she giggled. “Honey, I’m not one of them sad drunks who talks about how the world’s not treating her right. I’m a happy drunk, one who don’t give a damn what she says or does.” She was remembering the night that she and her two sisters had gotten drunk on the last of Ezra’s ’shine. Or at least Shiloh and Abby Joy did—she herself had enough ’shine sense to take a few sips and leave it alone, being as how she’d made the stuff herself back in Kentucky, and she knew what a kick it had.
“I like a happy drunk.” Rusty smiled.
“Well, then, let’s just get to it.” She ducked under his arm and came up on the other side. “I’ll follow you to the bunkhouse. In the morning, if you can make it to the house, I’ll sure enough brew up my hangover cure for you.”
“Who says I’ll have a hangover?” he teased.
“You will have one like you’ve never had before when I get finished making you a couple of real blackberry bombs.” She got into her truck and slammed the door shut.
When they arrived at the ranch, all three dogs followed their vehicles to the bunkhouse. Once inside, Martha flopped down on the cool floor in front of the sofa. Vivien followed Rusty into the kitchen, and Polly headed for the rug in front of the fireplace.
“I guess they’re our chaperones.” Bonnie followed Rusty into the kitchen.
He got the blackberry moonshine and two shot glasses down from the cabinet, set them on the table, and started to pour.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” She hip-bumped him out of the way. “If we’re going to have a real drink, then I’ll do the mixin’.” She reached for a bottle of tequila. “Looks like you’re about out of this.”
“That and this pint of ’shine and six beers in the refrigerator is all that’s left in the bunkhouse. I don’t keep any alcohol in here when the summer help arrives. They’re mostly underage, and I sure don’t want to get tossed in jail for giving liquor to a minor,” Rusty said.
“Then let’s do this up right.” Bonnie poured a cup of moonshine into a blender, added all of the tequila, and a twist of lemon. She put a few cubes of ice into the blender and punched chop, then hit stop when its contents were smoothie texture. She carried the blender and the two glasses into the living room.
“We were going to talk about mistakes. You go first.” She settled down right in the middle of the well-worn sofa, set the blender on the coffee table, and poured two shots.
He took one of the glasses from her, threw back its contents like a shot of whiskey, and held out his glass to be refilled. “I ran away from the last foster home when I was fourteen and went to work on a ranch. I wish I’d finished high school and taken some business courses. Ezra took care of the finances, and it’s been a struggle for me to learn how to operate the computer and do all that. Your turn.”
She drank her bomb and said, “I got in with a bad group in eastern Kentucky. We got caught growing pot.”
“Did you do jail time?” he asked.
“No, it was worse than that,” she told him.
“I’m listening.” He refilled her glass.
“In the county I was living in at the time, one family owned the pot business, and no one cultivated marijuana without their permission—and they didn’t give it to kids. They caught us harvesting it, took it all from us, and went to our parents. We didn’t get taken to jail, but our folks had to pay them the equivalent of a fine. Mama had to cough up five hundred dollars, and I had to work as a waitress all summer to pay her back.”
She’d downed that bomb, so he made her another one. “Surely you made more than that in three months.”
Bonnie threw back the drink and held out her glass for more. Memories were stirred up in her mind that she thought she’d buried too deep to ever surface, and they brought about the same hurt feelings as they had all those years ago. If her mother could get her hands on a dollar, she’d figure out a way to rationalize taking it. Bonnie’s feelings or needs seldom if ever played into the grand scheme of anything. “Yep, and she called the rest of the money I made the interest and the lesson—depending