{"product_id":"the-angels-share-isbn-9780451475299","title":"The Angels' Share","description":"\u003cb\u003e“\u003ci\u003eDownton Abbey \u003c\/i\u003emeets \u003ci\u003eDynasty\u003c\/i\u003e in this richly imagined, captivating family saga,” said USAToday.com about \u003ci\u003eThe Bourbon Kings\u003c\/i\u003e. Now the series continues, as the Bradford family’s facade of privilege and prosperity is threatened by secrets and indiscretions. . . .\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Bradford family is the crème de la crème of high society in Charlemont, Kentucky—just like their exclusive brand of bourbon. But no one is above suspicion once the apparent suicide of the family patriarch begins to look like murder—especially the eldest Bradford son, Edward. The bad blood between his father and him is known far and wide. As the investigation intensifies, he keeps himself busy at the bottom of a bottle—and with two women who may or may not have his best interests at heart...\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Then, on the very brink of the family’s demise, someone thought lost to them forever returns to the fold. Maxwell Bradford has come home. But is he a savior . . . or the worst of all the sinners?\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Angels’ Share\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “The lush descriptions make Kentucky and the rarefied bourbon aristocracy spring to life . . . an utterly mesmerizing glimpse at the lifestyles of the flawed rich and the famous.”—Fresh Fiction\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Well-drawn characters, razor-sharp dialogue and truly stunning twists and turns kept me turning pages faster than I really wanted to, wishing to savor every nuance of this engrossing novel.”—The Book Review\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “There is a little something for everyone: a glimpse into the lifestyles of the Southern aristocracy, murder, mystery, sex, and intrigue.”—Lit Buzz\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Bourbon Kings\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Fantastically and compulsively engrossing, as readers will undoubtedly fall through an irresistible rabbit hole that leads to murder, adultery, kidnapping, embezzlement, sins, lies, and love.”—USAToday.com\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A sweeping saga where family roots run deep and passion sizzles hotter than a Kentucky summer.”—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Gena Showalter\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “The drama never stops in this tale of family secrets, lost love found, rivalries, delightfully nasty villains, and deliciously appealing heroes.”—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Susan Wiggs\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Breathless fun!!”—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Lisa Gardner\u003cb\u003eJ. R. Ward\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of more than twenty previous novels, including those in her #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling series, the Black Dagger Brotherhood. She is also the author of the Black Dagger Legacy series and \u003ci\u003eThe Bourbon Kings\u003c\/i\u003e. There are more than fifteen million copies of Ward’s novels in print worldwide, and they have been published in twenty-six different countries around the world.ONE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Big Five Bridge, Charlemont, Kentucky\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jonathan Tulane Baldwine leaned out over the rail of the new      bridge that connected Charlemont,       Kentucky, with its closest Indiana neighbor, New Jefferson. The Ohio River was fifty feet below, the      muddy, swollen waters reflecting the multicolored lights that      graced each of the span's five arches. As he rose up onto the tips      of his loafers, he felt as though he were falling, but that was      merely an illusion.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He imagined his father jumping off this very ledge to his death.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e William Baldwine's body had been found at the base of the Falls of      the Ohio two days ago. And for all of the man's accomplishments in      life, for all of his lofty pursuits, he had ended his mortal coil      tangled and mangled in a boat slip. Next to an old fishing      trawler. That had a resale value of two hundred bucks. Three      hundred, tops.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Oh, the ignominy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What had it been like to fall? There must have been a rushing      breeze in the face as William had been fisted by gravity and      pulled down to the water. Clothes must have flapped as flags,      slapping against body and leg. Eyes must have watered, from gust      or perhaps even emotion?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e No, it would have been the former.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The impact had to have hurt. And then what? A shocked inhale that      had sucked the river's foul waves in? A choking sense of      suffocation? Or did a knockout render him blissfully unaware? Or .      . . perhaps it had all ended with a heart attack from the      adrenaline overload of the descent, a stinging pain in the center      of the chest radiating down the left arm, preventing a lifesaving      swim stroke. Had he still been conscious when the coal barge hit      him, when that propeller had chewed him up? Certainly, by the time      he went over the falls, he was dead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lane wished he knew for sure that the man had suffered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To know that there had been pain, tremendous, agonizing pain, and      also fear, a ringing, overwhelming fear, would have been a      powerful relief, a balm to the swill of emotions that his father's      watery death caused him to drown in even while he stood on dry      land.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Over sixty-eight million dollars you stole,\" Lane said into the      uncaring wind, the disinterested drop, the bored current down      below. \"And the company's in even more debt. What the hell did you      do with it? Where did the money go?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was no answer coming up at him, of course. And that would      have been the same if the man were still alive and Lane were      confronting him in person.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"And my wife,\" he barked. \"You fucked my wife. Under the roof you      shared with my mother-and got Chantal pregnant.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Not that Lane's marriage to the former Chantal Blair Stowe had      been anything other than a certificate he'd been coerced into      putting his name to. But at least he was owning that mistake and      taking care of it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"No wonder Mother is a drug addict. No wonder she hides. She must      have known about the other women, must have known who and what you      were, you bastard.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As Lane closed his eyes, he saw a dead body-but not his father's      swollen, mottled mess of a corpse on that slab from when Lane had      gone to the morgue to ID the remains. No, he saw a woman sitting      upright in her office at the family's mansion, her sensible,      modest skirt and button-down blouse arranged perfectly, her bobbed      hair only a little mussed, grass-stained running shoes on her feet      instead of the flats she had always worn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There had been a horrible grimace on her face. The Joker's mad      grin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e From the hemlock she had taken.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He'd found that body two days before his father had jumped.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Rosalinda is dead because of you, you sonofabitch. She worked for      you in our house for thirty years, and you might as well have      killed her yourself.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She was the reason Lane had found out about the missing money. The      former controller for the family's household accounts had left a      kind of suicide note behind, a USB drive with Excel spreadsheets      showing the alarming withdrawals, the transfers to WWB Holdings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e William Wyatt Baldwine Holdings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There were a good sixty-eight million reasons she had poisoned      herself. All because Lane's father had forced her to do unethical      things until her sense of decency had snapped her in half.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"And I know what you did to Edward. I know that was your fault,      too. You set your own son up in South America. They kidnapped him      because of you, and you refused to pay the ransom so they'd kill      him. Business rival gone while you get to look like the grieving      father. Or did you do it because he, too, suspected that you were      stealing?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Edward had survived, except Lane's older brother was now nothing      but a ruined shell with an irregular heartbeat, no longer the heir      apparent to the business, the throne, the crown.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e William Baldwine had done so much evil.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And these things were only what Lane knew about. What else was out      there?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Equally important was what to do about it all. What could he do?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He felt like he was at the helm of a great ship that had been      turned to a rocky shore-right before its rudder snapped off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e With a quick surge of strength, he swung his legs up and over the      heavy steel railing, his loafers slapping on the six-inch lip on      the far side. Heart pumping, hands and feet going numb, mouth      drying out until he could not swallow, he held on behind his hips      with an under-grip and leaned even farther into the abyss.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What had it felt like?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He could jump-or just step off . . . and fall, fall, fall until he      knew for certain what his father had been through. Would he end up      in the same boathouse slip? Would his body also find the propeller      of a barge and be great white'd in the filthy fresh waters of the      Ohio?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In his mind, clear as day, he heard his momma say in her deep      Southern drawl, God does not give us more than we can handle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Miss Aurora's faith had certainly seen her through more things      than most mere mortals could bear. As an African-American growing      up in the South in the fifties, she had faced discrimination and      injustices he couldn't even imagine, and yet Miss Aurora had more      than endured, triumphing in culinary school, running the gourmet      kitchen at Easterly not just like a French chef, but better-while      also mothering him and his brothers and sister as no one else had,      becoming the soul of Easterly, the touchstone for so many.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The beacon that, until he had met his Lizzie, had been the only      light on the horizon for him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lane wished he believed as his momma did. And oh, God, Miss Aurora      even had faith in him, faith that he would turn this all around,      save the family, be the man she knew he could be.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Be the man his father was not and never had been, no matter the      trappings of his wealth and success.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jump, he could just jump. And it was over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Was that what his father had thought? With the lies and the      embezzlement being exposed, with Rosalinda's death a harbinger for      the dirge of discovery, had William come here because he alone      knew the true extent of what he had done and the depth of the hole      that had to be dug out? Had he recognized that the game was up,      his time was coming, and even with all his financial acumen, he      wasn't going to be able to solve the problem he'd created?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Or had he decided to fake his own death-and failed by succeeding?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Was somewhere, out there, perhaps in an offshore account or in a      bank vault in Switzerland, under his name or another's, everything      that had been siphoned off?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So many questions. And the lack of answers, coupled with the      stress of having to fix it all, was the kind of thing that could      drive you insane.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lane refocused on the waters. He could barely see them from this      height. In fact . . . he could see nothing but blackness with the      merest hint of a shimmer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was, he realized, a certain siren call to the coward's way      out, a pull, like gravity, to an end that he could control: One      hard impact and it was all over and done with, the deaths, the      deceit, the debt. Everything wiped clean, the festering infection      that was going to hold no longer and was about to be unleashed      publicly nothing to worry about anymore.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Had there been sleepless nights for his father? Regrets? When      William had stood here, had there been a to-and-fro about should      he\/shouldn't he fly for a few moments and be done with the      terrible mess he had created? Had the man even once considered the      ramifications of his actions, an over two-hundred-year-old fortune      wiped out not even in a generation, but in a matter of a year or      two?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wind whistled in Lane's ears, that siren call.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Edward, his older, formerly perfect brother, was not going to      clean all this up. Gin, his only sister, was incapable of thinking      about anything other than herself. Maxwell, his other brother, had      been MIA for three years now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His mother was bedbound and drug-addled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So everything was in the hands of a poker-playing, former manwhore      with no financial, managerial, or relevant practical experience.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e All he had, at long last, was the love of a good woman.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But in this horrible reality . . . even that wasn't going to help      him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Toyota trucks were not supposed to go seventy-five miles an hour.      Especially when they were ten years old.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At least the driver was wide awake, even though it was four a.m.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lizzie King had a death grip on the steering wheel, and her foot      on the accelerator was actually catching floor as she headed for a      rise in the highway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She had woken up in her bed at her farmhouse alone. Ordinarily,      that would have been the status quo, but not anymore, not now that      Lane was back in her life. The wealthy playboy and the estate's      gardener had finally gotten their act together, love bonding two      unlikelies closer and stronger than the molecules of a diamond. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And she was going to stand by him, no matter what the future held.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After all, it was so much easier to give up extraordinary wealth      when you had never known it, never aspired to it-and especially      when you had seen behind its glittering curtain to the sad,      desolate desert on the far side of the glamour and prestige.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e God, the stress Lane was under.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And so out of bed she had gotten. Down the creaking stairs she had      gone. And all around her little house's first floor she had      wandered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When Lizzie had looked outside, she'd discovered his car was      missing, the Porsche he drove and parked beside the maple by her      front porch nowhere to be seen. And as she had wondered why he had      left without telling her, she had begun to worry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Just a matter of nights since his father had killed himself, only      a matter of days since William Baldwine's body had been found on      the far side of the Falls of the Ohio. And ever since then Lane's      face had had a faraway look, his mind churning always with the      missing money, the divorce papers he had served on the rapacious      Chantal, the status of the household bills, the precarious      situation at the Bradford Bourbon Company, his brother Edward's      terrible physical condition, Miss Aurora's illness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But he hadn't said a thing about any of it. His insomnia had been      the only sign of the pressure, and that was what scared her. Lane      always made an effort to be composed around her, asking her about      her work in Easterly's gardens, rubbing her bad shoulder, making      her dinner, usually badly, but who cared. Ever since they had      gotten the air cleared between them and had fully recommitted to      their relationship, he had all but moved into her farmhouse-and as      much as she loved having him with her, she had been waiting for      the implosion to occur.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It would almost have been easier if he had been ranting and      raving.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And now she feared that time had come-and some sixth sense made      her terrified about where he had gone. Easterly, the Bradford      Family Estate, was the first place she thought of. Or maybe the      Old Site, where his family's bourbon was still made and stored. Or      perhaps Miss Aurora's Baptist church?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Yes, Lizzie had tried him on his phone. And when the thing had      rung on the table on his side of the bed, she hadn't waited any      longer after that. Clothes on. Keys in hand. Out to the truck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e No one else was on I-64 as she headed for the bridge to get across      the river, and she kept the gas on even as she crested the hill      and hit the decline to the river's edge on the Indiana side. In      response, her old truck picked up even more speed along with a      death rattle that shook the wheel and the seat, but the damn      Toyota was going to hold it together because she needed it to.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Lane . . . where are you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e God, all the times she had asked him how he was and he'd said,      \"Fine.\" All those opportunities to talk that he hadn't taken her      up on. All the glances she'd shot him when he hadn't been looking      her way, all the time her monitoring for signs of cracking or      strain. And yet there had been little to no emotion after that one      moment they'd had together in the garden, that private, sacred      moment when she had sought him out under the blooms of the fruit      trees and told him that she'd gotten it wrong about him, that she      had misjudged him, that she was prepared to make a pledge to him      with the only thing she had: the deed to her farmhouse-which was      exactly the kind of asset that could be sold to help pay for the      lawyers' fees as he fought to save his family.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lane had held her, and told her he loved her-and refused her gift,      explaining he was going to fix everything himself, that he was      going to somehow find the stolen money, pay back the enormous      debt, right the company, resurrect his family's fortunes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And she had believed him.","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303149097189,"sku":"NP9780451475299","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780451475299.jpg?v=1767738094","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-angels-share-isbn-9780451475299","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}