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

by Jennifer Bramseth

  At least Maisie was moderately supportive. The fact that she could tease about Prent showed her sister accepted the relationship.

  But Miranda fretted that her mother would never show the same modicum of interest. Maybe Miranda could get over being left at the altar, but it’s another thing to ask for that kind of forgiveness from the mother of the bride.

  Bride.

  Miranda accepted that someday she would be Prent’s bride. She had secretly harbored the notion that they would eventually get back together, but now that it had happened—what was the next step?

  Maisie’s assumption that Prent had asked her to marry him again rankled her.

  Why?

  Because he hadn’t asked her since they’d gotten back together.

  All the time they’d been apart, he’d teasingly asked her on a regular basis, knowing he would be rejected out of hand. But despite the intimacies they had shared since their reconciliation, he had not proposed once.

  Had he changed his mind?

  No. He was waiting for the right moment.

  His next proposal would not be in jest but in full expectation of acceptance.

  That’s why he hadn’t asked. It was too important to mock. She also realized that he needed to deal with the sudden reality of being a parent. Postponing a decision about their future was the responsible thing to do.

  “All well in Perryville?” he asked as he entered the room. He handed her a cup of hot coffee, which she accepted with thanks.

  “No power but otherwise safe. Although they were a little freaked out about my location.”

  “They’d be better off worrying about their own situation,” Prent said.

  It was one of the rare times when she’d heard him express any level of irritability toward her family. Under the bizarre weather circumstances, she felt his mild note of disgust appropriate.

  “Agreed. And I’m certainly not freaked out, especially since you’re probably the only person within miles with a generator and a moderately warm house.”

  His fingers traced the edge of the quilt along the tops of her breasts until the fabric loosened, revealing her right breast.

  “I don’t think that’s the only reason you like it here, Dr. Chaplin.”

  “Did I say that it was?”

  She smiled and allowed him to stroke the side of her breast while she took a sip of coffee. Prent kept his eyes on her face as his forefinger brushed her mole.

  Miranda kissed him and excused herself to the bathroom next to the kitchen, where she found her overnight bag waiting for her, as well as a thick terrycloth robe hanging on a hook on the back of the door. After a few minutes, she emerged into the kitchen wearing the robe, clean undies and a pair of house slippers, and was treated to the sight and smell of Prent removing cinnamon rolls from the oven. She iced them while Prent put juice on the table and then briefly excused himself to check on the fire.

  Once they sat and began to eat, the view out the windows around them became increasingly dazzling and terrifying as the clouds dissipated and the sun rose.

  On a lovely summer’s day, the sight was mesmerizingly beautiful: lush, jade-like rolling fields of the Outer Bluegrass, softly blending into small culverts and ringed in the far south by the pointed suddenness of those low hills called the Knobs.

  Yet on that frigid morning, the color had been ripped from the view, save for the shattering blue of the sky. White, black, and gray dominated the landscape as the Earth groaned under the weight of ice and snow. Miranda squinted in the harsh glare flashing off every surface and could not discern the slightest bit of melting.

  Glancing at her host, she expected to see him likewise fascinated by the outdoor spectacle. Instead, his face was impassive and eyes unfocused as he vacantly stared at the table. Miranda moved her hand into Prent’s line of sight and waved, snapping him out of his funk.

  “Sorry.” He took a deep breath and claimed her hand. “Thinking about—well, my son.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t even know,” Prent said in a thick voice. “I don’t even know what he looks like or his birthday or anything, really, except that he exists and he’s mine.”

  “The doctor in me has to ask this, Prent. Are you sure he’s yours?”

  He flinched at the question but nodded.

  “I know it. Ainsley and I—the timing is just right, Miranda,” he said quickly. She sensed he didn’t want to talk about any of the specifics of his physical relationship with Ainsley, which was just fine with her.

  “So what’s the next step?”

  “Cord said that the grandmother is going to get an attorney and he or she will soon be contacting us. I guess the DNA tests and all that will come later. Cord and I didn’t go into a lot of details, but he said he suspected the grandmother wanted some help with the kid—financial and otherwise. Cord got the feeling that she might be tired of the responsibility and warned me that I needed to get my head around being a parent.” Prent’s eyes roamed the kitchen. “I could think of worse places to grow up, couldn’t you?”

  “He’ll love it here,” Miranda assured him. “And I’m sure he’ll love you too when he gets a chance to know you.”

  “Cord mentioned I needed to get ready for this,” Prent repeated, “and that I might want to get some counseling.”

  “An excellent suggestion. I can give you some names.”

  He thanked her while she refilled her cup. Miranda remained standing at the coffee machine in the corner of the kitchen near the sink, lazily looking out the window when she felt the phone in her robe pocket vibrate. She checked it and saw that Brad Byrd was calling.

  “Thank goodness you answered,” Brad said in a rush of breath. “I hope you’re safe and warm.”

  “Affirmative on both of those. Anything wrong? You sound a bit frantic.”

  “Thought I should touch base because of the storm,” he said. “I’m at the hospital dealing with two deliveries. I wanted to check your availability in case I get too much going on here at once.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to hold down the fort in Bourbon Springs by yourself unless you can send a rescue posse out after me.”

  “But you’re only in town, right?”

  “No, I’m stranded.” She leaned over the black granite countertop and wrapped a hand around her coffee cup.

  “Where?”

  “I’m at my—my boyfriend’s house in northern Van Winkle County,” she said, stumbling over that b-word but unable to suppress a smile once it was out of her mouth.

  Her eyes darted to Prent. Grinning broadly, he rose from the table and approached her where she stood.

  “Oh… uh… well,” Brad stammered. She’d just burst the poor man’s bubble when it came to his snowball’s chance of having a chance with her. “So when can you get back? Or how?”

  “Good questions,” Miranda said, her eyes locked on Prent’s hungry stare.

  She turned to the windows and focused on the expanse of icy winter so she could concentrate on the conversation rather than the very clear invitation Prent’s whole being was broadcasting to her.

  “Have you heard anything about the roads between Littleham and Bourbon Springs? We haven’t tried to get out of the house, of course—considering the weather,” she hastily added as Prent wrapped his arms around her waist from behind and began to nuzzle the left side of her neck.

  “Like you ever want to leave,” he whispered before sucking her earlobe, causing her to moan.

  “What did you say?” Brad asked.

  “We’re… just… um… talking about road conditions here,” Miranda said as Prent continued his affections. “How to… get from one place to another.”

  Prent slipped a hand inside the front of her robe, placing it low on her tummy underneath her now not-so-tidy undies. His fingers brushed the top of her curls, causing Miranda to move against him and sense his hardening desire against her backside. Her hips moved to invite his fingers lower, but he kept his distanc
e from the ever-increasing wetness between her legs.

  It was perfect torture for her, being pinned against the kitchen counter with Prent’s hand and body pressed against her while having to talk with Dr. Dull on the phone.

  “Look, I’ve got a few patients right now who are supposed to go into labor any day, so keep your phone handy in case of emergencies,” Brad exhorted. “Maybe the sheriff can come get you. I heard they have one of those Humvees that can go anywhere.”

  “That’s good to know,” Miranda said, hoping Brad hadn’t noticed she was panting.

  Miranda heard some commotion in the background over the phone, and Brad announced he had to hang up.

  “Take care. Hope you ride out the storm just fine.”

  “No doubt about it,” Prent said loud enough so Brad could hear it.

  “What?”

  “Bye, Brad.” Miranda ended the call and dropped the phone on the counter.

  Before she could move, Prent had spun her around and was tugging at the cinch on her robe. It opened to him, exposing her bare breasts, which he immediately cupped and showered with kisses.

  “I would so love to take you right here, Miranda.” She leaned back and clutched his head to her chest as his tongue grazed her nipple. Dipping a finger beneath her panties, he stroked her and slipped a finger inside. “Ready again?”

  She clenched around him, then moved her hand to his crotch, placing her palm flat and hard against his erection.

  “I think we’re both ready.”

  Kissing her and cradling her head with one hand, he took a few steps backward, necessitating the removal of his hand from her center. He broke the kiss, grabbed her hand that was upon his hardness, and pulled Miranda toward the large family room where they had made love through the night. But as they reached the edge of the room, Miranda stopped.

  “Take me upstairs,” she said.

  Prent stopped and dropped her arm although he did not relinquish her hand.

  She understood his resistance, and she shared his hesitancy. The last time they had made love before the wedding had been in his room—their future marital bedroom.

  The view from the room was incredible, marked only by natural features and nearly devoid of barns, power lines, or other man-made features. In the far distance was a small ridge of hills, not quite as high as the Knobs. Many an hour had they sat before those windows and on the small balcony outside the bedroom, laughing, drinking, and making plans to build a tree house in a large oak near a creek which cut through the property. The tree house wasn’t for any future children. It was for their own fun and games and very adult playtimes they had planned.

  “It’s cold up there,” he replied, his face a blank.

  “You promised to keep me warm, remember? So take me up there, Prent,” she said, making him smile although he still resisted. “What’s wrong? Is your room too messy to show your girlfriend?”

  “It’s not my room anymore.”

  “So whose room is it?”

  “It was supposed to be ours. I moved to a different room and haven’t slept in there since… since we were together before the wedding.”

  “Why?”

  “It didn’t feel right,” he said, looking down. “I guess I’ve been waiting and…”

  He stopped, swallowed, and paled. She knew what he had been about to say: he didn’t want to go back into the room—even with her—until they were married.

  At that moment, she knew she’d been right about his hesitancy to propose now that they were a couple again. He was waiting for something—the right moment, or the situation to somehow resolve, at least temporarily, with his newly-discovered son.

  “Remember how I said we were going to work on making some new memories?” she asked, knowing not to go near the marriage issue.

  “I thought we did a pretty good job of that last night.”

  “Why stop there?” Miranda dropped her robe as she moved away from him and toward the backstairs next to the kitchen. The stairs, she remembered, led to a hall on the second floor and to the bedrooms.

  Prent bent over, scooped up some of the condom packets still littering the floor, and marched toward her.

  “Who said I wanted to stop?”

  She dashed ahead of him up the stairs, beating him into the bedroom by only a few seconds.

  It was indeed cold on the second floor, and as she was nearly naked, she was immediately chilled. Yet she was not long distracted by the temperature but again by the view.

  A long bank of paned windows was across the back of the bedroom, affording another glimpse into that wintry ruin in which they were locked together yet safe. When she heard him at the door, she spun around to see him there and was surprised at his continuing timidity. Miranda was about to walk toward him when the condition of the room caught her attention.

  It was pristine.

  The bed was perfectly made, the carpet swept. The only footsteps on the plush cream surface were her own. The space projected the sense of not being lived-in, and through the light shining into the room, a shower of tiny dust specks, motes disturbed by her entrance to the room, hovered and danced in a sunbeam. The bed possessed the same comforter, pillows, and neatly folded blanket across the bottom that she remembered from years ago.

  It was a time capsule. The depth of Prent’s regret was made completely real and whole to her, particularly since he still stood in the doorway, unwilling to enter.

  “I’m over here.” She moved to the end of the bed and held out her hand.

  It was the gesture he needed, and he took a step into the room to meet her. Throwing the condoms on the bed, Prent put his hands on her hips and gazed down at her, breathing heavily but with a smile on his face. Miranda placed a hand along his cheek, inviting his kiss, which he bestowed with an unexpected ferocity.

  Within seconds they were crawling on top of the bed, their remaining clothes were off, and the covers were pulled down. She gasped when her back hit the cold sheets, but Prent put his body over her, giving Miranda her own blanket of flesh and blood to warm not only body but soul.

  After only a little bit of exploring and caressing, Prent rolled on a condom and they joined once more, both eager to experience the other in the light of a new day and new year. Unlike their fiery sexual connections of the night before, their lovemaking was slow, and with sufficient light they could see each other’s faces clearly as they found bliss again.

  They fell asleep together under the covers with Miranda finding Prent’s chest the perfect pillow. Not even the brightness of the room kept them from slumber, and the only sounds, other than mingled breaths, were the distant, occasional rumbles and cracks of trees and limbs crashing to the frozen ground as they yielded to the burden of ice and snow.

  17

  “Thanks, Snipe.”

  “Did you really just call the Van Winkle County Sheriff Snipe?”

  It was the following morning, and they were still marooned—very happily, in Prent’s opinion—but Miranda had to leave. Early that morning, she’d gotten a frantic call from a patient reporting preterm contractions.

  Miranda had sent the woman to the hospital and assured her she’d be there as soon as possible. Prent suspected the patient was Lila Davenport since Miranda revealed that Sheriff Kyle Sammons was already on the way to the patient’s house to personally transport her and her husband to the emergency room.

  If not for that emergency, Miranda said she would’ve been more than content to stay with Prent, canceling her appointments and waiting for the ice to melt. But he had known that their paradise would be short-lived; she was a doctor, and there was a real world out there with all its problems and needs.

  Over the course of the past day and a half, they had made love more times than Prent could now count, dividing their time between upstairs and downstairs.

  The previous morning had been spent mostly in the bedroom upstairs. After three sex sessions in that cold room, each increasing in heat between them but doing nothing to elevat
e the actual temperature of the space, they finally retreated downstairs to the fireplace. Prent had to restart the barely smoldering fire but soon had it blazing with several more logs and a lot of old staves. They cuddled, ate, and made love once more during the next hours, which blended into the dimness of evening.

  Emotionally and physically re-bonding with Miranda had been the closest thing to heaven Prent had ever experienced.

  “Yeah, I know him,” Prent said as he put down his phone. They were sitting in the kitchen eating a late breakfast. “Grew up together as kids before I went to boarding school. He said he’d be here within the half hour to get you and deliver you to the county line. You’re sure Kyle Sammons will be there?”

  “I have no doubt about it,” Miranda said right before she took a sip of coffee, confirming his suspicion about the patient’s identity.

  He hoped Lila and the baby would be all right. He didn’t know Lila well although she was an Old Garnet owner. But he did know Bo and felt sorry for what the man likely was going through at that moment.

  His thoughts turned to his son, then to Miranda. They’d had several discussions about the child, including how Prent could incorporate the boy into his life, where he might go to preschool, and how to introduce him to friends and family. They’d even picked out a bedroom for him and had walked around the house, spotting things that needed to be childproofed.

  Prent was amazed at how easily Miranda had accepted the likelihood of his son being in his life and had actively tried to help with the transition. Being able to talk with someone who appreciated the challenges ahead rather than berate him for his mistakes was priceless.

  But that’s what Miranda was to him.

  He had wanted to propose again during their confinement, but two things made him hold back.

  Not knowing what would happen with his son and wanting to do it right.

  He knew it was stupid to try to make wedding plans in the midst of bringing a child into his life. But delaying the proposal to get that part of his world partially settled would also give him the time to find the perfect ring for her again. He was still puzzled about how he could top his original proposal and present her with a ring with just as much meaning.