4. Whiskey
WHISKEY
P erhaps it’s not fair to stereotype the llama rancher, but when Drake mentioned llamas and Bert, I imagined a hick in baggy suspenders, worn-out jeans, a plaid shirt, and cowboy boots. I even included a piece of straw sticking out between the gap I imagined between his two front teeth having. Oh, and a cowboy hat.
Bert is none of that.
He surprises me in his wool trousers, buttoned-up Oxford, tweed blazer, sleek boots, and what looks like a fedora perched with impeccable flair atop his head.
Meticulously groomed, even his gray beard is trimmed and combed. Instead of chewing on a piece of straw, Bert puffs a cigar. Deep laugh lines crinkle the skin around his eyes, which tells me the most important thing about this man. That huge smile of his is a comfortable, lifelong, friend.
I adore him on sight.
He feels familiar, like coming home, as if whatever ails me will disappear the moment I step foot across his doorstep. He’s kind, welcoming, warm, and—peaceful.
I’ve never felt anything like this before.
Blueish-black smoke floats upward from the tip of the cigar to curl around his head. A puff makes the tip of the cigar glow. He even blows honest to goodness smoke rings. And what’s that in his hand?
I lean forward, eyes pinching, and catch the unmistakable title of the book. A Wuthering Heights fan?
No way.
I label him a fan without feeling guilty about it because the edges of the leather-bound cover are worn and the pages curl as if it has been lovingly handled many wonderful times.
I look into his twinkling eyes, such a contrast to Drake’s black pools of mystery and pain. Jade-colored gems round with mirth as Bert puffs on his cigar.
"Well, Miss Abby," he says, “sounds like you've had a frightful night."
"Yes, sir.” I don’t know why I’m so formal. “It began with a moose."
"Began? Now this sounds like a story.” He cocks his head to the side. "What does it end with?"
Now that’s a question I don’t have an answer to, considering my evening seems to be a work in progress.
"Wolves.” Drake answers for me. “That pack that’s been harrying your llamas decided to try their hand taking down a human. I tell you; the wolves are getting bolder as the seasons turn.” Drake’s muscles bunch beneath his snow-colored camouflage. I imagine tight corded muscle girding his frame, the perfect complement to his threatening scowl.
Unlike Bert, who’s welcoming and kind, Drake’s standoffish and threatening with his hardened scowl. Once again, I swallow the fear bunching in my throat. Drake terrifies me as much as he draws me to him.
Everything about him screams Stay Away! Yet, all I can think about is what it might feel like if I closed the distance between us.
Bert pops the cigar out of his mouth. "You found them?”
"Found and killed.” Drake swings his rifle over his shoulder and puffs out his chest. “Five down. Had to leave the bodies on the side of the road, though. I should go back for them. Heard another pack on the way back. Would’ve gone after them except for her.”
Bert shoves the fat cigar back into his mouth and draws in a breath. The tip of the cigar flares. “Don’t bother. It’s late. I’ll call Charlie and let him know. We’ll grab the wolves in the morning, send the pelts to Fish and Game, and Charlie can go after the other pack.”
Drake jerks his thumb toward me. “Her Jeep is in a ditch somewhere a few miles outside of town.”
“Ah, gotcha,” Bert says. “I’ll give Henry a call to bring his rig.”
“Yeah, in the morning,” Drake says.
The men exchange a look I can’t decipher, but then Drake’s words sink in.
“Morning!" I look between the two men. "I thought we'd be able to get it out tonight."
“Nobody’s going out tonight,” Drake says. “This storm’s only supposed to get worse. We’ll deal with it in the morning.”
“Where am I going to stay?”
"She's not from around here, is she?" Bert twists the cigar in his mouth.
"Not even close." Drake surprises me with a grin. Much better than the scowl, the soft smile makes him even more handsome. His towering frame no longer feels threatening.
Instead, it’s comforting.
Amazing how a simple smile transforms my rescuer.
Bert wraps an arm around my shoulder and tugs me toward the door. "Come, child, let's get you out of this weather. I've got a nice fire going and leftover stew. You look like you could use something to eat, something to drink, and some dry clothes.” He glances toward Drake and the two men share another unreadable expression.
At the mention of food, my stomach rumbles. In my haste to get to Peace Springs, I skipped dinner, thinking my uncle would have something laying around. Little did I know I would nearly run down a moose and become wolf bait.
"That would be very nice, but please don't go to too much trouble."
“No trouble at all. You're in Peace Springs, child. People here take care of each other.” Bert sweeps me into his home, while Drake remains outside.
I twist around. "Isn't he coming?"
Bert pulls the door shut. "Drake’s going to check on the llamas, but don't worry, that brooding bastard will be back to join you by the fire in no time."
Why does the thought of sitting next to Drake by the fire have my stomach twisting in knots? Bert winks, as if he reads my mind.
He walks me through his kitchen, and unlike the man, the kitchen fits every country stereotype I can imagine. From the copper molds displayed over the cupboards, to the hen and rooster knickknacks tucked into every available corner, there’s even a wooden breadbox on the countertop. The kitchen could easily grace the cover of Country Living or Southern Comfort magazines.
Even his stove is one of those cast-iron antiques. Its jade-green metallic paint contrasts perfectly with the floral wallpaper and wooden butcher block countertops. The whole place would be terribly garish, except it all works perfectly together. It’s designed to make people feel welcome.
To make them feel at home.
It also has a decidedly feminine touch to it.
The living room continues the quaint feeling, but instead of the expected plaid sofa and rocking chair with crocheted throws, the living room is the epitome of understated elegance with dark-brown leather couches and mounted gun racks over the fireplace. Unlike the kitchen, it lacks any sign of a woman’s hand.
One glance at the roaring fire in the stone fireplace and I relax.
"Go ahead and make yourself comfortable. I'll heat up some stew and get you a drink. You a wine or whiskey girl?"
"Wine. I've never had whiskey." I don’t take the offered seat. Instead, I reach beneath my multi-layered shirts and feel the innermost layer. Ugh, slick with sweat. “Um, Bert, is there a place I can…”
He points down the hall. “Bathroom is the second door on the right. The guest bedroom is the first one on the left, just across from the study.”
“Thank you.”
While he disappears into the kitchen, I locate the bathroom. There’s no lock on the door, which makes me nervous. I take care of business and then stand in front of the mirror. A quick inspection of my ears eases my fears about frostbite.
That was too close. I thank my mysterious stranger yet again. No lingering damage will occur to my ears as a result of my rescue. My cheeks and the tip of my nose prick with sensation as circulation and heat slowly returns.
I peel out of all seven shirts. The two innermost layers are damp, but the ones in the middle are still dry. Maybe Bert has some hangers or a place where I can air out my damp clothing?
My sweats are a mess. The snow caked around my legs where it melted into the fabric. From there, it seeped into my jeans. I don’t remember seeing a washer or dryer in the small country kitchen, but maybe Bert won’t mind if I place my clothes by the fire. In the meantime, damp jeans it is, and I need to get out of this wet bra.
I unsnap the constricting band of fabric and hang it on the towel rack. My reflection stares back at me, rosy cheeks, pinker than the ruddy red from a few moments ago. I cup my cheeks and say a prayer of thanks. I barely missed losing the tip of my nose to frostbite. Yet another reason to thank Drake.
My hand presses against my belly as a smile escapes me.
Butterflies?
I can’t remember the last time I felt butterflies.
That never happened with Scott.
The warmth of Bert’s home seeps into my bones, and my shivering disappears. I toe off my wet sneakers and yank at my socks, tugging them off. Those need to dry, too. I wriggle my toes, inspecting them as well.
As I grab for one of the dry shirts, the door creaks open, making me jump. I hastily cover my chest with one of the shirts and glance down at a tabby cat rubbing up against my leg. It meows, demanding to be rubbed, which I obediently do.
I love cats, but Scott hates them. He says he has allergies, but it’s a lie. There was never any eye redness, swelling, or sniffling and sneezing. It was yet another thing I gave up for the man I once loved.
“You surprised me, little kitty.”
I thought I shut the door. Obviously not, because I appear to have a new friend. Deep purring vibrations fill the air as the tabby rubs against my legs.
“My, aren’t you a friendly kitty?” I drape the shirt over the edge of the sink and bend down to pet the cat.
A creaking of the wood floor in the hallway startles me. I glance up at the half-open door. My gaze collides with the coal-black darkness of Drake’s smoldering eyes. He takes in my naked chest and breasts, not ashamed in the least at seeing me half-naked. I squeak and grab for the shirt hanging off the sink, clutching it to my chest.
Drake doesn’t react, just stands there, all six-foot-plus of him. His towering frame fills the doorway, and the heat of his eyes smolders.
My insides melt beneath his gaze, and the tiny hairs on my arms lift in response to his presence. More damning than either of those, my nipples draw tight into hard peaks.
He doesn’t look away. Instead, his gaze takes a languid journey down my body then wanders up to caress my face.
Under his penetrating assessment, I freeze.
The muscles of his jaw bunch and a winter storm churns in the depths of his eyes. He takes in a sharp breath. Only then does he turn to the side and avert his gaze.
My body goes haywire in those few seconds, responding to the full force of the man standing before me, looking as if he has every right to feast upon what he sees.
He didn’t look away.
Yet, it didn’t feel invasive. It didn’t feel wrong.
It felt all kinds of right.
He changed clothes. Tight cords rise from beneath the collar of his shirt. His Adam’s apple bobs as he deliberately swallows. Ridges of muscle fill out the shirt, testing the integrity of the poor fabric as it stretches beneath the bulk of a man in the prime of his life.
My pulse thrums through my veins. A glance down reveals my failure to fully cover my breasts.
I’m giving him a peep show. Clumsily, I spread out the fabric and cover myself. My breaths huff in and out as he turns back around and transfixes me with the intensity of his gaze.
That jagged scar puckers the skin of his face. Instead of a disfigurement, it creates an aching beauty. Again, the urge to reach up and trace the lines of his pain overwhelms me, but I remember the harshness of his words earlier. My hands stay exactly where they are. The smile is gone. The scowl once again takes up residence.
“Bert thought you needed something dry to wear.” His voice is deep and cautious, as unhurried as his gaze. He pushes the bathroom door until it’s fully open and takes a step forward, holding out a pair of pink flannel pajamas.
One hand clutches the bunched t-shirt against my chest, while the other stretches for the clothes. Our fingers touch and the air crackles between us. I pull back as if electrified. His gaze drifts down to our fingers and his chiseled jaw tightens, turning the scowl into a grimace.
Pain flashes in his gaze.
I grab the pajamas and spin around, placing my back to him. My insides knot as tremors skate down my spine. Did I do something wrong?
“Thank you.” I toss the clipped response over my left shoulder. “Did you see enough? Or are you waiting for more?”
Drake clears his throat. “I don’t think it’s possible to see enough. My apologies for invading your privacy, city girl.” He shifts back, pivots, and heads to the living room.
I shut the door, making sure it closes this time. Only then do I look down at the clothes Drake gave me. The tabby disappeared.
Pale-pink, flannel pajamas with roses and red bows. I glance at my wet jeans and decide on comfort. Lifting the fabric to my nose, I give it a sniff, perhaps hoping to smell a little bit of him on the soft fabric.
Nothing.
When I’m dressed, I return to join the men in front of the fire.
Bert sits in the leather recliner, puffing on what looks to be a new cigar. He holds the copy of Wuthering Heights open by the spread of his fingers. Reading glasses perch on his nose and he strokes his bearded chin. The cat curls up on his lap.
On the coffee table, two bowls of steaming stew sit beside two empty cups and a pot of tea.
Drake sits on the sofa, a paperback clutched in his hand. From the cover, it looks to be a mystery or thriller. His gaze takes me in from head to toe, then rises again to land on my face. A storm brews in his eyes, a war in the making between desire and need, but shadows dance there as well.
Pain.
Such agony marches across his expression.
Energy pulses between us, but I’m unsure what to do about it. This kind of insane chemistry is something I’ve only read about.
Medically, I understand. Chemical in nature, pheromones lace the air, which brings about an intense physical attraction.
He affects a casual pose, relaxed with one leg kicked over the opposite knee, but I catch the hitching in his breath as I approach. His fingers stray up to the scar over his face, tracing out the faded lines of an old injury.
“Ah…” Bert looks pleased with himself. “I thought Bethany’s clothes would fit you.” He places his book on the side table and moves the recliner to its upright position. “I hope you don’t mind. Those belonged to my late wife. I’m a widower and still have a few of her things. I’m glad they fit you.”
“My condolences, and thank you.” I’m unsure how to respond to his statement about being a widower, or about wearing his dead wife’s clothes.
This is awkward.
Bert fills in the pause of conversation. “I’m not a coffee drinker, but I made some hot tea. I’ve got cocoa if you’d prefer that?”
Next to the teapot and cups, two tumblers of amber-colored fluid wait.
“The tea is perfect,” I say. “Thank you for your hospitality. I’m terribly sorry to be a burden.”
“Child, you are no burden at all.” He glances toward Drake, kicking the younger man’s boot. “It’s nice to have a woman over for a change, don’t you agree? Isn’t it nice to share the fire with Abby?”
Drake turns to Bert, a parade of emotions flashing in his expression before he schools his feelings. I bet anything he’d rather be out in that blizzard tracking down, and killing, that second pack of wolves.
Drake says nothing. He shifts in his seat, drawing his feet out of Bert’s nudging distance.
I point to the glasses. “What’s that?”
“Bert says you’ve never tasted whiskey,” Drake answers.
“I prefer wine.”
“Doesn’t matter. In Peace Springs, we drink whiskey.” Putting his book down, Drake leans forward. He grabs the two glasses and hands one to me. He taps his glass against mine. “Welcome to Peace Springs, Miss Abby…?”
“Abby Knight.” I give my full name, although I don’t get the feeling Drake is happy to have me descending on his small town. Then he surprises me, rewarding me with one of his elusive smiles.
“Now that is a pretty name.” He presses the cup to his lips and tilts his head back, downing the entire glass in one swallow. Despite the smile, the hardness of his eyes returns, glittering as he waits for me to drink my whiskey.
I sniff the aromatic liquor. It’s far stronger than wine. The alcohol burns the sensitive tissues of my nose, but it smells like heaven. I tip the glass against my lips, coating them in whiskey. Then I lick my lips, closing my eyes when a sweet flavor coats my tongue.
“What kind of whiskey is this?” It’s nothing like I expected. There’s a burn, of course, but an amazingly mature flavor coats my tongue.
Drake pours himself another drink. “Salted caramel whiskey, a good starter drink.” His eyes lock onto my mouth as I lick my lips. “We’ll work you up to the harder stuff over time.”
I take another sip. “It’s like wine, with all the different flavors, but unique and distinct.”
Then his words hit, over time ? He’s thinking about other times.
As in more than tonight.
Is he interested in seeing me after tonight? Boy, I hope so.
That thought makes the butterflies in my belly take flight, and while I’d like to think the whiskey is what heats my cheeks, I know that’s a lie. Deep down, I very much want to see more of Drake.
Which is crazy. I’m in no position to be thinking about starting up anything with anyone.
Especially after the disaster with Scott. I can’t believe he thinks I’ll ever go back to him.
“Do you like?” Drake watches me closely.
Another sip, this one bigger than the previous one. The burn of alcohol lights a fire inside my mouth and coats my throat with a delicious burn.
“Oh my, that’s strong stuff.” I cough and sputter.
Drake smiles, then turns to Bert. “I think we have a convert.”
“Seems so.” Bert barely follows our conversation. He’s become one with his chair and turns a page in his book.
Drake picks up a bowl and hands it to me.
“Eat,” he orders. “You’ve had a hard night.”
The ceramic fills my palm with warmth, while the steam carries the savory aromas of the stew to my nose. Without warning, my stomach rumbles.
With a laugh, Drake sits back on the couch, cradling his bowl in his massive hand. Dipping a spoon in the thick mixture of meat and vegetables, he blows at the surface to cool off the stew before taking a bite. I join him on the couch, tucking my legs beneath me as I take another sniff.
“It smells heavenly. Thank you.” It doesn’t take long to empty my bowl. With a yawn, I stretch.
Bert lifts his nose out of his book and glances at me. “You ready to hit the sack?”
“I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality.”
“Drake,” Bert says. “Why don’t you show your city girl to your room?”
Drake stands. His towering presence causes me to catch my breath. He collects our bowls and carries them into the kitchen. My whiskey glass sits on the side table, empty.
I took my time drinking it, savoring the sweet burn. My face feels flushed from the alcohol, a welcome change from the burning sensation of near frostbite.
A strange twisting knots my stomach when Drake returns. I don’t understand why my pulse quickens or my breathing hitches, but something about him unsettles me on a gut level.
“Come,” he says, and then heads down the hall to the first door on the left.
Opening the door, he gestures for me to go inside. I step through and stop short at a pair of twin beds.
Surely Drake won’t be sleeping in the same room as me?
He waits while I approach the far bed and crawl under the covers. Once I pull the sheets up to my neck, he flicks off the light and closes the door.
That’s when I realize the man literally ‘put me to bed.’
Warm and soft, the flannel bedsheets suck me into a blissfully relaxed state where thoughts of moose, snow, and wolves become a distant memory. In their place, images of a man with raven hair, and even blacker eyes, fill my dreams.