Whiskey & Ashes, page 3
“You’re Mr. Buchanan’s youngest, right?” Ezekiel asked as he held a low branch away to allow them to pass. “I met your brother Moolton in town he told us about the orchard and the apples.”
“I am.”, she replied. “And you’re William Gouge’s son the one with the short leg.”
Ezekiel blinked, then laughed. “That’s one way to say it.”
“I meant no offense,” she said, lips twitching. “We visited with your kin here last week at a barn raising for a neighbor. They said they had got a letter saying that you were coming for a visit. Your cousins talk plenty. They told me he was in the war.”
“He was with the Union Calvary. Gave more than most, came back with less than others.”
“I understand,” Pantha said, “my Pa was in the war too, 58th Infantry. He was a confederate as were most of the men in this area. He came back without physical injuries, but you can see the hurt in his eyes even now.”
They reached a tree heavy with blushed apples. The colors variegated from pinkish red to pale-yellow green. Pantha reached up and plucked one, handing it to him.
“Try it,” she said. “You’ll know if it’s worth trading.”
He bit in and chewed, eyebrows lifting. “Tart. But clean. Firm flesh and not mealy. It’d make a fine brandy.”
She turned to him. “Is that what you’re after? Fruit for mash?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve been working on my peach and apple brandy receipts. I think I just about got it right” He looked at Pantha more closely. A slender but strong girl he could see by the way she easily lifted the baskets of apples in the orchard as he had approached on the wagon road. She was not a great beauty but had fine features and a smile that reached her soft brown eyes and made a man want to look twice.
She noticed him looking and it made her blush; she turned to pick a few more apples questioning. “How many bushels you think you gonna need?”
“I aim to leave with about ten bushels if we can make an agreement on price. But I reckon I came for more than apples.”
She arched a brow. “Did you now?”
He smiled, not cocky, but curious. “You’re not like the girls in Limestone Cove.”
“Good,” she said. “I’ve no interest in being like anyone else.”
He chuckled at that. This was a girl he wanted to get to know.
From the ridge, Delilah called out, “Pantha! You got any pears?”
“In the far corner closer to the barn!” Pantha shouted back. She looked at Ezekiel again. “She’s sweet.”
“She’s trouble, and I think she has taken liking to your brother. She talked about him the whole way here after we met him” he said smiling and shaking his head.
The orchard went quiet for a moment, just wind and breath between them.
“I will be at my kin's till the end of the week, can I come by again before I leave for home?” Ezekiel asked.
“I think I’d like that.” Pantha replied.
He took her hand and looked at her squarely but softly. “I see a future. Might not be all mapped out, but I aim to build something real.”
Pantha tilted her head, considering. “Then start by helping with the baskets.”
He dropped her hand chuckling and stepped forward without hesitation.
And there, under the orchard’s dappled shade, with the scent of apples, sweat and ambition thick in the air, something passed between them. Not a promise. Not yet. But the first quiet echo of something lasting.
Nearby, Delilah chased a bird through the branches, laughing.
And in that patch of mountain earth, two futures began to root side by side.
Bakersville, North Carolina, Autumn 1878
Two years had gone by. Ezekiel found more frequent excuses to visit Bakersville and Delilah was his constant companion. She and Pantha’s brother Moolton had started writing to each other and soon the couples were planning their futures. Pantha’s father offered a place for each of his children to live and in October, after the last harvest in the orchard, the couples would say their vows.
The trees burned gold and crimson along the ridgelines, wind whispering through their thinning crowns like an old hymn. Pantha wore a blue dress, her mother gifted her the fabric, and it was pieced with her own careful stitches. Not showy, but fine enough to mark the day and still be used for Sundays. She stood beside Ezekiel beneath an apple tree where they first me, her hand in his. His arm trembled slightly as he took her fingers, though his voice was steady when he said the words.
Delilah and Moolton stood just beyond, hands clasped, waiting their turn. A double ceremony. Time was tight, and winter in the mountains would not wait. There were cabins to finish and pens to build before the first snow.
Allen Buchanan cleared his throat as he had given his daughter away, his gaze unreadable. Ezekiel gave a single nod more vow than gesture.
When it was over, there was no grand feast, only laughter, cider, and baskets of apples. Pantha caught Ezekiel watching her across the yard while she wiped Sarah’s face, the neighbor’s toddler, and something passed between them again quiet and anchoring. A promise of a life together.
In a shaded corner beneath the apple trees, Judah Gouge, Ezekiel’s mother, stood with her hands folded, her eyes scanning the gathering with a look of contentment. A woman of few words and unshakable spine, she watched her son with a pride too quiet to boast. William stood beside her, thinner now than in his youth, his gait uneven, but his hand rested firmly in hers and lifted it to brush a kiss on her hand.
“Reminds me of our day,” he said softly. “We were of much the same age as they are now.”
That had been before. Before the world had erupted in a conflict the likes of which no one had seen before. Before the massacre in the cove while the men were away fighting. Before the war had stolen so much of his strength. But Judah could remember how he looked at her with his grey blue eyes full of light and promise, how they pledged to make a life and how she was so sure and scared at the same time.
Judah allowed the corner of her mouth to twitch upward. “You were shaking so much when you took my hand. We were so young, and we had nothing but dreams to live on.”
He chuckled. “You married me anyway.”
“I knew what I was doing.”
William turned and looked for Ezekiel, who now stood beside Pantha as family gathered in a loose semicircle around the new couples. “I know he’s found the same kind of strength with her as I did with you,” William said. “Pantha’s got a good head. She’ll keep him steady.”
Judah nodded. “He’ll need that. He’s got your heart and my fire, but more stubbornness and an iron will to succeed.”
Nearby, their little Mary Alice only six twirled in circles, her skirt fanning out like petals. She had begged to wear her Sunday dress and asked a hundred questions about veils and vows. She walked over to William and Judah and took her mother’s other hand.
“I hope I look that pretty someday,” she whispered to her mama. “Lilah and Panthy are so beautiful.”
“You will,” Judah said, smiling. “But you have a long time for that, don’t go wishing to grow up too fast.”
The men were stacking wood in the open for a fire to be lit to ward off the evening chill that settles in the mountains. Barrels of cider and two small casks of the family recipe had been unloaded for the festivities, a gift from Uncle Zeke who said he was not coming all the way from Limestone Cove for a wedding. Ezekiel’s brothers had gathered by the cider barrels, watching the whole affair with amused commentary.
“You sure you’re up for this?” Thomas asked, nudging Ezekiel in the ribs.
“There is no running now,” Nathan added, with a tilted smile. He had been married 2 years past and seemed happy.
Ezekiel glanced toward Pantha, who was holding a piece of pie while soothing a fussy child on her hip with the same hand. The tenderness she showed made him think of how she would be when their children came. The thought of that stirred something in him. It was the need to protect her, to hold her and to love her. He turned to his brothers, rising up to his full height and declared. “A wild mountain cat couldn’t tear me from her now.”
His brothers burst with laughter and clapped him on the back. “Then you’re ready,” Nathan said.
As dusk crept across the orchard, lanterns were lit, and the music began fiddle and dulcimer, played by cousins and neighbors lifted in strains of mountain ballads and lively jigs, echoes of memories passed down when the families came from England, Scotland, and Ireland generations ago. There was dancing, but not too much. Pantha and Ezekiel stood together near the orchard edge, the sound of crickets rising to join the tunes. It had been a perfect day.
“I reckon your people are all right,” she said, leaning into him.
“They think the same about yours,” he grinned and replied. “Even if they’d never admit it.”
Pantha looked up at the stars breaking through twilight. “It’s a good start.”
Ezekiel took her hand again. “It’s the only start I ever wanted.”
Bakersville, North Carolina Spring 1880
The early spring wind tugged at Pantha’s shawl as she stood at the edge of the orchard, their first child Sarah Alice cradled against her chest. The baby gurgled as Pantha pulled the shawl away to look at her daughter’s face. Little Alice blinking at the light like it surprised her each time. She tucked the shawl back to protect the little one and then pulled a paper from the pocket of her apron.
Pantha held the unfolded deed still stiff, the ink fresh. Her Papa had kept his promise and had transferred the deed to the property they built their cabin on. He had put the deed in her name. Not because he didn’t trust his son-in-law, but because he wanted his daughter protected. Whiskey was a dangerous endeavor and he meant to see she knew how to insure her family was secure from anything that came after the business or Zeke.
Ezekiel stepped up behind her, boots crunching through the frost-crusted grass. He leaned close enough to read the name again: Pantha S. Gouge. Seeing her name with his last name always gave him a warm feeling in his chest. "That looks good on paper," he said, a glint in his eye.
Pantha didn’t take her eyes off the tree line. “We have a start,” she said.
He chuckled softly and pressed his chin to her shoulder. “It’s a good place to start our life together.”
She turned to him then, pressing the paper against his chest. “We will make it a good one.”
Bakersville, North Carolina Late Summer 1881
Pantha sat cross-legged on the porch, snapping beans into a tin basin while Sarah played in the dooryard with twigs and a corn cob doll. The child’s laughter rose and fell like birdsong under the heavy warmth of the afternoon. Pantha shifted, her rounding belly firm under her apron. The new baby was due by harvest.
The sound of the latch dropping on the small barn let her know he was home from his trip. He had gone to Tennessee again. She knew he was not content in North Carolina and could see his gaze follow the ridge over the mountains like he heard a siren calling him home.
Bootsteps approached heavy, familiar, marked with the smell of road dust. Alice dropped her twigs and toddled as fast as she could towards the barn as Ezekiel appeared rounding the cabin at the edge of the porch, coat slung over his shoulder, boots caked in dried mud. He swung the now squealing Alice up in the air catching her, kissing her forehead and admonishing her to play while he saw to her mama. His dark hair was curled with sweat and wind. He had grown a mustache this past winter, she liked it but it still startled her to see it when he had been gone for some time. She would be used to it soon. His steel blue eyes burned with that look again the one he always wore when his mind had outrun his body.
Pantha lowered her head to the work of snapping beans and didn’t look back up right away. “You walked that path like a man settin’ fire behind him.”
“I saw it,” he said, voice low.
She finished snapping the few remaining beans and asked. “The property on the Watauga?”
He nodded, crouching beside her. He put his finger under her chin and lifted her head to look into her eyes and with eagerness he said, “It’s more than I hoped. Black-bottom land, soft underfoot. You can smell the richness. There’s a small orchard already grown in, and a ridge that catches the wind off the river just right. And there’s talk a spur line, runnin’ north from the gorge maybe in next five years.”
“Rail means buyers,” she said simply.
“Means reach,” he answered. “Means future.”
Pantha looked back at him then, eyes steady. “You’ve already decided.”
“I had to see it first. But yes.”
She set down the basin and wiped her hands on her apron. “You think I didn’t see this coming?”
Ezekiel paused. “You mind sayin’ it plain?”
She stood, disappeared into the house, and returned a moment later with their small lockbox. She unlatched it, revealing counted bills, silver coins, and a folded scrap of ledger paper. She had a neat list of descriptions and amounts.
“We have enough.” She spoke. “If we’re careful. For the move. For seed. Maybe even fencing.”
“You planned this?” he asked, softly.
Pantha handed him the box. “No, Zeke. I prepared for it. There’s a difference.”
“How?”, He asked.
She touched his hand and looked into his eyes. “I put back my portion of the harvest the past two years. Papa let me plant my own section when I was eight years old. I cared for the trees and any fruit from those has always been mine, and now it is ours.”
He stared at the contents, then at her. “You’d leave this place? Your family?”
“I’m not leavin’,” she said. “I’m goin’ with you. That’s different, too.”
He looked down. “It’s a hard road.”
“I have always known it would be,” she said, reaching for his hand. “But you’ve got the head to build it, and I’ve got the hands to steady it.”
Alice toddled over, holding out a half-wilted dandelion. Ezekiel took it with a grin and tucked it behind Pantha’s ear.
“You’re my home and my heart” he said.
Pantha smiled faintly. “And you are mine, now let’s go build your dream.”
They stood together on that porch, facing the open field where the road wound toward Tennessee. Behind them, family. Ahead, the unknown fertile, untested, full of risk and promise. She didn’t flinch. Neither did he.
And when they left Bakersville that September, their wagon heavy with tools and seeds and everything they dared to believe in, Pantha sat tall beside him, one hand on her belly, the other on his arm. She didn’t look back.
3
Happy Valley Rising
Carter County, Tennessee, Spring 1884
The piercing squeal and grunting of a stubborn sow rang out across the field. Pantha shaded her eyes with one hand, Nora on her hip and a half-laughing grin curling her mouth. Ezekiel and a pair of farmhands wrestled with the animal near the slop trough, boots sliding in the churned mud.
“That one’ll tear your britches off if she gets the chance,” she called.
“She already tried,” Ezekiel hollered back, winded but grinning. His shirt was soaked through, clinging to his back. Little Bertie, no more than two, sat in the grass pulling up the blades and stuffing them into a tin cup. She looked proud of her work.
Inside, the house was quiet ledgers open on the kitchen table, ink drying on the morning’s calculations. Pantha had noted feed weights, corn yield, and the slow, steady growth of the small still hidden behind the barn. They hadn’t sold a drop not yet but Ezekiel tested every batch like a scholar and put the best up for aging, taxed and bonded for when it was ready.
He called it Happy Valley in his notebook. Pantha called it promise. The corn made whiskey and fed the hogs. The hogs brought in cash for the family and building. She was a partner in every step. The small still had been registered and the excise tax paid. Fully legal. A small enterprise but legal and showing real promise.
He wrote down each recipe and she copied it the journal in her steady hand. They recorded grain ratios, heat, flavor notes with her fingertips still stained by sorghum and ash from helping him at the still.
That night, with the children asleep, Ezekiel sat at the table, a lantern flickering between them. He turned a page in the ledger, brows furrowed. Pantha sat near mending a torn shirt by hand, the thread pulled tight. The newest edition to their growing family, a third daughter, Nora Caroline, only a few weeks old in the cradle at her feet.
“Batch sixteen was clean,” he murmured. “Less bite.”
She didn’t look up. “You adjusted the rye.”
He nodded. “That obvious?”
“Always is when you’re second-guessing yourself.”
He looked at her then. “I’m not sure I could’ve managed all this without you.”
Pantha tied off the thread and bit it loose. “Sure you could’ve. You’d just be eating burnt cornbread and miscountin’ your taxes.”
He laughed low and full. “Reckon I married up.”
“You did,” she said, folding the shirt and placing it in his lap. “But you’re learnin’ fast.”
Carter County, Tennessee 1886, near the Watauga River
Dawn broke cold over the Watauga, a gray breath of fog lifting slowly off the river as Ezekiel stood at the door of his new distillery and warehouse. The oak barrels stacked behind him gave off a low, sweet scent sour mash and charred wood the pungent soul of what he’d spent so many years working toward. Most of the barrels were full of Happy Valley Whiskey, his signature product. The name had come to him in a quiet moment, and it fit. The valley on the river where his distillery stood and you could see the small town of Butler in the distance at the next bend of the river. Happy Valley was not just a place it was a description of this place he now called home. Where he farmed, distilled, and raised a family. Simple. Earned. Honest.
