Savannah's Secrets. Reese Ryan

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      “So you promised me the deluxe tour.”

      “I did.” His appraising stare caused a contraction of muscles she hadn’t employed in far longer than she cared to admit. “Let’s go back to the beginning.”

      “Are you sure?” Savannah scrambled to keep up with his long, smooth strides. “I’ve nearly caused one family crisis already. I don’t intend to start another today. So if you have a wife or kids who are expecting you—”

      “That your not-so-subtle way of asking if I’m married?” He quickly pressed his lips into a harsh line. “I mean... I’m not. None of my siblings are. Our mother is sure she’s failed us somehow because we haven’t produced any grandchildren.”

      “Why aren’t you married? Not you specifically,” Savannah added quickly, her cheeks hot.

      “We’re all married to this place. Committed to building the empire my granddad envisioned nearly half a century ago.”

      Blake held the door open and they stepped into the late-afternoon sunlight. Gravel crunched beneath their feet, forcing her to tread carefully in her tall spike heels.

      They walked past the grain silos and onto a trail that led away from the warehouse. The property extended as far as she could see, a picturesque natural landscape that belonged on a postcard.

      “Someone in town mentioned that you have another brother who isn’t in the business.”

      “Cole runs the largest construction company in the area. With the explosion of high-end real estate around here, he’s got the least time on his hands.”

      “Doesn’t bode well for those grandchildren your mother wants.”

      “No, it doesn’t,” Blake agreed. “But she’s convinced that if one of us finally takes the plunge, the rest will fall like dominoes.”

      “So then love is kind of like the plague?”

      Blake’s deep belly laugh made her grin so hard her cheeks ached.

      “I can’t disagree with that.” He was smiling, but there was sadness in his eyes. There was a story there he wasn’t willing to tell, but she suddenly wanted to hear.

      The gravel gave way to a dirt path that was soft and squishy due to the recent rain. Her heels sank into the mud. “I thought we were going to start at the beginning of the tour.”

      “We are.”

      “But we already passed the grain silos.” She pointed in the opposite direction.

      He stopped, turning to face her. “Do you know why most of the storied whiskey distilleries are based in Kentucky or here in Tennessee?”

      Savannah shook her head. She’d noticed that the industry was concentrated in those two states, but hadn’t given much thought to why.

      “A whiskey with a smooth finish begins with the right water source.” He pointed toward a creek and the hills that rose along the edge of the property. “See that limestone shelf? Springs deep in these limestone layers feed King’s Lake—our sole source of water. The limestone adds calcium to the water and filters out impurities like iron that would make the whiskey bitter.”

      She studied the veins in the limestone shelf. “So it wouldn’t be possible to produce bourbon from another water source with the same composition and flavor?”

      “Not even if you used our exact recipe.” He stood beside her, gazing reverently at the stony mountain and the waters that trickled from it. “Then there’s the matter of the yeast we use for fermentation. It’s a proprietary strain that dates back to when my great-grandfather was running his moonshine business seventy-five years ago.”

      “Most distilleries openly share their grain recipe. King’s Finest doesn’t. Why?” “My grandfather tweaked the grain mixture his father used. He’s pretty territorial about it.” Blake smiled. “So we keep our mash bill and yeast strain under tight control.”

      The fact that Blake’s grandfather had stolen the recipe from her grandfather was the more likely reason.

      “I’m boring you, aren’t I?”

      “No. This is all extremely fascinating.”

      “It’s a subject I can get carried away with. Believe me, no other woman has ever used the word fascinating to describe it.”

      “You still think I’m feigning interest.” Something in his stare made her cheeks warm and her chest heavy.

      His lips parted and his hands clenched at his sides, but he didn’t acknowledge her statement. “We’d better head back.”

      They visited the vats of corn, rye and malted barley. Next, they visited the large metal vat where the grain was cooked, creating the mash. In the fermentation room there were large, open tubs fashioned of cypress planks, filled with fermenting whiskey. The air was heavy with a scent similar to sourdough bread baking.

      In the distillation room, he gave her a taste of the bourbon after it passed through the towering copper still and then again after it had made another pass through the doubler.

      “It’s clear.” Savannah handed Blake back the metal cup with a long metal handle he’d used to draw a sample of the “high wine.”

      Her fingers brushed his and he nearly dropped the cup, but recovered quickly.

      “The rich amber color happens during the aging process.” He returned the cup to its hook, then led her through the area where the high wine was transferred to new, charred white oak barrels.

      They walked through the rackhouse. Five levels of whiskey casks towered above them. Savannah fanned herself, her brow damp with perspiration, as Blake lowered his voice, speaking in a hushed, reverent tone.

      “How long is the bourbon aged?”

      “The signature label? Five years. Then we have the top-shelf labels aged for ten or more years.” Blake surveyed the upper racks before returning his gaze to hers. “My grandfather made so many sacrifices to create this legacy for us. I’m reminded of that whenever I come out here.”

      Blake spoke of Joseph Abbott as if he were a self-sacrificing saint. But the man was a liar and a cheat. He’d sacrificed his friendship with her grandfather and deprived him of his legacy, leaving their family with nothing but hardship and pain.

      Tears stung her eyes and it suddenly hurt to breathe in the overheated rackhouse. It felt as if a cask of whiskey was sitting on her chest. She gasped, the air burning her lungs.

      “Are you all right?” Blake narrowed his brown eyes, stepping closer. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

      “I’m fine.” Her breath came in short bursts and her back was damp with sweat.

      “It’s hot in here. Let’s get you back in the air-conditioning. Our last stop is the bottling area.” His hand low on her back, he guided her toward the exit.

      “No.” The СКАЧАТЬ