Page 134 of The Dravenhearst Brides
And finally—are you paying attention, Merrick?—never forget your life is to be a labor of love. It’s a marriage, you see. Between the barrel and the bourbon, cycling through the seasons together. High summer temperatures increase pressure, forcing the bourbon deep into the pores of the wood. Cold winters draw the bourbon out, bringing with it the rich color and woodsmoke flavor.
Pressure makes the marriage stronger. Pressure makes damn good bourbon.
—Excerpt, a letter from Richard Dravenhearst’s Last Will & Testament
ItwasabeautifulDecember dawn. Frost across the pasture, grass dusted glittery white. The sky was bruised, overcast with swirling grays and purples. Pine and woodsmoke permeated the air. Horse hooves crunched softly on frozen shards.
Ruth’s breath foggedas she barked orders.
Omaha chased Fox. Again and again.
Margot watched. She was not afraid.
When Merrick slid off his horse at the end of the morning, heading for the stable, she stopped him.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“We’re being brave today, aren’t we?”
She reached. After seven years spent holding her breath, Margot Dravenhearst brushed fingers against death itself. Against the beast of her nightmares. It was softer than she’d expected. Warmer. She closed her eyes, remembering.
She exhaled.
“We’ll need to be careful,” Merrick said, standing before the chained doors. “The building isn’t sound. Especially at the rear, by the sinkhole.”
Margot nodded.
“I’ll check it out first,” he continued. “You wait here.”
He pressed his palm flat to the door, leaning in, his eyes closed.
“Go on then,” she whispered.
He didn’t reply, but he opened his eyes. He gripped the heavy chains and produced a key. Theclickof the lock was grating and rusty. Louder still were the iron links when Merrick pulled, untangling the chains from the door. With a mighty clang, the shackles fell to earth, raising a cloud of dust.
After twenty years, Rickhouse One was finally free.
Ruth stood on the porch of Hellebore House. Watching. She shaded her eyes with her hand, blocking the sun. She would come no closer.
She knew better.
Margot did not know better. She followed Merrick inside.
The rickhouse creaked. Its frame shuddered with relief.
The third Dravenhearst bride had finally come home.
Tasting, tasting, tasting. That was what Merrick wanted to do. Rolling, rolling, rolling. He wanted all the barrels moved out.
The back wall of the rickhouse was crumbling. The foundation was not secure. There were several areas where sunlight shone through holes in the exterior. Spots of water damage too.
The rickhouse air was thick with angel’s share, every breath woody and sweet. But a heavenly scent could not disguise the hell underneath. They would not linger here. They would get the barrels out. As many as they possibly could.
Today.
Julian was summoned. Xander too.
“You’ll put him in an early grave,” Margot told Merrick, watching the liver-spotted manservant roll barrel after barrel down the metal track between ricks.
