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I snicker a laugh, and I can feel as the rest of my body relaxes into the saddle.
He watches in amusement. “Ready now?”
I smile back. “Sure.”
We then give our horses a gentle kick and head toward an opening in the wood line ahead.
Underneath the canopy of pines,the first part of our trip through the woods is a silent one as our horses tromp single file over the dirt path, Jake in front. And it’s kind of…nice. Just us, the warm afternoon, beautiful beasts, and the occasional skittering creature. A woodpecker hammers away at a tree in the distance.
But despite all the serenity and soft, humming energy of nature, it’s not long before I feel the urge to dive into my element. Into my known—asking questions. Because this time, Randy Travis isn’t here to fill the silence between us.
“Lovely property,” I start. “How long has your family lived here?”
“They built this place when I was turning ten, so about twenty years.”
“Why here?”
He thinks about it a minute. “They looked at a lot of places in Georgia, from all the way up in North Georgia down to Valdosta.” He flicks a knowing smile over his shoulder. “They probably wore their agent out.”
I’m sure they did. I don’t know Harris, but I know enough about Magnolia to understand what he means.
“Dad fell in love with this place because they found an old distillery back here.”
“Like…moonshine?”
“He took it as an omen.”
Huh. “So he likes moonshine?”
His shoulders bounce as he chuckles. “He was more of a whiskey drinker.” Another look, but this one lingers. “Do you know about Nascar’s history?”
“I don’t,” I admit.
“And you used to cover Nascar races,” he teases. “Shame on you.”
My cheeks heat again. He only thinks I used to cover them, so I let it go. “What’s the connection?”
“That’s how Nascar got started—bootlegging.”
Bootlegging.
“The distilleries during the prohibition used drivers in ordinary-looking cars to smuggle the goods. Ever heard of the term stock?”
“Like a stock car?”
“Like a stock car. It meant they looked normal, so they wouldn’t flag the attention of the police. But the cars were actually anything but normal. They had special shocks and springs to make the ride smoother. And they didn’t have backseats to make room for the crates of liquor.”
A memory of something my dad watched springs to mind. “Like Dukes of Hazzard.” I don’t think he heard me.
“They also had souped-up engines.”
To outrun the law.
“And when they weren’t running liquor, in their free time they would get together and race. But when the prohibition ended, they had all these cars and really no need for them anymore, so they continued to race. And a guy named Big Bill France organized a team to come up with rules and such for the races…and Nascar was born.”
Huh.
“So, when my dad found the old distillery on this land, he knew it was meant to be.”
