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Savannah shook her head. She’d noticed that the industry was concentrated in those two states, but hadn’t given much thought to why.
“A whiskey with a smooth finish begins with the right water source.” He pointed toward a creek and the hills that rose along the edge of the property. “See that limestone shelf? Springs deep in these limestone layers feed King’s Lake—our sole source of water. The limestone adds calcium to the water and filters out impurities like iron that would make the whiskey bitter.”
She studied the veins in the limestone shelf. “So it wouldn’t be possible to produce bourbon from another water source with the same composition and flavor?”
“Not even if you used our exact recipe.” He stood beside her, gazing reverently at the stony mountain and the waters that trickled from it. “Then there’s the matter of the yeast we use for fermentation. It’s a proprietary strain that dates back to when my great-grandfather was running his moonshine business seventy-five years ago.”
“Most distilleries openly share their grain recipe. King’s Finest doesn’t. Why?” “My grandfather tweaked the grain mixture his father used. He’s pretty territorial about it.” Blake smiled. “So we keep our mash bill and yeast strain under tight control.”
The fact that Blake’s grandfather had stolen the recipe from her grandfather was the more likely reason.
“I’m boring you, aren’t I?”
“No. This is all extremely fascinating.”
“It’s a subject I can get carried away with. Believe me, no other woman has ever used the word fascinating to describe it.”
“You still think I’m feigning interest.” Something in his stare made her cheeks warm and her chest heavy.
His lips parted and his hands clenched at his sides, but he didn’t acknowledge her statement. “We’d better head back.”
They visited the vats of corn, rye and malted barley. Next, they visited the large metal vat where the grain was cooked, creating the mash. In the fermentation room there were large, open tubs fashioned of cypress planks, filled with fermenting whiskey. The air was heavy with a scent similar to sourdough bread baking.
In the distillation room, he gave her a taste of the bourbon after it passed through the towering copper still and then again after it had made another pass through the doubler.
“It’s clear.” Savannah handed Blake back the metal cup with a long metal handle he’d used to draw a sample of the “high wine.”
Her fingers brushed his and he nearly dropped the cup, but recovered quickly.
“The rich amber color happens during the aging process.” He returned the cup to its hook, then led her through the area where the high wine was transferred to new, charred white oak barrels.
They walked through the rackhouse. Five levels of whiskey casks towered above them. Savannah fanned herself, her brow damp with perspiration, as Blake lowered his voice, speaking in a hushed, reverent tone.
“How long is the bourbon aged?”
“The signature label? Five years. Then we have the top-shelf labels aged for ten or more years.” Blake surveyed the upper racks before returning his gaze to hers. “My grandfather made so many sacrifices to create this legacy for us. I’m reminded of that whenever I come out here.”
Blake spoke of Joseph Abbott as if he were a self-sacrificing saint. But the man was a liar and a cheat. He’d sacrificed his friendship with her grandfather and deprived him of his legacy, leaving their family with nothing but hardship and pain.
Tears stung her eyes and it suddenly hurt to breathe in the overheated rackhouse. It felt as if a cask of whiskey was sitting on her chest. She gasped, the air burning her lungs.
“Are you all right?” Blake narrowed his brown eyes, stepping closer. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“I’m fine.” Her breath came in short bursts and her back was damp with sweat.
“It’s hot in here. Let’s get you back in the air-conditioning. Our last stop is the bottling area.” His hand low on her back, he guided her toward the exit.
“No.” The word came out sharper than she’d intended. “I mean, I promised your father I’d get that presentation out today.”
“You told him you’d try. Do it first thing tomorrow. It’ll be fine.”
“That’s not the first impression I want to make with the company’s CEO. Or with his wife, who’s eagerly awaiting the information.” Savannah wiped the dampness from her forehead with the back of her hand. “I gave my word, and to me, that means something.”
