Chapter 11

Lincoln

The firewood cracks loudly as it splits and fully catches fire. Leaning into the chair, I let the warmth from the firepit seep into my boots that are kicked up along its edge.

I knew this conversation was going to be a fight, which is why we’re having it after dinner at the house and not at the distillery. Rubbing my thumb across my bottom lip, I glance at Ace, and it’s obvious he doesn’t like it. That fucker doesn’t like much when it comes to pushing our brand forward.

“I’m not going to do a finished double barrel,” Ace barks out, loud enough to get me to focus on this discussion. “The answer is a no from me.”

I shift in my seat without saying anything and glance at Grant.

He speaks up first. “Why the hell not, Ace?”

“Because that’s not who we are. Foxx Bourbon is known for our bourbon. Real fucking bourbon and not the bullshit craft that’s churning out all over the place.”

I sit up and lean my elbows on my knees, trying to tamp down my frustration. “Everyone has done a double barrel variation. It’s still bourbon.”

Ace stares into the flames for a minute before he answers. “It bends the rules.”

“Exactly.” I point at him. “Bends, not breaks.” I’ve had enough of hearing how shitty my ideas are lately.

“You wanted to pitch your concept. Now that you have, I’m telling you no.” He stands and walks to the bar cart and pours two fingers of the Cowboy Edition bourbon that Grant developed.

“I don’t think that’s your call, Ace,” Grant says.

“Really, Grant? You’ve been doing this job for, what, a year now? And you have all the answers?”

Grant gives me a tight-lipped smile, and I know what’s coming next. He has the luxury of leaving. The luxury of being the one who can check out and say he’s not going to engage. I’ve never had that luxury. Ever.

“Fine. You two figure it out.” He stands from his seat around the fire, looking inside at the rest of our family laughing in the living room. Turning back, he locks eyes with me before he opens the slider to move inside. “I know my opinion might not matter here, not as much as his”—he nods to Ace—“but it’s a smart idea. We don’t have any blends finished in anything other than our oak. If we don’t try new things, then we’re not getting any better. You and I both know it’s not living if things stay the same all the time. You have my vote, Linc.”

I take a taste of the burned sugar old-fashioned that Hadley whipped up. It’s sweeter than what I usually like, but it’s warm and comforting during a cold night and even colder discussion.

“You can do better,” Ace says, interrupting my thoughts. “You can do so much better than what any of us can do, Lincoln. You’re making great bourbon. You’ve perfected combinations of grains. Don’t take the easy way out and make it all about the ending.”

I exhale and try not to feel instantly annoyed at where this conversation might lead with my older brother.

Ace hands me a tasting pour of the Cowboy Edition. “That is what good bourbon tastes like,” he says.

As it coats my palate, I can taste the small adjustment of barley instead of rye that Grant chose in our newest best-selling blend. Where his barrels were aged made the wood expand differently. The sugars had broken down in a way where it really tasted beautifully original. Grant had time to work through loss on his own, figuring out what would make his life have meaning again. This bourbon helped him do that. I didn’t have that same kind of space.

Hadley throws open the slider. “I can’t do it anymore,” she says dramatically. “I might actually die.” Releasing the loudest, most exaggerated sigh, she drops into the oversized chair that Grant just left.

After a few beats of silence, Ace asks her hesitantly, “You alright?”

She turns her head to him and smiles. “Yeah, Daddy, just fine.”

“Jesus Christ,” he huffs out and stands up. “Quit it with that shit.”

I lean back and give my best friend a look that she knows pretty damn well.

“What?” She laughs. “Don’t give me that look.”

“You’re even more over the top tonight,” I tell her. She’s always the one to make all of us laugh and lighten up. “Everything going okay?”

She twists a curl of her dark chestnut hair and stares at what’s going on inside. “Midnight Proof is great. The biggest headache lately, as usual, has more to do with my father.” Hadley’s dad, Wheeler Finch, went ahead and made himself a very rich and very famous man when it comes to thoroughbreds and racing. If there’s a princess of the racing world, it’s Hadley Jean Finch. Between her love of horses and her father’s penchant for finding the best, from jockeys and trainers to mares and stallions, the Finch family is Kentucky’s version of power. An industry that’s grown to intense levels of influence, with horse racing raking in billions.

“What’s he asking you to do?”

She crosses her arms and speaks softly, only for me to hear. She knows that if Grant catches wind of it, he’ll step up on his proverbial high horse and start talking about it with his old cop buddies. It’s one of the many negatives about having someone from law enforcement in the family. Even though he quit, his moral high ground is stories higher than where the rest of us play.

“My horses are my horses. That’s always been the case. Now he’s telling me that whatever I own is rightfully his. And that he’ll help himself to it whenever he damn well pleases.”

“I’m sure that went over really well.”

“Yeah, well, I cried.” She gives me a side-eye. “The disappointment billowed off of him when I told him that I bought, housed, and cared for my horses the same way I do Midnight Proof.” She puffs her cheeks and blows out air. “He wants to cash in on the breeding potential that my horses have. He wants to stifle anything that I remotely consider mine. It’s not fucking fair.”

I agree. “No, it’s not fair. He has no fucking right.”

The door slides open and Lily spills outside with Lark on her heels. “Dad, that’s going to round today at twenty-five.”

Hadley wipes the corner of her eye and brushes away the lingering conversation about her father to focus on Lily who decides to sit on her lap. “Twenty-five what?”

“Dollars,” Lily answers.

“You’re still paying into the...What do you girls call it?” Hadley asks.

Lark chimes in, “The curse purse.”

Lily reminds her while looking at me, “Five dollars for every curse word. Dad had to start capping it at twenty-five per day instead of easing up on his word choices.”

“I have one flaw,” I clap back playfully, throwing my hands up.

The three of them look at me with annoying smiles, but it’s Hadley that digs in. “Just one?”

I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose with my middle finger, making sure she sees it.

“Dad, we know what the middle finger means,” Lark says matter-of-factly. “You do it to Uncle Grant all the time and you know it’s ten bucks.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I smile into my glass as I finish my drink.

Julep follows Laney outside, stopping at Lily’s side first for a pet and then moving over to Lark.

“Dad, did you know that all puppies are born deaf?” Lark asks.

I smile at the randomness of some of the things that come out of her mouth. “I did not know that.”

“Do you think that’s why dogs like people so much? Because we talk to them?” Lily asks no one in particular.

“It would make sense,” I say, watching Lark. And I can almost tell what might be coming next. I’m just wondering which one is going to ask this time.

“Highland cows actually form the same kind of bonds with humans as dogs tend to do, which isn’t typical for most cows,” Lark says as she folds her legs under where she’s perched on the arm of my chair. “Maggie said that she and Faye used to live in Wyoming before they moved to Kentucky, and they had cows everywhere.”

Hadley smiles at me as I say, “Cattle. They probably would have called them cattle in Wyoming, and I doubt they were highland cows.”

Lily swats at the air. “I think dogs are cuter than cows, Lark.”

“Well, nobody asked you, Lily.”

I clear my throat. “Be nice,” I say to Lark before I look to Lily so she knows I mean both of them.

“I’m with Lily,” Hadley says as the last log finally cracks and catches the flame. “I prefer horses, but if I had to pick, I’d pick a dog over a cow any day.”

“Me too,” Laney says as she pets Julep’s head.

Lark looks to me to weigh in, and I narrow my eyes.

“What am I missing here? Why is this a conversation?” I try to shift the topic. “Laney, please tell me you brought dessert.”

“I brought dessert,” she says with a laugh as she tips back her glass of bourbon, then looks at me for a beat. “Chocolate mousse bombs. They might pair nicely with one of the bourbons you’ve been working on, yeah?”

I send her a grateful smile. “Maybe.”

“Keep pushing for what you want, Linc,” she says as she hands Hadley her glass to take a sip from. “You know bourbon better than anyone. I might be the new kid here, but I know that .” It feels good to hear that from someone who hasn’t been here for years.

Lark picks at her mostly chipped nail polish and says, “Dad, if you had to pick. Which one would you choose?”

Before I can answer, Lily says, “Hypothetically, of course.”

This doesn’t feel hypothetical. “Of course,” I repeat, giving both of them a look that says I’m on to them. I know my girls. I’m going to get their birthday wish lists this year with both a cow and a dog scribbled across the top, just like their Christmas lists, with pictures and hyperlinks included. They’re going to wear me down. I did the same to Griz countless times growing up. I know exactly where their tenacity comes from.

“Highland cows seem like oversized outdoor dogs. And if it’s a dog like Julep, then I’d have to say both. I couldn’t choose.”

“Seriously?” Lark says, eyes lighting up, genuinely surprised.

The sliding door opens, and Griz peers out. “I just ate three of those chocolate mousse things. I suggest you all get in here before I polish off the rest.”

Lark and Lily don’t need to be told twice as they rush past Griz.

Hadley barks out a laugh before she asks, “Both?”

“What? It’s hypothetical. I’m not getting them a dog or a cow.”

Laney and Hadley share a look, a quiet exchange where I’m clearly the topic of their raised eyebrows and whatever other facial expression I might have missed.

“Lark has slept with a stuffed highland cow since she was a toddler. I’m not surprised she’d want a real-life Dottie.”

Hadley says, “Oh my gosh, I remember when Liv bought her that stuffed cow.”

I remember too. “She still sleeps with Dottie. But don’t tell her I told you that.” If my girls want to think about animals and all the ways a dog or cow could make them feel like our family wasn’t broken, then I’ll indulge them. The truth is, I couldn’t bear to see them lose an animal, which is why I haven’t given in yet. Dogs have maybe ten to fifteen years, if we’re lucky, and then a cow, who the fuck knows. Watching them mourn Olivia was, and still is, enough sadness to witness for a lifetime. I wouldn’t give them something else to love and lose. “We’re good. Just the three of us.”