Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Madison
Teller and I cleaned up the table and did the dishes Mae hadn’t finished before sitting down to dinner. She really was a superwoman. Once the dishwasher was going and the table was cleaned off, I got a hug. Strong and solid, her embrace was everything I’d been missing since my aunt had passed.
Heat pricked the backs of my eyes, but I slowly inhaled and gathered myself before pulling back. “Thank you so much for dinner.”
“Don’t thank me.” She winked. “I’m keeping the leftover cake.”
I was still smiling when I climbed into Teller’s pickup. “That was fun.”
“I might be a grown-ass man, but I’ll never pass up a meal at Mama’s table.”
Gah. That was so damn sweet.
He glanced at me before focusing on the road. “Can I ask you something?”
The cozy feeling vanished. His tone was hesitant, and Teller was usually free with his opinions. “Okay?”
He didn’t flash me an encouraging smile. “How did you turn out so... normal?” He winced and shook his head, aiming the pickup down the winding gravel drive. “Sorry, it’s just?—”
“No, I know.” I let my head rest on the seat back. “I was actually just thinking of her. Aunt Tilly. She was my dad’s older sister.”
“Older and more stable?”
“More stable in every way. I even asked to live with her once.” That was the only time I had felt both wanted and hopeless. “My mom said they’d run over her dead body ten times before she’d let anyone think she couldn’t raise her own goddamn daughter.”
“Her pride got in your way.”
I let out a hard laugh and watched the rolling hills thicken with trees the closer we got to the distillery. “That’s the tagline for my life.” I ran my bottom lip through my teeth. “After Aunt Tilly’s offer, I couldn’t quit imagining what leaving Bourbon Canyon would be like. I dreamed of it. But Mom? She never wanted me to go anywhere. Yet, at the same time, she never wanted me around.”
“What a mind fuck for a kid. How do you deal with her?” He turned down a road leading away from town. The two-lane highway curved around the foothills, twisting and turning. On one side, the land was filled with small pastures and the Baileys’ cows quietly grazing.
“I grew up with it. I don’t know. She is the way she is, and what she says still hurts, but she won’t change. She and Logan are my only family.” When push had come to shove, Mom had wanted me. No matter what she said.
“No word on Logan?”
I shook my head, a lump growing in my throat. “Mom is bitter and mean, but I can only imagine how she grew up. I had Aunt Tilly.”
Teller braked in the middle of the empty road. “Madison.” His brows pinched together. “You know you don’t owe your mom anything. You can walk away from her and never look back.”
I smiled sadly. “And where would I go? To finish school for a job I never really wanted?”
“You never wanted to be a nurse?”
I lifted a shoulder. No one had ever asked. Mom had told me I’d never finish school, and Damien had said I should quit. Neither had asked what I really wanted to do. “It’s a good-paying job with openings in any part of the country. If I became a travel nurse, they’d even pay me to move around.” The freedom had sounded divine.
“And you wanted to travel?” He started driving again, but his jaw was clenched, like what I’d said continued to bother him.
“Yes,” I said, wistful. I had wanted to get away from home. “Starting school was such a highlight. I applied for all the scholarships I could, got grants, and lived on campus. It was divine.” I let out a sigh.
“Then Cocksucker came along?”
I smiled. “Yup.”
He pulled into the empty parking lot. The distillery loomed large, the sinking sun glinting across its windows. Everything was quiet, and when I emerged from the pickup, I was struck with the pleasing smell of grain.
I sniffed.
Teller noticed and grinned. “That’s the old mash. We store it and then feed it to the cattle.”
“The mash?”
He cocked his head toward the entrance. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
Inside, I gawked at everything. Timber beams cut through rock walls and soared across the tall ceiling two levels up. To my right was the tasting room. The glass door between the entrance and the tasting room let me glimpse the wooden tables and chairs. There was also another entrance inside.
Ahead of me was a store filled with displays of bourbon bottles and packages—gift sets with small, one-ounce bottles, special batches only available to purchase here, and regular bourbon sizes for sale. Then there were hats, shirts, and candy displays.
A reception desk lined the exterior wall to my left, and a flight of stairs rose behind the merch store. Offices filled the second level, but the masterpiece of the whole view was the wall of windows.
On the far side, giant copper-and-steel stills lorded over the room. Closer to the viewing windows squatted large tanks. Metal piping soared between the stills and across the ceiling.
Impressive. “Whoa.”
He stood next to me as if trying to see it from my eyes. He’d been taking in this view since he’d been born. “I’ll take you through there. Then we can have a drink.”
Inside, the room was quieter than I’d thought it’d be.
He pointed to the short tanks. “Mash tanks. You can smell the yeast farts.”
“If it’s anything like bread, I’m a fan of yeast.”
“It’ll do its thing and become what we call distiller’s beer.” He pointed to a series of pipes arching from the mash tanks to larger columns. “That gets pumped to the distillation tanks.”
“And it becomes bourbon?”
He shook his head. “First moonshine, then we distill it down. Even if it’s got fifty-one percent corn, it’s gotta be put into a barrel at a certain proof, and that barrel needs to be new oak. Then we age it for four years.”
“Never shorter?”
He lifted a shoulder. “We can if we put an age statement on it, but Dad was a purist. Four years or bust. We also bottle in bond. More rules, but bourbon enthusiasts associate it with quality.”
“And Copper Summit is nothing if not a quality bourbon.”
“Damn right. It’s more than a name; it’s our legacy.”
The room didn’t fascinate me just for the equipment. Or how it was a thriving environment with many moving parts left alone to do their job. It was the family history in this place. The tradition. The love.
As sentimental as it sounded, love, respect, and adoration were baked into every surface of this place. It was a clean room, and it had to be, but it was well cared for. The distillery didn’t have a high turnover, and not because so many of the employees were family.
What was it like to be part of this sort of legacy?
Teller scratched the back of his head. “What do you think? It’s okay if you call it boring. Some of the tourists are real frank with their opinions.”
They hadn’t gotten a personal tour from Teller Bailey. “I always thought brewing was fascinating. And distilling is really just an additional step. I like the science behind it.”
“It’s a lot of chemistry with biology.” He hooked his fingers through mine. “Now to go to my favorite spot.”
He led me back out, passing the tall stills and weaving through the large mash tanks. Once we were in the lobby, he unlocked the tasting room.
The quiet in here was more insulated than the lobby. I ran my fingers over the smooth top of a table. For a simple bar, it had a lot of character. On one wall hung a neon Copper Summit sign, next to it, an old black-and-white image of the distillery.
“When’s that from?” I asked.
“Right after my dad’s grandpa first opened the place. Rhys—you know, Junie’s husband? His ex is a photographer and she had some recommendations about getting the picture blown up. I was tempted to do an aluminum print, but the frame fits the vibe in here.”
The bar did have a small-town, last-century vibe to it. “It’s more like Flatlanders than I would’ve ever thought.”
His brows popped up.
I poked him in the side. “That’s not a bad thing.”
“No, I mean...” He gave me a sheepish smile. “I didn’t mean to have that reaction. The two places always seemed like polar opposites, but I can see what you mean. This bar is a lot smaller, but it has a lot of wood and old-downtown ambience. That’s intentional, keeping it that way.”
“Part of the rugged Montana brand.”
“A lot of our clientele are regulars and we want them to feel comfortable.” He pulled out a stool for me. “Have a seat and pick a cocktail.” He went behind the bar and slid a laminated menu in front of me.
“You have a drink list. Now this is fancy.”
He barked out a laugh and leaned across the bar top. “We change our lineup, but again, with the regulars, we’ll always carry what they drink. We’ll always offer the blackberry bourbon smash. Jason loves that.”
Jason was a rancher I’d often seen Teller talking to in town before I’d beelined in another direction. I read through the list of cocktails. Now I was humbled.
Flatlanders carried spirits and soda. Most of the time, Scott hadn’t bothered stocking lemons or limes. Our patrons wanted alcohol and they weren’t that fussy about how it was served.
Copper Summit gave them an experience. From the bold but welcoming lobby to the tasting room that was as comforting as an old quilt. Then there were the cocktails. The descriptions alone were an adventure. “Local huckleberries?”
“Autumn’s property has a ton of bushes.”
“All your grains are Montana sourced?” I couldn’t keep the awe out of my voice.
“Usually we don’t have an issue. It’s not unusual. A lot of in-state distilleries try to source their grain from a popular Montana supplier.”
I read another description of a blackberry bourbon lemonade. “Hand-picked lemons from Arizona? Seriously?”
“One of my aunts lives there, so she picks them from her backyard.”
I pointed to another description. A bourbon-and-grapefruit slush. “She has a grapefruit tree too?”
“And an orange tree.” He slid the menu close to him and read it upside down. “It’s in our old-fashioned. Wynter candies them. She’ll candy the peels with bourbon too.”
“I have to try that.”
“One old-fashioned coming up.” He bent to grab a glass and a bottle. “I’ll even make it with my line of bourbon.” He splashed in the bourbon.
“I bought a bottle of Copper Summit once.” I pressed my lips together, debating whether to tell him the rest. “It was yours. Spiced Summit.”
He paused. “Yeah?”
“It was after you bit my head off.” I waved a hand when the tortured look entered his eyes. “I was angry, and I thought what better way to get back at you than to use your line of bourbon for something other than drinking. That’d really get you back.”
The glass container of candied orange slices was abandoned as he leaned both hands on the counter. “All I’m hearing is that you were obsessed with me.”
I gasped and then broke down laughing. “No.” I failed at denying it. Teller had that draw. Even if I wanted to hate him, I had to work really hard at it.
His grin didn’t fade as he continued making my drink, shaking a dash of bitters in. “So what else would you do with bourbon other than drink it?”
“Vanilla extract.”
He stopped to think, his gaze distant. “That’s how Mama makes hers.”
“It’s really good. The bourbon adds this super subtle caramel flavor to vanilla buttercream frosting.” I shook my head. “Sorry. I tend to geek out about all things baking. Anyway, when I was really upset with Mom or Scott, I would make them something that used at least two teaspoons of that vanilla extract.”
The glass was slid in front of me. “You can geek out.”
“Sure.” I took a sip. The caramel notes I had loved from his line played over my tongue, mellowed by the bitters, then followed by the faintest spice and sweet citrus. Bourbon flavored my mouth, as rich and bold as the man in front of me.
“You more than like baking.” His hands were planted on the counter again. It was just the two of us, but the bar could be full and I’d still feel like I was the only one in the room.
“I do enjoy it.”
He tilted his head. “You more than enjoy it.”
I pushed the menu toward him. “This isn’t therapy. You need a drink too.” I had bared so much of myself already. I couldn’t be the only one stripping themselves down.
He slid the menu back, keeping his fingers on it as he leaned in. “I’ll make myself something you want to try.”
“The lemonade.” I took another drink. Dang, it was good.
“Which one?”
I set the glass down. “You have more than one?”
“It’s summer, but Scarlett’s hard cherry lemonade is a popular choice.”
“Oh. Um...” I read the description of both and let out a dramatic gasp. “You don’t source the Maraschino cherries locally?”
“It’s our one fault.” He dug out two glasses, both a highball. “I’ll make both.”
Since I wanted to try both, I didn’t argue. He made smaller amounts than what was shown in the pictures on the menu.
“Oh god, that blackberry one is good.”
He nodded. “People who aren’t a fan of bitters like the bourbon-and-fruit cocktails.”
I took a long pull from the hard cherry lemonade. “That would be perfect on a hot day with shortbread cookies.”
“What would go well with the blackberry one?”
I took another sip and let the flavors sit on my tongue. The sweet and sometimes tartness of the blackberries parried with the bourbon and lemonade. “Hmm...” Images of desserts danced through my head as I took another long pull. “Cobbler. But not one that’s too sickly sweet. Raspberry maybe?”
“And the old-fashioned?”
“Pie. Because it’s also old-fashioned.”
He laughed, his throat working up and down. After taking a drink of my hard cherry lemonade, he ran a sink of soapy water and cleaned up the mess he’d made. Then he came around the bar and took the seat next to me. He took the old-fashioned since I was more partial to sweets, and each lemonade cocktail was its own dessert. Neither of them needed to be paired with anything.
The AC was strong in the tasting room. His heat wound around me like a cozy blanket. He had to be a furnace in bed. I used to dream of curling up with my husband during a cold winter morning.
He turned, bracketing me with his legs. “If you could go back to school for anything, what would you pick?”
I shook my head. “You first.” Fuzziness crowded the corners of my brain. I was nearly naked in front of this guy. He knew all my desires—family, travel, school. My parents might’ve been crap, but they’d taught me self-preservation.
“I wouldn’t do a single thing differently.”
He said it with so much assuredness it amplified my longing tenfold. “Nothing?”
“I got to grow up ranching. You know how fun that is for a boy?” He knocked back the rest of the old-fashioned, his Adam’s apple bobbing with his swallow. “Sure, it sucked to get up early when it was fucking freezing out or when I wanted another twelve hours of sleep. The tradeoff was that I got to be out on horseback all day. I’d drive tractors and trucks that other kids got for toys. Did I mention the horses?” He grinned.
“Yes,” I said, laughing.
“I went to college and got to do all that, but I learned the most from Dad. The most about business, the most about distilling, and the most about life. Him and Mama.”
“The house full of kids didn’t bother you?”
“I was barely inside, but no. It was my normal. The girls delighted Mama and even my kid brain could see that. When they were adopted, it was almost a relief we wouldn’t have to say goodbye to them.” He swirled the empty glass and the ice chunk clinked from side to side. “I guess Wendi would be a do-over, as in I wouldn’t have wasted my time with her. Maybe I’d start a family earlier, but there’s no reason to if you’re not with the right person.”
My emptiness echoed his. “I thought I’d have two or three kids by now.”
“I thought I’d have five.”
I was in the middle of a drink when I coughed. Slapping the back of my hand in front of my mouth, I struggled for control. His deep laughter rumbled through me before he waved a napkin under my face. I took it from him.
“Five if I started early,” he amended. “Now I’m an old fucker. Two or three sound just fine.”
“Damien always had a reason to wait, but it was a blessing in disguise. I wouldn’t want to be tied to him, and I wouldn’t want a kid to have Wendi for a stepmother.”
“Amen to that.” He flattened his big hands on my thighs. “I answered. Your turn. No nursing school. What would you do?”
“Is money no object?” I had dreamed of what exactly I’d do so many times.
“Will it make a difference?”
“I suppose in how I’d travel.” The fantasies fell fast and hard in my head, stacking into a familiar wall of dreams that was always out of my reach. “I’d love to go to pastry school.”
“Pastry?” When I nodded, he thought for a moment. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“I’ve debated—should I go to culinary school? Get a degree or a certificate? Stick to pastries or train as a chef? If I was doing it again, I’d get a degree and get to know people. I grew up seeing how much networking benefited others.” And I’d seen the opposite. Doors were slammed in my face, thanks to my family’s lack of connections. “But now? I think I’d do a program. There are some fourteen-week ones in Boston, and I’ve looked at the pastry one. Pie in the sky? London. Then I’d travel. Like a taste-testing world tour.”
“Why pastry?”
“The only thing my aunt loved more than baking was going to bakeries, and she’d bring me. I like cooking too, but it’s not as interesting. If I could sell bread, I’d make it all the time. Kneading dough is therapy.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled with his smile. “You can smack it and it always bounces back.”
“You know what I’m the most upset about with the divorce?” He shook his head as if he was afraid of my answer. Like I would say I missed baking for Damien. “I had to leave my sourdough starter behind.”
“That bastard.”
I laughed. “I wasn’t living somewhere I could bake even though I could finally make bread and goodies without his comments.”
A dangerous glint darkened his eyes. “And what exactly would he say?”
The dream in my head collapsed as real memories bulldozed over it. “The usual controlling stuff assholes say to their wives about sweets and hobbies they don’t think will impress the partners in the firm they work for.”
Teller’s eyes narrowed as he chewed over my answer. Then he picked up our glasses and slid off his stool, careful not to knock me off in the process. I wanted to ask what he was doing, but I just watched the muscles in his forearms flex as he washed the glasses and put them on a rack to dry. Next, he wiped off the counter.
What are you doing? screamed through my head, but the words didn’t leave my mouth.
He rounded the bar to my side and held an elbow out. “We’re going back to my place, and you’re going to bake whatever the hell you want, and you’re going to do it naked until you don’t remember a thing that asshole said.”