EPILOGUE
TRISTAN
The October air at Crownhaven smells like salt and smoke. I take deep lungfuls as we stride across the grass toward the sandy ring in the distance. We used to use it for jumping our ponies, and now it’s stacked with fifty barrels, all ready to hold gallons of whiskey.
Katie is next to me, wearing a wool coat I brought her from my closet. It swallows her small frame. She looks excited, even in the chill air. Her steps are light and fast, and she keeps getting ahead of us, then waiting for me to catch up. I’m carrying the picnic basket we’re meant to share.
Aiden’s and Emory’s hands are clasped as they have a conversation of whispered words and small smiles. My chest pinches as I watch him help her over a downed tree from last week’s storm. They leave in three days for their big trip.
Whit and Sienna are engaged in a hot debate about which one of them got the bigger hamper this year. Sienna is already fishing cheese out of hers and demanding that Whit go halfsies on whatever he has.
Katie gives me a quietly amused look. “Like children,” she whispers.
“I heard that,” Whit shouts.
“Eight-year-olds, at least,” I toss back.
“Is this our year to learn, old man?” Sienna asks.
Aiden chuckles from beside me. “You can be the one to teach them. This is a duty I’m looking forward to handing over.”
“Mr. CEO,” Katie teases, smiling at me. It’s been nearly four months since we announced it and I’m still getting used to the title.
I sigh, but pride fills my chest. “The Old Kingdom barrels have been charred personally at Crownhaven since 1919, when we made the first vintage.”
“Traitors,” Emory mutters, but there’s no heat to it.
She’s proudly wearing the t-shirt I made her last year for her first bonfire night, and while our families might have split in a feud that would span a hundred years, she and Aiden are well on the way to mending it.
The t-shirt says Burning Bridges Since 1919 and she laughed when I gave it to her, just like she is now.
“Quiet in the peanut gallery.” I clear my throat. “This year, we’re on a mission to recreate history. We’ll be barrel aging our second batch of the new Old Kingdom in the barrels we char tonight. And we’ll be charring a few test barrels for the new twelve-year version.”
Katie is looking up at me with fascination as I talk, and the rightness of her being here hits me in the heart. I nearly stumble, but her hand slips into mine, and she squeezes.
“The twelve-year is meant to be accessible, but it’s also not going to sacrifice on quality.
We need to test char lengths for it. Which means each of you will be helping me take notes on what we’ve done.
” I can’t keep the excitement out of my voice.
This is what I love. Figuring things out. Making things better.
“Don’t you have two species of oak on the property?” Katie asks.
“Very good.” I can’t keep the pride out of my voice, and I squeeze her hand in return.
She cares. She really fucking cares. More than my younger siblings, maybe.
She’s interested in the weird things I like, and I’m not sure if it’s because I like them, or because she likes them too.
Every hobby I have, she wants to try, and every time I learn something new, she wants to know about it.
I’ve been teaching her to make whiskey these past months and she takes it just as seriously as she takes writing her college essays.
Affection for her constricts my throat.
Whit and Sienna groan, and something small and hard hits me in the back. “Professor Tristan,” Whit taunts.
“I want to hear about it,” Katie says staunchly. “And I want to char a barrel.”
“Everyone will,” I reassure her. “And we do have two species on the property. We use the American white oak because the trunks are straighter. It’s much easier to shape the barrels.
The char lengths vary by what we need to get out of the wood.
Too long of a char, and the whiskey will end up smoky and spicy.
Good for some, sure. But Old Kingdom is supposed to taste like cream soda and graham crackers. ”
She gives me a wide-eyed look. “And how do you achieve that?”
“We toast them until they catch fire, then we char them for thirty-seven seconds per barrel,” I say proudly. “Give or take.”
Katie’s brows go up. “Give or take?”
“We go by smell. Or at least I do. It’s easier.”
“More of an art and less of a science,” Aiden adds. “Tristan is underselling himself. He has an uncanny ability to douse the fire at the exact right moment.”
Warmth spreads over my chest. “It’s not an easy process,” I warn.
“Takes a lot of upper body strength to hold the sprayer,” Aiden adds.
Katie’s eyes light at that. “Sounds fun.”
“Which is why Whit and Sienna can both opt out,” my brother says. “They need their limbs for more important things.”
Emory snorts. “Not me, though. I’ve been volunteered as tribute.”
Aiden chuckles and gives her a fond look. “An ancestor is rolling over in a grave somewhere,” he says dryly.
“You up for the challenge, Bailey?” I slide her a cocky glance, knowing it will fire her up.
“How many do you normally do?” she asks.
My smile grows. “At least thirty.”
Her answering grin is just as cocky. “Put me down for thirty-one.”
I watch closely as Katie approaches the flame inside the first barrel we lit.
Aiden is monitoring the second group of barrels with folded arms. All of them are spread on the sandy ring, each placed over a small gas line that lets a controlled flame out.
We’ll toast them, and then as soon as they light on fire, Aiden and I will monitor by smell to see when the fire needs to be put out.
She edges closer, face covered in a mask and goggles, wearing the flame-retardant jacket I made her put on.
It covers her practically to her knees. Regrettably for me, she looks fucking adorable with her big mismatched eyes behind her goggles and all the intensity of a student doing a lab experiment.
“It’s almost there, Tristan.” Her voice is excited, and I drag her back before she can char herself alongside the barrel.
“Careful there, killer.”
I see the indent of a tongue poking against her mask and chuckle. “I saw that.”
“Does it smell like vanilla yet?”
I take a hearty sniff. No mask for me. I need all my senses. “Not yet. A bit more. Ready with the water?”
She hefts the sprayer into the air. It’s connected to a massive tank underground. I drag in more breath. Under the salty air and the smoke, there are notes released by the oak heartwood. Marzipan, vanilla, cream soda, spice. I pull them to the back of my mouth before I nod.
“That’s it.”
Katie turns the water on full blast, nearly soaking me, before she hoses the barrel and cheers.
“One down.”
“So many more to go.” She yanks down her mask, before she grins at me. Her eyes are alight with happiness.
“You like this?” I give her a bemused smile, searching her face.
She nods, then lowers the sprayer. We don’t have much time to talk, and yet I can’t look away from her. She looks like she belongs here, in this field of flame. It lovingly gilds her hair and gives her skin a shine that matches her eyes.
“I’ve never had a lot of family traditions.” She fidgets with a lock of her hair that’s fallen from her braid. “It’s nice.”
“You know I used to be so annoyed by bonfire night as a kid?”
She grins. “You were?”
I nod, my throat tightening. I wish I’d lived more in the moment back in those days.
“It felt endless. Just another piece of work that I couldn’t understand why we did.
And now—” I look out at the barrels. “I made most of these by hand. It makes me proud to build something that lasts. Something we can share with others.”
Her eyes are gleaming with moisture as she nods.
“No crying on bonfire night,” I say gently.
“You make me feel big emotions, Tristan Prince.” She sounds almost accusing, and I laugh, even as my heart accelerates.
I step in and pull at her braid, tugging the elastic off the end. “I do? Annoyance? Humor?”
She gives me an arch look. “You have hidden depths. It’s my favorite thing about you. And I like to be the one who gets to see them.”
We share a smile. My throat is tight. I can see Katie here, with me, laughing with my siblings, enjoying holidays.
I want to see her eyes get wide when she opens a Christmas present.
I want her here with me to compete on how many barrels we can do, to always force me to be better, to make me remember to lead with my heart.
I gesture for her to turn, then start re-braiding her hair.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure none of this lovely hair gets singed.”
“Oh.” She makes a small, pleased sound, and leans into my touch.
My chest expands. I get to be the one to do this for her.
“Are you happy, Katie?”
Her eyes are shut, her face tipped toward the warmth of the fire.
“So happy. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.”
I carefully braid the ends of her hair, making sure the elastic is tight, silently vowing that I’ll keep her safe, that I’ll always keep her safe.
When she smiles at me and raises her sprayer like a petite general going off to war, I know—she’s here to stay. Forever.
Aiden comes up beside me as Katie tromps over to the next barrel, her boots swallowing her up to her knees.
“She loves it like we do, Tris. She’s one of us.”
“I know.”
We both watch her peer carefully into one wet barrel, and then move to the next, taking this just as seriously as I do, cherishing it because it’s important to me, but also because she’s adopted our whole family as her own.
“You know, Aiden. I always felt like we took her in. But sometimes it feels like she took us in too.”
He laughs softly. “Yeah. Like she’s the fierce little mother bear and we’re her cubs.”
I laugh too. “Like a nature documentary. Someone gets too close and she starts to snap her teeth.”
“You make her happy. She’ll do anything to protect us. Loyalty is part of who she is.”
“I know.” My pulse stumbles. “I always worried that I couldn’t make her as happy as someone else could.
” At my brother’s sound of protest, I cut him a glance.
“She’d threaten me with bodily harm if I said that out loud to her.
But I realized, even if another man could make her happy, no one will try as hard as I will.
No one will cherish her like I do.” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat.
Aiden’s hand lands on my shoulder, squeezing firmly. “Proud of you, Tristan.”
My hand shakes as it dips into my pocket to check that Katie’s gift is there. Hopefully, she likes it.
Hopefully, she feels like I do.