Prologue

PROLOGUE

B lue Stone Distillery, Bardstown, Kentucky, Seven years ago...

Cady Woodson parked her car outside her father's two-hundred-year-old, two-story limestone house at the back of Blue Stone Distillery. She reached into the back of her car and moved her supplies to make room for the supplies he was bringing, too.

Cady was graduating from college in two weeks with a degree in chemical engineering and a minor in culinary arts. Why those two? Because they worked hand in hand when crafting new bourbon yeast strains and flavor profiles.

Her father was the master distiller at the largest bourbon distillery in Kentucky. Bottles of his bourbon were coveted and savored all over the world and she couldn't be prouder. Since her mother's death over a decade ago, it had been just Cady and her dad. They did everything together, including him teaching her all of his secrets to bourbon distilling. She'd produced an award-winning bourbon by the time she was sixteen. Her father said it was in her genes, but it was really because she idolized him and loved nothing more than to learn from him.

The door to the stone house was painted a royal purple to match the royal purple doors through the old and historic distillery. She didn't bother knocking as she stepped inside. "Dad! I have the ingredients for that new yeast strain we wanted to try and I rented the science lab at the college." Cady kicked the door closed and headed across the old pine floors to the upgraded, modern kitchen.

"I'm ready to go, Cady," her father, Michael, called as he began bringing large plastic tubs out to the hallway.

Many bourbon distilleries bought commercial yeast strains, which, Blue Stone did even as her father begged them to let him develop their own. However, they did allow him to make his own bourbon every year by adjusting the grain ratios. Her father's annual special blend accounted for 10% of Blue Stone's total product and sold out in minutes. Her father's bottles retailed on secondary sale websites for thousands of dollars. The initial mash bill he made for Blue Stone almost twenty years ago was in the other 90% of the bottles.

Over the last decade, her father and Cady had worked on creating their own yeast strain. Also, their own mash bill, which was the percentage of grains mixed together—basically the bourbon recipe. The legal definition of bourbon was established by Act of Congress in 1964. To be considered bourbon, each mash bill had to have 51% or higher corn in the mash, be aged in a charred new oak barrel, be made in the United States, and be distilled to a certain level.

Corn, rye, and malted barley were in the mash. Wheat could also be swapped in for rye for a less spicy bourbon. Each distillery had their own mash, then their own yeast. Some were developed in-house, others were bought commercially. Yeast strains could make a bourbon delicate like fruit or spicy and rich with a hint of floral, or even herbal notes. Yeast gave the bourbon a hint of that special something, which was why she and her father wanted to make their own proprietary strain and mash bills. This wasn't a home baker's bread yeast either. The countless chemical reactions meant it was very specific to bourbon, which just happened to be Cady's specialty.

"I think this is going to be it. I know we have to wait years to find out, but here we go." Cady helped her father carry the boxes outside and placed them in her car.

Cady had rented a small warehouse where she and her father would store the two batches of bourbon they would make with these new strain and mash bills. One mash bill was made with wheat, the other with rye. Then, in six years, they'd taste it and hope it was as good as they thought it would be. If it was, they would open their own distillery. That was the plan. Until then, Cady would start working with her father at Blue Stone after graduation. However, everything having to do with their long range plan had to be done off Blue Stone property, with none of their equipment or recipes, which was why it was all in Cady's name. They'd cleared it with legal counsel, both Blue Stone's and their own, and had a signed contract granting Blue Stone's permission for their father-daughter partnership. They were good to go and she couldn't wait. Six years was a long time to be patient, but it would be worth it.

"I think I found a distillery we could buy," her father told her as they drove the hour to Lexington to use the lab.

"Really?" Cady asked as she drove. "Tell me all about it." This was their dream come true. Their own small distillery. They didn't need to be big like Blue Stone. They just needed to put out quality bourbon with unique flavors.

"Really. I'm excited about it. Technically it's in a small town called Keeneston, but it's out in the county along Barrel Creek," her father told her. He was fifty-six with a thick head of walnut brown hair sprinkled with gray. They shared a similar look. Cady loved that she had her father's big smile and his bourbon- colored eyes. Her hair was a golden brown thanks to a hint of her mother's blonde hair.

"I can't wait to see it," Cady told him as they passed the exit for Keeneston. "Is it that way? Maybe we can see it on the way home?"

"It is. It's not quite to Lipston. I'll call and set up a tour soon. Now, tell me about this recipe you have developed for our yeast."

Cady delved into the science and flavors of the strain she wanted to make. It would take years to find out if she'd done it right, but building off of their previous attempts and their previous recipes from both yeast and mash bill, she'd come up with two new recipes. One for a wheat bourbon and one for a rye. She couldn't wait to see how they turned out... in six years.

It had been a long ten days, but Cady and her father rolled the last of their barrels into the rented warehouse. They'd decided to risk it. They made fifty barrels of each recipe for a total of a hundred barrels. They were potentially worth millions, if she was right about her recipes. After she developed the recipes, Cady had rented production space at another small family-owned distillery, made their product, bought the barrels, and filled them there before moving them to her warehouse.

Cady didn't have the money to hire people or have the equipment to rotate the barrels. She'd have to come in and do it manually for six long years. Her father had offered to help pay for it, but she wanted this to be all theirs, with not even a dime coming from Blue Stone. Then she'd have to hope like hell it was good enough to be sold at the high price of $250 per bottle. That was their goal. And they'd been so busy making it happen they hadn't even looked at the distillery her father had said was for sale in Keeneston yet.

"Do you have everything set for graduation?" her father asked as they pulled into his stone house on the Blue Stone Distillery property.

"I do. I thought I could wear one of mom's dresses under my cap and gown."

Her father smiled, but his eyes teared. "She would like that. Go on upstairs. You know where I keep that trunk of her things."

Cady hurried up the stairs. Graduation was only a couple of days away. She dug around the trunk in the attic, trying to remember each article of clothing her mother had. She finally settled on a light purple sheath dress with tiny white polka dots on it. She remembered this dress. Many she didn't, but this one had stayed with her. Cady held it to her and took a sniff, hoping to still smell her mother's scent on it.

She stood, closed the trunk, and hurried down the stairs. "Dad! I found the perfect—Dad?"

Cady stopped at the entry to the living room. Her father was sitting in his favorite chair, a smile on his face, but the bourbon he'd been drinking was on the floor.

"Dad?" Cady didn't know how, but she knew. Her father was gone.

"Cady Samantha Woodson," the dean of students called.

Cady, red-eyed, exhausted, and emotionally drained from her father's funeral two hours earlier, stepped onto the college stage wearing her mother's dress and her father's watch.

The only people who clapped for her were her lab partners standing in line waiting to be called up for their diplomas and the parents in the audience who were lackadaisically clapping for everyone. Except for one. One person cheered loudly. Her father's best friend had shown up. No one else had.

Cady shook the dean's hand, took her diploma, turned, and tried to smile for the camera. Then she walked off the stage, out of the auditorium, and straight into her "Uncle" Ollie's arms.

"Oh, nugget," Ollie Foster whispered as he wrapped his arms around her. "You know your dad is here with you and is so proud of you."

Ollie and her father had been in the same fraternity at this very college. They'd been complete opposites but had become best friends. Brothers for life. Her father had been a laid-back science nerd. Ollie was a tall, lean, cross-country runner who loved to party. Her father went into bourbon and Ollie into the law. However, they'd stayed best friends for decades. It was Ollie who showed up before the ambulance. It was Ollie who helped her plan the funeral. It was Ollie who attended her graduation.

Without anyone to take family photos with, it seemed too painful to stay and see all the happy families. Ollie seemed to know that but insisted on a selfie nonetheless. "Let's get you home."

They didn't talk on the drive back to Blue Creek Distillery. Ollie parked in front of the house she grew up in on the Blue Creek Distillery property and frowned as the man sitting on the stone step stood up slowly and tried to smile.

"Why don't you grab some things and come stay with me for the week?" Ollie suggested.

"Thanks, Uncle Ollie. I don't think I'm ready to be alone yet." Cady took a deep breath and got out of the car, but Ollie stayed inside the car, giving her some privacy.

"Hey, baby doll. I'm sorry I didn't make your graduation. How was it?" Jordan Sanders, her boyfriend of the past year, asked. He worked with her father since he had graduated from college three years ago. He was trying to become a master distiller, but her father said he didn't have the natural instincts or palate to be one.

"I don't know. I don't really remember it," Cady said, unzipping her gown and tossing it in the back of the car behind where Ollie was trying not to be too obvious about eavesdropping. "Why weren't you there?"

"Mr. Bailey called an emergency meeting after your father's funeral. Isaac has been promoted to master distiller and I've been promoted to Junior Assistant Distiller. I'll work with the Assistant Master Distiller now. No more being in research for me. Isn't that great?" Jordan asked, wearing slacks, a button-up shirt, and work boots that cost more than Cady made in a week. That was Jordan though. Silver spoon fed straight into this job. He'd been nice. It had been fun working with him, going out on dates, and being the focus of all his attention. But now?

"Did you just say it was great that you got a promotion because my father died ?" Cady didn't yell. She had no energy for that. She just stared at him in disbelief.

Jordon sputtered, trying to undo the damage, but it had been done and Cady wasn't going to forget it. She also wouldn't forget her father's so-called work family—Jordan, Mr. Bruce Bailey, the owner of the distillery, and Isaac Glover, the former Assistant Master Distiller, now master distiller—didn't come to her graduation or do anything other than show up briefly at her father's funeral.

Cady turned at the sound of an all-terrain utility vehicle coming up the gravel lane. Speak of the devils. Mr. Bailey and Isaac parked the vehicle and walked toward her, prompting Ollie to get out of the car and come to stand by Cady. It was as if Ollie was going to protect Cady from whatever was coming.

"Cady," Mr. Bailey said with sympathy. He was in his sixties with gray hair parted perfectly down the side of his head. He looked casual, but there was nothing casual about his outfit. He was a billionaire, after all. He was the head of the biggest family-owned distillery in the world. "How are you holding up?"

"It would have been nice for you to check on her before now. How do you think she's holding up?" Uncle Ollie was in full protection mode, staring down Bruce Bailey as if he were nothing special.

Bruce frowned. "I am sorry. We've been in a bit of a crisis here since Michael's unexpected passing. We held a meeting today and got it all sorted. Let's go inside and talk."

Ollie put his hand on her shoulder in silent support. Cady had a sinking feeling this wasn't going to be good.

She unlocked the door and stepped inside. She still couldn't look at her father's chair, so she led them into the kitchen. "What's going on?" she asked. Cady just wanted this over. She wanted to cry in peace.

Bruce sighed and pulled out a thick envelope from his back pocket. "This is a check for what Blue Stone owes your father for this past month. Here's the full accounting reports as well. Then this packet contains information on his life insurance. Lastly," he said, handing her another packet of papers, "is the lease agreement on this house. You'll see I marked the relevant passage."

Cady turned to the red tab with an arrow and felt Ollie lean over to read. Upon either retirement, termination of employment, or death, the lease agreement is terminated immediately. The party of the second part will have three days to remove any personal property and vacate the property. Party of the first part retains all ownership to all property, assets, and improvements made to the house and land.

Cady felt her heart harden. She wasn't sick. She wasn't emotional. She was stone. "So, you want me out?"

"We've given you a full week to grieve. That's longer than our contracted term. But yes, we need you to vacate so Isaac and his family can start renovating the house and move in," Bruce said with faux sympathy. "And I'll need your father's recipe book and all his notes."

That was too much. "No."

Bruce raised his eyebrow. "That's property of Blue Stone. He was working on our special edition barrels for next year."

"Which," Cady said, glancing at the accounting sheets. "You haven't paid for. So, no, you don't get them. Isn't that right, Uncle Ollie?"

"That's right. I don't know if you remember me. We met only briefly some years ago. I'm Oliver Foster of Foster Law Group in Louisville. Not only am I the Woodsons' family friend, but I'm their attorney. You have this year's barrels ready to go. Barrels you paid Michael for last year. However, any future recipes are property of his heir and the decision to sell them to you is entirely her choice. This was very clearly laid out in the addendum to his contract we made, and you signed, nine years ago when Michael and Cady showed an interest in working together. I can have my office send over a copy of the contract if you've misplaced yours."

Cady smiled up at Uncle Ollie. He called her nugget, had come to every ballet recital, and treated her like the daughter he never had, so she often forgot he was the senior partner at the largest legal firm in Louisville—his own.

Bruce frowned, clearly having forgotten about the addendum, or worse, hoping that Cady hadn't known about it. She'd buried her father this morning and already the vultures were circling.

"I'll be gone in two days, Mr. Bailey, that is if Isaac can wait that long to move in?" Isaac looked at her guiltily. "Thank you for making me aware of how much my father meant to Blue Stone. I'll never forget your kindness to him or me during this difficult time. If that's all, you know where the door is."

Mr. Bailey put another sympathetic look on his face as if she were a sad little puppy. "I understand grief can make people act irrationally. Because of that, our lawyer will be here while you pack to ensure no trade secrets are taken with you. I'm sorry it has to be this way. We could have worked together, Cady. As such, you cannot blame me for terminating the unofficial employment agreement we had for your working here beginning next week. There were no contracts signed. I believe even Mr. Foster can agree that's within our rights."

Cady gave an unamused laugh. "I think it's funny you think I would ever work with you after seeing how you treat workers and their families who are no longer any use to you. I won't take any of the recipes you already have, but everything else is mine. Tell your lawyer to be here tomorrow at seven a.m. to start packing. They can observe alongside my attorney."

Mr. Bailey nodded and left. Isaac stopped in front of her, looking ashamed. He should be. "I am sorry, Cady. I was looking forward to working with you."

"Me too. Good luck and protect yourself, Isaac." She had no hard feelings for Isaac. She's known him for ten years and he was a good guy. A bit of a doormat, but a good guy.

"Cady, what are you doing? Are you trying to ruin my life?" Jordan hissed after the front door closed. "How can you talk to Mr. Bailey like that?"

"Easily. Get out, Jordan. We're over. I need a man to support me, not gleefully take advantage of a situation when I'm hurting."

Jordan didn't try to argue. "You're going to regret this."

"No. I don't think I am."

Ollie made sure he left and then came into the kitchen with a bottle of her father's bourbon. "What now, nugget?"

Six months after her father died, Cady drove down an overgrown dirt drive and parked her car. She looked out and smiled for the first time since her father died. She'd packed up her stuff six months ago with Mr. Bailey's attorney arguing with Ollie over everything she'd packed. But it was over and done and now her father's things were in storage—except for his recipe book. That was with her now. She'd spent the past months calling almost every distillery in the state of Kentucky looking for a job. They all expressed how much they respected her father, but turned her down flat. She had no experience. She wasn't proven. She wasn't her father. And her favorite, "Mr. Bailey called us..."

"This doesn't look like much." Ollie peered out the window and frowned.

Cady got out of the car and listened to the breeze whispering through the bluegrass, the sound of Barrel Creek bubbling off to the side, and the tall limestone buildings that were covered in overgrown grass and trees. Yesterday, she'd turned twenty-three and knew exactly what she wanted.

"Dad found it. It's perfect. Do I have enough money to buy it, Uncle Ollie?"

"It's going to be lean, nugget. It looks as if there are a lot of improvements that need to be made."

"No one will hire me but I know what to do, Uncle Ollie. I just need the chance to prove myself."

Ollie nodded. "Let's see the realtor. What town are we in?"

"Keeneston. My new home."