For Love & Bourbon (2 page)

Fox Hills, Kentucky

P
ull!”

Her eyes honed in on the flash of orange as it soared through the air. Instinct and skill guided her toward the exact moment to pull the trigger.

The resulting blast kicked the shotgun into her shoulder, but she held her ground and watched with triumph as the clay pigeon exploded in a cloud of dust. With a hoot of laughter, she lowered the gun and faced her grandfather. “That’s five for five. Looks like I win.”

Joe Brannon cocked his chin, the unmistakable flavor of Ireland in his voice. “Now, it’s not over yet, dearie. Best outta ten is what we said.”

“Best out of five,” Ava corrected with a wink. She blew a vivid red curl out of her face, checked her watch, and shrugged. “Oh, what the hell. We have a few minutes.”

“Sure we do.” Joe nudged her out of the way, his own shotgun at the ready. He fitted it against the crook of his shoulder and chest and lifted his eyes to the sky. “Pull.”

Ava released the trap and sent another clay pigeon hurtling into space. Within seconds Joe fired and blew it to pieces.

He cast a wicked glance her way, the dimples in his cheeks flashing. The chilly October wind sent strands of his thick white hair dancing. “That’s five to yer five.”

Delighted by the challenge, she shifted into position. “We’ll see about that.”

After settling the score at an even tie, Ava tucked her shotgun into its pink camo case.

“You taught me to shoot so good that now you can’t even beat me,” she joked, her tone warmly Southern with a hint of wood-fire smoke. It suited the rest of her—her body athletically built and lean, tucked into faded jeans and cowboy boots. Her grin was as quick and devious as her grandfather’s, a testament to the Irish in her blood, while her heart would always belong to the South.

Stowing his own gun away, Joe peered out at the expanse of their wooded, fifty-acre property and the scattered orange remains of their targets. “Aye, but ye’ve never bested me on the rifle, have ye?”

“Not yet. For now you’re the master on the long-range.” She hooked her arm in his and led him to the side by side four-wheeler they used to get around the grounds. “But there’s still time.”

They loaded the gun cases into the back of the four-wheeler and hopped inside, Ava in the driver’s seat. She took off down the gravel road that led from their private shooting range to the family home and, a ways farther, to the Lucky Fox Whiskey Distillery. It was the pride and joy of their little town of Fox Hills, and Joe’s legacy.

“Mama’s gonna be mad we skipped lunch again,” Ava mused as they drove past the sweeping ranch house with its wrap-around covered porch and cheerful yellow paint. Burgundy and orange sassafras trees surrounded the home, their lemony-scent tickling her nose.

Joe chuckled. “Yer ma will get over it. We’ve got more important things to do.”

“Like pick the barrel for your signature ‘Lucky Joe’s’ batch. In case you needed another reminder that you’ll be turning seventy soon.”

“Aye, but a happy occasion it will be. I’ve much to be proud of in me old age.”

Reaching for his hand, she smiled. “That you do.”

The road curved around a bend lined with yellow birch trees, bringing them to a massive stone-gray metal building that housed the distillery. Beside it was another smaller metal building used as the barrel house. At the top of each building hung the company logo, the silhouette of a running fox above bold, vintage lettering that read “Lucky Fox Whiskey.” Surrounding the structures were lofty elms, their leaves as golden as the drink made within the walls.

Several cars were parked outside the visitor’s center, which meant her one o’clock tour would be packed. Ava didn’t mind, though. She had been entertaining tourists and locals alike since she had been barely legal to drink the whiskey herself. Now at twenty-seven, the ins and outs of the distillery and every aspect of the product were as much a part of her as her own lightly freckled skin.

They parked and headed into the barrel house. The three-story high steel building was quiet and nearly as chilly as it was outside. All part of the aging process, Ava thought as she rolled down the sleeves of her red and black flannel shirt and admired the rows of oak barrels. Kentucky’s cold winters and warm summers were as crucial to the process of making good whiskey as the corn it began as.

The barrels were stacked three rows deep on either side of her on ceiling high, wooden racks, all properly labeled with the year and batch number burned into the wood. She caught the warm, vanilla scent of sleeping whiskey and the earthy notes of charred oak. It was a fragrance she associated with home, and of course, tradition. A few employees wandered the rows with clipboards, keeping tabs on which barrels were ready to be emptied and which ones would benefit from time’s delicate hand.

“Which barrel should we be pickin’, dearie?” Joe asked, though she knew he was merely testing her. He would have his favorite in mind and would be curious to see if she picked the same one.

Knowing him as she did, she looked to the top rack, scanned the barrels. “Let’s see…since this will be your signature single barrel bourbon, we can’t be hasty in our decision.” She walked along the aged pine floor, tapping her index finger to her lower lip. “We need something with a kick to it to suit your sharp eye and sharper tongue. A smooth burn was just never your style.”

He fell into step beside her, patiently listening.

“You’re an immigrant who chased your dream all the way to America after starting a feud with your own family over a disagreement on how whiskey should be made, so it has to have history, character, and a hint of rebellion.” She faced him, her hazel eyes afire with pride. “With your humor and lighthearted approach to life, it can’t be sophisticated, but rather humble and rough around the edges just like the town you made your home.”

She angled her chin, decision made. “There’s a 2006 barrel up on top there. That was the first time you won Distiller of the Year
and
when you officially brought me on as your apprentice here in the distillery. It was also the year we tried increasing the percentage of rye in our recipe because you felt like spicing things up. If I’ve learned anything from you, that barrel up there will have the perfect amount of bite, character, and history, and you’ll get a kick out of presenting such a bold, unapologetic bourbon as your signature flavor.”

Joe gave a brisk nod and glanced up at the barrel. “Aye. That I would.”

“Well? Is that the one, then?”

“Sometimes I think ye know me better than I know me own self.” He patted her shoulder, then pressed a kiss to her temple. Their eyes met, hazel into cornflower blue. “Someday ye’ll be making yer own signature whiskey. I expect it’ll have a bite to it, as well.”

She flashed him a wicked grin. “As your granddaughter, no one would expect any different.”

AVA WALKED
up the front porch steps of her family’s ranch house as the sun dipped below the rolling Kentucky hills. She kicked off her boots in the entryway, knowing her mother would scold her for dragging sawdust, dirt, and traces of whiskey onto the weathered oak floors. The house itself was nearly a hundred years old, and had been in the family since Joe had come over from Ireland in the 1960s.

She caught the scent of her mother’s chicken dumplings and her mouth watered. Steering her way into the oversized country kitchen, Ava spotted her mother singing along to Tanya Tucker’s rich, brassy voice, swaying her hips at the kitchen sink.

Overcome with affection, Ava came up behind her and gave her a big hug. “Boo.”

Sandra Brannon jumped with a startled laugh. “Oh, heavens, Ava. You know better than to scare me like that.”

“If you don’t want people to scare you then you should turn the music down.” Ava lowered the volume on the old cassette player herself, amused. Her mother had been listening to that same album since she’d been a child. “And really, Mama, don’t you think it’s time you gave the ‘90s music a rest and stepped into the 21
^st
century?”

Fixing one of the pins in her waves of auburn hair, Sandra chuckled. Though she’d edged over fifty years of age, she retained the unlined, youthful beauty of a happy, contented soul. It was just one of the many things Ava loved about her. “Tanya’s been with me through some very tough times, honey. You don’t just turn your back on that.”

Ava took a seat at the kitchen island, strumming her fingers on the white-tile surface. “Whatever makes you happy, I guess. So Grandpa Joe and I picked a barrel for the Lucky Joe’s batch. We’re gonna taste it soon and make sure, but I think we’ve got a winner. I’m sure when he gets in he’ll tell you all about it.”

“That’s great news.” Sandra turned back to the sink to finish washing the produce she grew fresh in her garden. Ava watched her for a moment, enjoying the timeless ritual of her mother preparing dinner.

The front door opened and her brother Adam entered the kitchen. As her twin, he had the same auburn hair and hazel eyes, the same finely honed, sharp-edged face. He was a picture, always had been, a fact he took advantage of as often as he could. But even being the town heartbreaker wasn’t enough to satisfy him. For that, Ava knew Adam turned to whiskey.

“Where’ve you been?” Ava asked, though she already knew. He made a habit of spending his days hanging out downtown, a slave to his own demons.

“Out.” He kissed their mother on the cheek before throwing open the fridge and grabbing a carton of orange juice. Taking a swig of it, he shot his sister an annoyed look. “What?”

Ava shrugged. “Nothing.”

Adam took another drink before replacing the container in the fridge. Saying nothing, he left the room. Ava watched him go, part of her wishing she knew how to help him while the sinner in her damned him to hell for his foolishness.

The door opened again and her father stepped in. He set aside his briefcase on the bench in the entryway and hung up his coat.

Donned in a dress shirt and neatly pressed slacks, Ty Brannon fit the part of the company’s general manager. He had been in charge of the business end of the company for over twenty years, tackling the financials and marketing his father had no interest in. Ava thought the position suited him, as he preferred the predictable nature of numbers and figures to the bustling, high-energy environment of the distillery.

With thick, coffee brown hair and even darker eyes, he had none of his father Joe’s looks and instead was a spitting image of his mother, Vivian. Ava barely remembered her, as she died when Ava had been a child, but from the countless images of her throughout the home the resemblance was clear. Ty had also inherited Vivi’s firm, sober temperament and cool reserve, a trait which had brought him head-to-head with Ava and Adam on many occasions during their rebellious teenage years.

“Hi, Daddy,” Ava greeted as she flipped through one of her mother’s home decorating magazines.

“Hey, baby.” Ty gave his wife a kiss, then sniffed at the dumplings cooking on the stove. “Smells good.”

“It’s your favorite.” Sandra transferred her heirloom tomatoes over to the island so she could dice them. She reached over to close the magazine Ava was reading, a playful smile on her face. “Why don’t you go have some fun after supper? You could use a night out. Maybe take Adam with you.”

Ava snorted. “Like he needs to spend more time at the bar.”

“What he needs is the guidance of his sister. You’ve been ignoring him lately. I can tell he misses you.”

“I’ve been busy, Mama,” Ava defended, irritated that she felt even the least bit sorry. “Unlike him, I actually work for a living.”

Sandra sliced into the tomatoes, her movements swift and practiced. “Seems I saw you and Joe shooting skeet this afternoon. Adam might like to be invited next time y’all go.”

Ava’s mouth opened to retort, but manners had her promptly closing it. She nodded. “Yes, Mama.”

Ty patted her on the shoulder. “I’m gonna go wash up. See your brother behaves tonight. He needs the influence of his older sister.”

“I’m only five minutes older,” she grumbled as he walked away.

“He looks up to you, Ava,” Sandra reminded her, scooping tomatoes into a big salad bowl filled with romaine lettuce.

“Just because he’s too damn lazy to learn the ropes at the distillery doesn’t mean I have to take time out of my busy life to baby him. He’s a grown man.”