A Little Bit of Charm (36 page)

“Draught, a tall one.”

“We have our nine regular handles this month, plus two
seasonals.” She placed a laminated card before him that listed the beers and wines, along with photos of rainbow-hued blender drinks. “We have five kinds of frozen margaritas too.”

Jake stared at a blob of dried catsup on the card rather than the beer choices. “Why don't you choose one for me, darlin'. I don't want to make any more decisions today.” He returned the best smile he could.

“You got it, but the name is Kim. Only my better half is allowed to call me darling.”

Color rose up his neck. “Beg your pardon, ma'am,” he murmured, ashamed.

Moments later, she set a giant frosty mug on a cocktail napkin in front of him. “You're forgiven. This one is my husband's favorite. If you don't like it, it's on the house.”

“Thanks.” Jake took a long pull of the dark amber liquid and almost gagged. But with Kim watching his reaction, he swallowed it down and wiped his mouth on his flannel sleeve. “It's good,” he lied. “Nice and cold.” At least, that part was true.

“Glad you like it. I myself prefer light beers—colored water, as my husband calls them. You want to see our lunch menu? We have great daily specials.”

“No, thanks. I'm here to drink.” He gulped down another mouthful. Surprisingly, this swallow didn't taste anywhere near as foul as the first.

When she wandered away to serve other customers, Jake caught his reflection in the mirror above an array of liquor bottles. He looked like an old young man. That's what he got for being a nice guy, for playing by the rules. Didn't women prefer the wild bad boy type? The love 'em and leave 'em kind who moved on long before vows or commitments could be spoken? Lifting the mug, he drained the contents down to the foamy bottom.

What was America's passion for beer all about?
The stuff tasted like yeast, barley, and hops, fermented and then strained to get the
chunks out. Why would anybody want to brew and then bottle a beverage made from grains not much different than horse feed? Nevertheless, when his cheerful bartender returned, he ordered a second mug of the odorous stuff.

“What would a man drink if he was celebrating or seriously drowning his sorrows?” he asked when she refilled his glass.

She stared at him. “This is Kentucky, home of real Kentucky bourbon.” She pointed to a group of bottles along the top shelf, each one sporting a famous name he was vaguely familiar with. “If price was no object, a man would order a shot or two of this stuff.” Kim selected a bottle and set it before him. “Aged in oak barrels for five, seven, or eight years, until the master says it's ready. Whiskey doesn't get any smoother than this. You could shoot it down or sip it slow from a snifter.” Miming both actions, she placed the two styles of glassware on the bar.

Jake reached for the shot glass. “Pour me one, Miss Kim, and leave the bottle.”

Hesitating, she leaned over so other patrons wouldn't hear her comment. “Cowboys might have said that in olden days, but that's strictly for TV shows now. Our best bourbon sold at bar prices would cost you a fortune.”

Jake reached for his wallet and drew out his credit card. “I only look like a poor, down-on-his-luck loser. Actually, I'm a rich horse breeder.” He laced his words with so much sarcasm they fooled no one.

Kim's face filled with pity as she cracked the seal on the expensive spirits. “I'll just charge you by the drink, not the full bottle. Maybe you won't even like this stuff.” She poured the shot glass to the rim and headed to the kitchen pass-through window. A bell had signaled the arrival of several stacked cheeseburgers with mounds of French fries.

Jake stared at the expensive golden liquid without tasting it. Teetotalers like his mother called it the devil's brew, a weak man's
courage, and plenty of other disparagements. He focused on the shot glass as though waiting for some mystical sign.

“Looks like you have something on your mind, son, and are hoping that whiskey holds the answers.” Ken slipped onto the next bar stool as though entering a bar were an everyday occurrence.

“Dad. What are you doing here?” Jake's tone conveyed more shock than anger.

“I could ask you the same question. I recognized your truck out front and thought I would keep you company. Then I'll drive you home once your sorrows are sufficiently drowned.” Ken slicked a hand through his graying brown hair.

Jake snorted. “How do you plan to drive two trucks home?” He lifted the stein for another sip, but ignored the bourbon.

“God looks out for drunks, or so I've heard. He gave me the idea to come to Rabbit Creek today to drop off the diesel generator that needs repair. Jack Daws rode along with me. I already sent Jack back to Charm with my truck. So I'm here till you're ready to go home.”

Kim wandered over after delivering food to the pool players. “Hi, there. What'll it be? Care to see our menu?”

His father tipped his hat. “Ma'am, I'd love a bowl of the chili listed on your signboard, along with a cup of coffee if you have any.”

“Coming right up. I just brewed a fresh pot. How about you?” she asked Jake. “Ready for some lunch?”

“No, ma'am. Not hungry.”

After Kim jotted down the order, poured Ken's coffee, and strolled away, Jake pivoted on his stool. “I'm not drunk,” he snapped. “This is only my second beer.”

“Maybe not yet, but I see a bottle of 120 proof sitting in front of you and a glass already poured. It won't take long now.” He studied his son as though he were a fascinating insect.

Jake lifted the shot, sniffed, and set it back down. “I'm still debating about trying this.” He focused on a wall calendar, positioned on the previous month. “I came in because Rachel broke up with me.” He blurted out the words with little emotion. “I started driving and ended up in Rabbit Creek, out of gas. After filling my tank, the neon beer sign in the window beckoned to me.” His palms opened, his fingers clawing toward his chest.

“As signs have done for many brokenhearted young men and a few old ones too.” Surprisingly, his father's tone held no censure. “From what I heard, alcohol usually doesn't help, but I won't stand in your way if you're bound and determined.”

Jake took another gulp of beer and pushed away the mug. “Don't tell the bartender,” he whispered, “but I really hate the stuff.”

Ken laughed as though he hadn't a care in the world. “I understand it's an acquired taste.” He wrapped his hands around his coffee cup. “Keeley overheard your conversation with Rachel. She tore into the house all upset.”

“Oh, great.” Jake rolled his eyes. “Now the whole stable will know what a loser I am.”

“Your sister isn't like that. She's really mad at Rachel and not about to spread rumors. She vowed never to speak to her again and plans on communicating with her solely with sign language during their tours.”

“Without any deaf friends, Keeley has been itching for a reason to practice her sign language skills.”

Kim delivered a steaming bowl of chili topped with cheese and a basket of warm bread. The smell whetted Jake's appetite. “May I have a bowl of that too, along with a Coke?”

“You got it, darlin',” she teased. “Nobody can resist our chili for long.”

While his father ate, Jake stared at his reflection in the mirror. “What am I going to do, Dad? I really love that woman. I can't
bear seeing her every day right now, but I don't want to mess up her new position at work.”

Setting down his spoon, Ken cocked his head to one side. “Your problem is you're too pale.”

“What?”

“You're practically as white as a sheet. You need some sunshine. A trip to Florida ought to do the trick. You could check on the colt's progress firsthand. Make sure that Hitchcock isn't ordering steak every night for supper on our dime. Some time away from Twelve Elms will do you good.”

“What about my chores?” Jake leaned back as Kim delivered his chili and Coke.

“I'm not retired yet. And we have plenty of hired help to fill in while you're gone.”

Jake began to devour his lunch, almost scalding his tongue in the process. When he scraped the bottom of the bowl, he finished his soft drink in three gulps. “When can I leave?”

“How about tomorrow? Pack your bags tonight after supper. Set the GPS and cruise control, and you'll be among palm trees before you know it.”

“Let me pay our tab and then let's get out of here.” Jake pushed away his beer. “Miss Kim,” he called. “Charge me for that bottle since you had to crack the seal.” He set his credit card next to the empty bowl.

She walked over and patted his hand. “Bourbon ain't like milk, my friend. It won't go bad. I'm charging you for the coffee, beer, and the chili. But your drink and the Coke are on me. No arguments.”

Jake left enough cash to cover a healthy tip and walked out of the Rabbit Creek Tavern with his father. The aged 120-proof bourbon remained untouched in his glass. He would have to take Kim's word that Kentucky made the finest spirits in the world.

Rachel punched out at the time clock Friday afternoon with a grateful sigh. She had managed to work the rest of Wednesday and all day today without running into Jake. The head trainer kept her busy from the moment she arrived. She barely had time to wash up and wolf down her peanut butter sandwich lunch before her new boss barked another order. Not that she was complaining. Better to stay busy than to sit around pining for Jake.

It was what had to be. She knew it was the only sensible option.

Yet she felt as though she'd slammed the door on her heart's desire.

Punching Sarah's number into her cell phone, Rachel waited patiently for her cousin to pick up.

“Stoll's Free-to-Roam Chicken Farm.”

“It's Rachel. I can leave early because of some schedule changes. I'll be home soon. Why don't you let me fix dinner tonight? It's high time I earn my keep.”

“You earned it yesterday helping me clean the laying boxes. And you only got pecked twice.”

Her cousin's laughter brightened Rachel's mood as she hurried toward her buggy. “My arch nemesis walked the other way when she saw me coming. I will mark the occasion on my calendar.”

“If I let you cook, what will you make? My
ehemann
won't just eat anything. He's very picky.”

Rachel snorted. “Isaac is the most laid-back husband in the world. I'm pretty sure he'll eat spaghetti and meatballs, buttered green beans, and cabbage salad.” Her menu came to mind at that moment.

“Spaghetti?” she asked. “I suppose that will be all right as long as the sauce isn't too spicy. Should I start the meatballs?”

“
Nein
. It's my turn to cook. You go soak in the tub with a mug of sweet ginger tea, and maybe read one of those craft magazines you love.”

“Like a lady of leisure?” The rest of Sarah's comments were muffled by laughter. “Okay, I'll give it a try.”

But the irrepressible Sarah didn't relax at the end of her workday. When Rachel entered the kitchen less than an hour later, the table had been set, plump meatballs sat draining on paper towels, and green beans simmered on low heat. A large pot of water roiled away on a back burner. “Sarah Stoll, what have you done? I wanted to make dinner tonight.”

“Then get busy, missy. The spaghetti still needs to be dropped into that pot and the jar of sauce heated. Plus you need to add dressing to the cabbage I chopped. I'm going out to the barn to see what Isaac is doing.” Sarah tugged her apron over her head and slipped out the door.

Rachel's dinner was ready in less than ten minutes. Isaac even finished work thirty minutes early, allowing the three of them to eat immediately. Rachel suspected Sarah was responsible for their early supper hour.

Once Sarah wiped up the last dab of sauce with a bread crust, she looked Rachel in the eye and announced, “Because we are done eating, I think you should head over to the Yosts'. They're having a marshmallow roast tonight. You need to get out and socialize.” Sarah laced her fingers together and cracked her knuckles.