Читать книгу Savannah's Secrets - Reese Ryan - Страница 12

Four

Savannah surveyed the gleaming copper stills and the pipes running between them that filled the distillation room. “They’re beautiful.”

She was home. Exactly where she was meant to be, had it not been for Joseph Abbott’s treachery.

“I guess they are.” Daisy checked her watch again.

Blake’s assistant was a nice enough woman, but her limited knowledge wasn’t helpful to Savannah’s cause. If she was going to take on the powerful Abbott family and prove they’d stolen her grandfather’s bourbon recipe and his process for making it, she needed to learn everything there was to know about the making of their signature bourbon.

Daisy gave the stills a cursory glance. “I never really thought of them as beautiful.”

“I do. I just didn’t think anyone else did,” a familiar, velvety voice chimed in.

Blake again.

The man seemed to pop up everywhere. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be a daily occurrence.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, Dais.” Blake held up a hand. “Just met with Klaus—our master distiller,” he added for Savannah’s benefit. “I’m surprised you’re still here. Doesn’t Daphne’s softball game start in an hour?”

“It does.” Daisy turned to Savannah. “Daphne’s my ten-year-old daughter. She’s pitching as a starter for the first time.”

“I’m sorry.” No wonder Daisy had tried to rush her through the tour. “I didn’t realize you had somewhere to be.”

“Get out of here before you’re late.” Blake nodded toward the exit. “Tell Daph I’m rooting for her.”

“What about the tour? We’re nowhere near finished. Savannah has so many questions. I haven’t done a very good job of answering them.”

“You were great, Daisy,” Savannah lied, not wanting to make her feel bad. “Your daughter’s pitching debut is more important. We can finish the tour another day.”

“Go.” Blake pointed toward the exit. “I’ll finish up here. In fact, I’ll give Savannah the deluxe tour.”

Daisy thanked them and hurried off.

“So you want to know all about the whiskey-making process.” Blake turned to Savannah. He hadn’t advanced a step, yet the space between them contracted.

“I mentioned that in my interview.” She met his gaze, acutely aware of their height difference and the broadness of his shoulders.

His fresh, woodsy scent made her want to plant her palms on his well-defined chest and press her nose to the vein visible on his neck.

“Thought that was just a clever bit to impress me.” The edge of his generous mouth pulled into a lopsided grin that made her heart beat faster.

“Now, you know that isn’t true.” Savannah held his gaze despite the violent fluttering in her belly.

She was reacting like a hormonal high-school girl with a crush on the captain of the football team.

Blake was pleasant enough on the surface, and certainly nice to look at. Okay, that was the understatement of the year. His chiseled features and well-maintained body were the stuff dreams were made of.

But he wasn’t just any pretty face and hard physique. He was an Abbott.

E-N-E-M-Y.

Her interest in this man—regardless of how good-looking he was or the sinful visions his mouth conjured—needed to stay purely professional. The only thing she wanted from Blake Abbott was insight into the history between their grandfathers.

“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 word came out sharper than she’d intended. “I mean, I promised your father I’d get that presentation out today.”

“You told him you’d try. Do it first thing tomorrow. It’ll be fine.”

“That’s not the first impression I want to make with the company’s CEO. Or with his wife, who’s eagerly awaiting the information.” Savannah wiped the dampness from her forehead with the back of her hand. “I gave my word, and to me, that means something.”