Page 2 of Bourbon and Secrets

The air up here near the fall’s caverns has a different smell. While Fiasco carries the scent of a never-ending bakery, up here, it’s more like salt and moss. Something earthier that made things seem raw and untouched.

Bringing the horse to a stop, I jump down and tie her to the old oak tree that looks like it’s seen better days. With craggy bark manipulated and twisted in a way that doesn’t seem natural, it looks charred, as if it had been struck by lightning and then was never the same. It’s how I feel—I’llnever be the same. The only thing I have control over is what I do next. Tilting my head back, I suck in a breath, my butt hitting the tall grass along the bank on an exhale. I cough out whatever is left and drape my arms over my bent knees.

People always say that marriage takes work—that it’s just as hard to stay as it is to leave. And I’ve never been a quitter.

I feel sick. My hands are clammy as I rub my chest with a closed fist and hit it once, twice, and a third time before my eyes well up with tears. I haven’t been a good husband. I know I’m a good dad, a great one some days. But a husband...I close my eyes tight. Dragging my hands through my hair, I keep my fingers braced along my neck. I suck in another deep breath, digging the heels of my hands into my eyes. “FUUUCK YOUUUU!” I yell into the night air, as loud and long as my breath allows.

Fuck it. I let my tears fall. Staring out at the clusters of lights that make up my small town below, I work to steady mybreathing. It’s the only place I’ve ever known as home. Where I grew up and where my daughters are growing too. As I gaze over the flat land, from the lavender fields to my family’s distillery, I wait. I wait until my body relaxes from my anger, my tears dry on their own, and my mind becomes clearer. Clear enough to make a plan for what comes next—the conversations that’ll have to happen, the small hearts I’ll have to break. It feels like minutes, but the full moon hung low and bathed the sky in a pink hue. It’s the only indication that I’ve been here for hours. In the grand scheme, it’s not long at all to decide that the life you had was going to be different tomorrow.

Before I get back on the horse, I send out a text.

LINCOLN

I’ll bring Lady to the stables in the morning.

HADLEY

Lady Brittany Christina Pink is a thoroughbred. If anything happens to her, I will kick you in the dick.

Sighing, I run my hands along Lady’s coarse mane. “How did I get here, girl?” The sniff she lets out is probably her way of saying,Fuck if I know. The static sounds from the falls in the distance, along with the deep bellowing of bullfrogs and the intermittent chirp of crickets, is my soundtrack. It’s the part of Fiasco that calms me more than any family night or hours in a chemistry lab ever has. It’s the one thing people never assume about me. I love it here. I have no desire to be anywhere else.

The only time you’ll find Fiasco bustling at this hour is if there’s a festival or party that promises bourbon and fireworks. But tonight, it’s quiet, as it often is. I likely wouldn’t run into anyone on the main road to my house, but I decide to skip downtown, cutting through the woods on horseback andthrough the cornfields that hug the length of my property. In the distance, I can see the outside light illuminating my back porch. And as I ride closer, I already know it’ll stop feeling like home as soon as I cross the threshold.

The clattering of metal has me whipping my head to the left. There’s no reason for anyone to be out here. The old barn straddling my property line and our neighbor’s is on its last leg. One more tornado or hurricane and it’ll come down easily. Hell, it might not even take that much. Along the far side of the dilapidated structure is the small brook where Lark likes to search for tadpoles. It’s as secluded as it can get.

Squinting into the dark, I pull on Lady’s reins to slow her down, spotting movements by the small stream of water.

“You literal motherfucker,” being shouted breaks the quiet. A woman who sounds more than frustrated and a lot pissed off. The follow-up of a “fuck you” in a lower tone is laced with venom and has me biting back my smile.

I swing my leg over the saddle, and my boots hit the soggy ground with a squelch. Swear words and splashes of water being thrown up her arms make it so she doesn’t hear me approach.

The movement stops when I clear my throat. “Everything okay over there?” I call out from less than twenty feet away.

She’s frozen in place with her back to me, for what must be at least ten seconds of silence.

“You’re trespassing on private property,” I say as I move closer, trying to make sense of why someone would be out here at this time of night. My eyes have more than adjusted to the lack of light, especially with the size of tonight’s moon. But it’s when she stands and turns that I realize she’s not trespassing at all.

Faye Calloway.The oldest daughter. Her family owns everything from the edge of the cornfield to the other side of their farmhouse. I’m the one trespassing.

“I’m pretty sure you’re the one who doesn’t belong here,” she says, with enough of a bite that there’s no trace of neighborly camaraderie.

Pieces of her blonde hair wildly escape the messy knot on top of her head, her face streaked with something dark. Make-up from crying? Or mud? As my gaze travels lower, I take in her soaked arms and tank top, dripping with water that tracks down her legs. She doesn’t look like the buttoned-up police academy graduate that I saw on the local news just last week. There’s no trace of that person before me. This version rubs her hands down the front of her shorts, pushes her chest out and tilts her chin up. She’s trying to hide the fact that I caught her off guard, and whatever she’s doing, it doesn’t include an audience.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I wait for her to say something.

But she stays quiet and watches as I move closer.

“What are you doing out here this late?” We may technically be neighbors, but I’ve only ever seen Faye randomly around town near holidays, or either coming or leaving town during summers and school breaks. We moved in next door shortly after she left for school. I didn’t know her. But that doesn’t matter. I know people. And something looks off. When she doesn’t respond, I ask, “Are you hurt?”

Putting her hands on her hips, she tips her head back and looks at the sky as she laughs to herself. “Why? Are you in the habit of wandering around at night looking for women to rescue?”

Her mocking tone has me holding back a smile. “It wasn’t on my to-do list tonight, so no.” I blow out a breath as I swipe at my phone and flip on the flashlight, pointing it at her. I’m a bit surprised at what I see all over her, but it doesn’t shake me like it would most people. “There’s blood and mud all along your legs,” I say matter-of-factly as I tip the light higher.

Her mouth purses as she tries to sort out how to explain exactly what’s going on.

I move the light up and down pointedly. “You missed some blood along your neck.” I tap my face to show her where. “And your cheek.”

She raises her hand to block the light from her eyes. Crouching back down along the small stream, she wets her hands, rubbing away the red streaks.

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