Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [85]
As they sped past the cluster of warehouses near Camp Nelson, Jago swiveled around and asked, “What are all those buildings?”
Holding on to the back of his seat, Asha inclined forward, delighted to give him the historical information. She smiled when he reached out and took her right hand and twined his fingers with hers. “That’s part of the old Quantico Complex—landings and warehouses for tobacco and distilleries, for back when this river was the lifeblood to central Kentucky. During the eighteen and nineteen hundreds, this was the only way to move material, people and crops. Seagram’s-Canada Dry still has warehouses at the top of the new bypass, a reminder of those bygone days.”
“Canada Dry?” he chuckled.
“Yeah, I always thought that funny. Distilleries have for centuries been drawn to invest in the area. Also, Kentucky tobacco was the highest grade fetching British money to pour into the Complex. Second sons from Scotland and England came here, settled and made their fortunes. The complex developed its own microcosm, homes, secondary businesses such as ferry landings, taverns, a sawmill, gristmill and even a gunpowder plant. That proved vital during the Civil War. Strange to think of how busy an area this once was, the heart of Kentucky commerce. Even into the 1950s it still had heavy barge traffic, and on weekends was riddled with pleasure-boaters and water-skiers. Of course, that was when people swam in the water with little worry about the quality. Now it’s polluted; abandoned mines, malfunctioning and nonexistent septic systems, animal waste or runoff from crop chemicals are in the upper portion of the watershed. The state is working to improve the quality, and they’re making inroads.”
“Odd, it seems so deserted,” Jago commented, turning to watch what had once been a thriving community disappear into the distance. “So all that grew up around the warehouses and businesses? It’s similar to what happened—on a smaller scale—with The Windmill.”
Asha gave a faint nod and settled back on the bench. His observation unsettled her deeply. He was right; there were similarities between the old Quantico Complex and her teeny community ’round The Windmill. And while her feelings for Jago made it too easy to forget what brought him to Kentucky, if somehow Trident Ventures ever got their hands on The Windmill it wouldn’t linger as a relic of how days had once been; it’d be leveled and turned into a shopping mall and apartments, their quirky way of life lost forevermore.
Burying the sadness those thoughts brought, she tried to re-summon her pleasure in cruising along the picturesque river as it twisted and turned, each bend more breathtaking than the last. The watercourse remained deserted and quiet except for the full-throttle roar of the speedboat.
As the escarpment rose, she once more tilted forward to speak to Jago. Due to the higher velocity Liam was now running at, she nearly had to shout to be heard. “Up there is Boone’s Cave. When the old cliff road was still in use you could glimpse it in the curve of one bend. Supposedly, Daniel Boone spent the winter there hiding from Indians. Very small, they say, about three-feet tall and continually wet, but if you crawl in far enough there is a room, which opens up and is dry. Those cables up there”—she pointed at the ones that ran from the lower Camp Nelson area to the very top of the opposite hill, up the nearly four-hundred-foot incline—“used to be for a cable car. Long time ago that took people past the cave.”
“Not much to look at.” Jago seemed unimpressed.
“I guess that’s why the Lookout Restaurant and the cable car went out of business in the 1950s.” Asha chuckled, but the small laugh died as Jago leaned close, cupped her chin and kissed her. All thoughts of playing tour guide fled her smitten brain, as she stared in his beautiful green eyes, so deep and dark, so full of mysteries. I love this man, love this