Page 57 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

It was a beautiful December 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 fogged as 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. The click of 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.

“These barrels are relatively light. We’ll be lucky if they’re even half full of usable product. After twenty years, the devil’s cut and angel’s share rise higher than fifty percent. Higher still in the top racks, where aging accelerates due to heat.”

“I see.”

“We’ll concentrate on the lower floors today, the ones with the highest yield.”

Hours slipped away. Every barrel rolled was a grain of sand slipping through an hourglass. Time sifted and fell through Margot’s fingers. There was a ticking in her mind, keeping time. Every second, relentless. Ticking.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Counting down, she realized, raising a woozy hand to her forehead, damp with sweat.

Counting down to what? What would happen here when the sand ran out?

What happened here twenty years ago when the music stopped?

By the time dusk fell, half the rickhouse was emptied. Xander and Julian were dismissed.

The lower-level ricks were empty, ghostly bare save five barrels lined up on the floor. One from each level of the rickhouse.

Merrick handed Margot the whiskey thief, the long cylindrical tool used to steal bourbon from the barrels. The copper was dense in her hands, heavier than expected.

“Want to try?” he asked, pulling out the cork stopper in the nearest barrel.

She did.

He showed her how, his fingers gliding over hers. Less than a thimble-full of deep amber liquid in each glass. Enough to taste but not to waste.

Merrick lifted his glass, assessing the color. She held her breath, watching him. He sniffed gently. Swirled the liquid in the tumbler. Paused to smile at her. “Ready?”

“Ready.” She gave a delicate sniff of her own. The scent of oak was undeniably strong.

“Twenty years in a barrel,” Merrick said, reading her mind. “A long marriage.”

Margot tipped her glass to her lips. A symphony of flavors exploded across her tongue.

She was flooded with woodsmoke upfront, sharper than sharp.

But its power dulled, settling into a wash of botanical liquid heat that finished sweet.

Lighter and smoother than any bourbon she’d ever tasted. So painfully, beautifully smooth.

Merrick watched her, awaiting the pronouncement. She licked her lips, not wanting to waste a drop. Fiery warmth swelled in her chest.

“Well?”

“Smooth. Rich,” she replied. The burn lingered. “I’ve never tasted anything like it before.”

“It’ll sell for a pretty penny.” Merrick smiled. “There’ll be nothing like it on the market, nothing to rival it.”

He kissed her, slow and sure. She slipped her tongue in his mouth, gently grazing his teeth, tracing his lips.

“I love the way it tastes on you,” he groaned.

She loved how it tasted on him too. She always had.

Margot ended the day with a smile on her face and bourbon on her lips. Determined once more that this family could bloom where it had once bled.

Margot waited until Merrick was sound asleep to make her move, for there was still one final thing she needed to do.

Her feet led her downstairs and across the foyer, one hand dragging along the ebony wood of the serpentine banister. Her fingers knocked the slats as one plucks the strings of harp. She paused at the small table that held the manor’s telephone.

The stained-glass window loomed overheard, the violet flowers dark in the night. Inky black.

Margot reached for the receiver. The line crinkled with static as the connection was established.

“Name, please?” the switchboard operator asked, her tone pleasantly clinical, bored.

Margot’s voice came out breathy and high, nervous. “Alastair Pendry. Frankfort.”

“Hold, please.”

Margot waited. Her grip tightened on the receiver.

“Hello?”

She took a deep breath. “Alastair, it’s Margot Dravenhearst. Margaret.”

A long silence. She imagined his shock at the other end of the line.

“Margaret?”

“Yes.” She swallowed. “I have a few questions for you. I’d like to start with the simplest, if you don’t mind.”

Silence.

She’d take that as no, he didn’t mind. He might in a moment though. The switchboard operator’s night was about to get a whole lot more interesting, assuming she was still listening.

“There’s no easy way to ask this,” she said, chewing her lip. “Did you poison my husband?”