Page 13 of Whiskey Proposal

“Do you have a suitcase to bring in?” he asks.

Yes. “I’ll get it later.” This is too much as it is.

He nods. “I’ll show you inside.”

I exchange a get a load of this place look with my brother, but we follow Lane. His house holds the same faint woodsy and caramel scents as him. Like I’m right there in a whiskey barrel with him.

His home is nothing but clean lines and shades of gray. A stormy day. A place that encourages a person to sit inside and enjoy the sound of the rain. The floor plan is open, giving me a full view of the kitchen, dining room, and living area. There are no other personal touches, except for a wall full of colorful pictures.

“Whoa.” Hillary pulls down her headphones as she wanders in. “This is your house? Is it, like, new?”

It’s definitely not old. I’m impressed and struggling not to show it. This massive log cabin, with its big shop, neat fences, curious horses, happy dog, and shiny new home, puts Hutch’s place next door to shame.

Internally, I wince. That type of thinking is why my mom left, and I’m not like her. I won’t be.

“I built it when I moved here,” Lane says. “About seven years ago.”

Where’d he live before that? Sifting through all the details, I land on Bourbon Canyon. The Baileys. The family that owns and runs Copper Summit Bourbon, where Myles learned the trade of distilling. I read an interview with Myles. I hadn’t paid attention to the pictures or the Foster House Gold website. All the Foster brothers resemble each other with dark hair and blue eyes. He’s not as severe as his oldest brother. Lane seems less guarded. Is it deception? There’s not much out there about him.

I study the collage of kids’ artwork taking up an entire wall in various rustic frames that manage to make papers filled with obnoxiously bright colors blend seamlessly into the outback style of the interior. Other than this wall, there’s very little of him in this house.

Hillary looks up at her dad. “Is Grandpa Hutch’s house this nice?”

Brooks blanches, and the churn in my stomach echoes what he must be feeling.

“Probably not.” He musses her hair, and she scowls.

What are we going to do? Hutch’s house can’t be inhabitable. Can he and Hillary stay here? Are we just going to keep being dependent on Lane and his goodwill?

“I had it cleaned,” Lane says.

I pop my head up. “You did?”

He nods and my stomach takes another trip to my feet.

We’re even more indebted than it appears, and I have nothing to pay him back with—other than a divorce.

Lane

The vulnerability and fear in Emerson’s expression leave me wondering if I did the right thing, hiring cleaners for Hutch’s place.

“It was no problem,” I assure her. I risked any wrath to make the house livable for Emerson. She didn’t need to walk into the filth her dad had lived in. “I instructed the cleaners not to throw away anything, but they did box a lot of his belongings and stack them in the garage.”

“How bad?” Brooks asks.

“It could’ve been worse.” I glance at Hillary to let them know it’s better not to detail it all around her. “He got new furniture a couple of years ago when cattle prices were good. As far as I know, the guest bed hasn’t been used, and he slept a lot in his recliner. Bad back.”

Brooks’s brows lift slightly, like his dad’s back is news to him.

“Why did you have it cleaned?” Emerson asks. Can’t she believe I’d do it out of the goodness of my heart? I used to live in that world. One where I didn’t trust anyone to do something out of the goodness of their heart. I was being nice but also a little selfish.

Emerson has one less reason to leave if the house is inhabitable. “Someone was going to be living in it.”

“You?” She kicks a hip out. The woman wants to hate me, but at most, she doesn’t trust me.

“It was a possibility, but thankfully, that’s not the case. I didn’t build my place just to drive by it every day.”

The honesty works. She softens and returns to perusing the art.