step. But when he placed another foot down, the bridge was silent and he continued across without further hesitation.

  She followed, but her tread was lighter and slower. Jorrie could hear a few squeaks as she progressed and could see a coat of red paint peeling away from the weather-beaten wood of the old structure.

  The opposite bank of the creek was much higher and steeper, and by the time she cleared the top, Jorrie was winded and more than a little sweaty. Scanning her surroundings, she realized they had cleared a small plateau.

  Below them and covered with the glow of a full moon were the distillery grounds, stretching for acres and acres to her left, right, and directly in front of her. In the far distance to the southeast and beyond the trees which hugged the winding course of Old Crow Creek, Jorrie spotted the roof of the bottling house. She was able to pinpoint the location of the distillery building by a thick, ghostlike cloud of rising steam, but the visitors’ center was hidden from her view by a dense clump of trees. To the east, she spotted a few rickhouses and the large barns at GarnetBrooke.

  She spun and examined the land behind her. Although they were now technically trespassers on the state nature preserve, she still felt like she was on the distillery property since it was all displayed right in front of her.

  “How did you know about this place?” she asked Mack as she threw a blanket on the ground and unfurled the other.

  “I remembered it from when I worked at the distillery a few years back.” He put the cooler and guitar case at the edge of the blanket.

  “Bring a date over here?”

  “Nope, but always wanted to.”

  “Like on Springfield Knob?”

  “I suppose so,” he said, taking the lid off the cooler.

  Jorrie looked into the cooler, which was half-filled with ice and cans of something she suspected was beer. She bent to inspect what Mack had brought, but only discovered soft drinks and bottle
d water.

  “Do you not drink?” she asked.

  “I drink, but just not tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m hoping that tonight will be the kind of night that we’ll remember forever, and I don’t want anything to interfere that.”

  Jorrie laughed and looked to the east.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked as he bent to open his guitar case.

  “All that bourbon out there,” she whispered and pointed to the rickhouses across the creek. “And you don’t bring a drop of it with you tonight.”

  “You expected bourbon?”

  “Not from you. You don’t need anything but your guitar and your voice to intoxicate me.”

  “What about the rest of me?” he asked and took several steps toward her.

  Her breath caught. She trembled as he took her hands while she considered his face, cast in the half-light of the bright moon. He tilted his head, and she saw his blue eyes, darkened not by the night but by the desire burning in them.

  For a split second she felt as though they were back on Springfield Knob.

  In the moonlight. On an elevated point with an excellent view. At another special place he’d never taken another.

  And a guitar within easy reach.

  Yet on this night the wind was warm and the ground soft. The sweet comforting smell of the mash hung in the air instead of the distant trace of something smoldering as the last hours of the day dissolved.

  She looked at him and knew why he’d brought her to this place, why he’d made the grand romantic gesture of driving her to the moonlit spot, and why he’d written and sung songs for her.

  She saw before her a man in love.

  Did he see the same thing in her face? That fear and joy?

  “The whole package is pretty damn nice.”

  “How do you know?”

  “What?”

  He put his arms around her waist and then slipped his hands into the back pockets of her shorts.

  “You haven’t experienced the whole package,” he said, pulling her to him. There was no mistaking his arousal as he deliberately brushed against her.

  Laughing, Jorrie mirrored his actions by slipping her arms around his waist and then putting her hands into the back pockets of his jeans.

  “I might want to try the whole package tonight,” she said in a low voice that she meant to be coy. “But first you have to warm me up with some singing.”

  “You got it.” He kissed her and turned to his guitar case on the ground.

  They sat on the blanket together facing each other, and Jorrie saw the eagerness in Mack’s face as he readied to play for her. He seemed just as eager to sing to her as he had been to make love to her. Perhaps in his mind there was little difference between those two things.

  “What do you want to hear first?”

  “Play one of those new songs for me?”

  He shook his head. “I have plans for those. I’m going to play them at the concerts.”

  “Keeping them a secret from me?”

  “For now,” he said and played a few chords. “Little gifts for you throughout the whole summer. You’ll get to unwrap them every other Friday night.”

  “Then play ’Tis a Gift.”

  He played the song again, but his rendition was much different than the version he’d presented at Goose and Harriet’s wedding, which had been joyfully triumphant. Instead, Mack sang softly and reverently, almost as though he were trying to hypnotize her.

  It worked.

  He had enchanted her with his voice and his music. His very presence had her spellbound. And tonight, she knew that the magic he sought to use would extend beyond things she could merely hear or see and would finally reach their bodies through the most intimate and sensual type of touch.

  He finished and, without asking what she wanted to hear, began to sing the song from the fair. She lay back on the blanket, put her arms beneath her head, and looked at the sky as he serenaded her.

  “You still don’t have a name for that one, do you?” she asked after he’d finished.

  Mack pulled a bottle of water from the cooler and took a long drink. “Nope,” he said between swigs. “I thought you’d come up with a name for it.”

  “But you’re the songwriter.”

  “And you, my dear, are the muse. So feel free to suggest a name. It really needs one because I intend to play it at every concert. I don’t want to announce it as the song I haven’t figured out a name for yet.”

  Jorrie rolled over and looked back to the heavens, thinking about the lyrics, about the meaning. He didn’t sing again and seemed to be waiting on her to give him some kind of answer. She got a little frustrated, and her eyes started to water a little as she remained prone on the blanket with her face to the sky.

  And then the title came to her as clearly as what was before her.

  “Good Heavens,” she said.

  Mack stopped playing. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong—that’s the title: Good Heavens.”

  His mouth dropped open a little and he nodded.

  “I like it. I like it a lot. Guess I’ll have to keep you around to help me out with these little problems.”

  “You won’t have much trouble in that department.”

  She continued to gaze skyward as he began to play High Hills. His enchantments worked their magic on her mind and body.

  Jorrie felt relaxed yet aroused, happy yet nervous, content yet worried. As the last chords of High Hills faded and she heard him put his guitar away, she felt giddy and a little out of breath. She waited for him to come to her side, put his hands on her body, and begin the activities for which they had trekked to this spot high above the distillery lands.

  Instead, he took up the same position beside her: flat on his back, face to the skies. Mack claimed the hand closer to him, and there they lay for several minutes in silence and reverence, eyes on the heavens, hearts affixed to the earth. In the far distance, the distinct chiming of the courthouse clock rang out midnight.

  Jorrie rolled onto her side, propped herself up on an elbow, and placed a hand on his chest.

  He smiled up at her as he put his hand over hers.

  “Don’t tell me Cinderella has to leave.”

  “I don’t own a pair of glass slippers.”

  “Good. I’m not Prince Charming.”

  “Good. I don’t want you to be.”

  He raised his hand, and a forefinger traced the outline of her lips and then brushed across her cheek.

  His expression was something between amazement and lust. No man had ever looked at her like that, as though she were a treasure. Something he’d stumbled upon, undeserved yet intensely appreciated, revered.

  She lowered her head and kissed him, and Mack’s initial response was gentle, even cautious, unlike their experience on Springfield Knob. But he soon deepened the kiss, his mouth wider, hungrier, needier. His hands moved aside her face, and Jorrie rolled onto her back as Mack became the aggressor, his body above hers.

  His hands crept underneath her shirt as hers slid under his, while his mouth moved from lips, to jawline, to neck, to collarbone. A long hissing sigh escaped her, and she arched her back as Mack’s tongue traced along her skin. Jorrie’s nails sunk into Mack’s back as she pressed her body against him. Suddenly Mack pulled away, breathing hard, to strip off his shirt.

  “It’s gotten a lot hotter out here.”

  “And bound to get hotter.”

  Mimicking his movement, she sat up, pulled her shirt off, and was about to slip out of her bra when he stopped her. Grinning and kneeling before her, he brushed her hands away and reached around her body. Their faces again close, Jorrie leaned in to kiss him as he unclasped her bra. She pulled away and glanced at his jeans.

  “Did you manage to find a clean pair of underwear to wear tonight?”

  “You’re about to find out, aren’t you?”

  “You never did tell me if you went shopping.�
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  “And I never heard you volunteer to come with me. That was the deal.”

  His smile was beyond smug, but something lascivious and wicked.

  She laughed nervously, but his expression didn’t change.

  “Wait… are you telling me that you…”

  He took her hand and placed it at the button atop the zipper of his jeans.

  “Find out for yourself,” he said.

  Instead of accepting the clear invitation to unbutton and unzip his jeans, Jorrie’s fingers slipped underneath his waistband.

  No elastic.

  No cloth.

  No underwear.

  Just like that night on Springfield Knob.

  “You… you performed tonight… in front of all those people… without… without…”

  “Yep, I went commando for that performance. Never have done that before.”

  “So why start tonight? Or do I dare ask?”

  His hands migrated to her waist, where he undid the button and the zipper began to pull apart of its own accord.

  “I guess you can call me sentimental,” he said, bringing his lips to her neck as one hand moved to her breast.

  As he began his sensual attentions, Jorrie realized his jeans could easily be slipped down without needing to undo the button or zipper. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband and tugged until the jeans fell away.

  His erection freed, she grasped it and stroked the smooth underside with her thumb. Her touch caused him to pull his lips from her neck.

  “How was going commando tonight sentimental?”

  His touch lightened as he softly swept his thumb across her nipple. Mack brought his other hand to her face, brushed the hair from her forehead, and kissed her.

  “Because it reminded me of being with you that night on the hill above my house,” he said. “I know it’s silly. But along with the singing, I wanted to recreate a little of the magic from that night.”

  She removed her hand from his length and wrapped her arms around his waist, drawing him close.

  “Mack, this is the night we’ll want to recreate. So let’s get this thing started.”

  She laughed at his surprise upon hearing his own words, but her mirth was soon drowned in his kiss, his touch, his being.