“Whisky isnae food, you dolt.”
“And you aren’t Uncle Fergus. Is he speaking to you yet?”
“Aye. Cursing at me. Says you’re off on a fool’s errand. Americans have been making their own whisky for hundreds of years, according to Fergus. Even they can figure out a three-ingredient recipe in that much time.”
Despite the hour, despite the lingering dreams of Bridget, the part of Magnus’s mind that was always open for business had awakened.
“How do I get him off the board of directors, Elias? The old boy’s grown forgetful and difficult.”
“And the forgetfulness is probably half the reason for his bad disposition.” Elias sounded as if he might have been talking around a mouthful of warm, buttery scone. “You don’t want him off the board, Magnus. If he retires or otherwise becomes incapacitated, Cousin Aileen could take his place.”
Now there was a nightmare to strike fear into an honest distiller’s heart. “She’s… two years his junior?”
“And a more rabid opponent of the grape and the grain, you never did meet.”
There were plenty of teetotaling Scots, but most of them grasped that two hundred distilleries added a great deal to the national economy, in employment and tourist appeal.
“Better the devil I know,” Magnus said, running his hand over the pillow he’d apparently been clutching in his dreams. “Are you through depriving me of my beauty sleep?”
“God knows you need it. Can I at least conclude your last text was about a frolic instead of a spying mission?”
“What was my last text?” Magnus could recite what he’d texted verbatim. He’d considered each word and whether to even send it.
“The one about ‘have arrived at such-and-such hotel and am enjoying the local sights.’ At midnight, you were enjoying local sights?”
“Montana by moonlight would take your breath away, Elias. Keep your Amalfi Coast and your Moroccan camel treks. This place is special.”
Magnus hadn’t meant to say that, but Elias was thousands of miles away. The admission wasn’t as damning as if they’d been sharing a bottle in Great-Grandda’s Plaid Purgatory.
“If you can notice that much, there’s hope for you. Stick to the well-groomed slopes, please. If anything happens to you, I become the acting CEO of your pot still, and I’ve no wish to take on that thankless task.”
“Love you too.”
Elias ended the call on a snort.
A friendly, cousinly snort.
Magnus set his phone on the night table and rummaged among his emotions for homesickness.
He missed his distillery. Missed the yeasty, fruity, wonderful scent of whisky aborning. He missed the cheerful sense of industry his employees brought to a trade that hadn’t changed much since their great-granddas and great-grandmams had first sampled a wee dram.
He did not miss being hounded by the accountant for quarterly spreadsheets, did not miss the constant haggling and negotiating over warehouse space, and most of all—he might not admit this even to himself in the broad light of day—he did not miss that sense of utter frustration when a batch wasn’t finishing well and the entire crew suspected it.
Whisky made the stock market look like a sure bet. The finest ingredients, most lovingly blended, entrusted to the best-quality casks, could yield a purely pedestrian product. The best distilleries, the lucky ones, had a distiller who could rescue that product with a few years of finishing in the right barrels.
Even a few months in the right barrels—sauterne, port, Madeira, bourbon, sherry—could bring out hidden depth and quality in a year that might have otherwise been disappointing.
Cromarty Distilleries, Ltd., lacked what was known in the business as a cask whisperer, and unbeknownst to the board, Magnus desperately needed one.
Shamus had delivered the gut punch: They couldn’t afford to refund even a two-week booking on the ranch’s guesthouse. The fancy Brit had paid in advance and booked the whole house for himself, and that money had already been spent on barley seed.
“We could put the refund on a credit card,” Luke said. “Give the guy back his money, let everybody in the valley know we’re starting off the year turning away paying customers.”
“No credit cards,” Shamus snapped. “Haven’t you people learned anything?”
Bridget passed Lena a slice of pizza—plain, extra cheese, because in this one particular, Lena still expressed a preference. The Sunday afternoon pizza run had become something of a ritual for them in recent months, a gesture in the direction of female bonding. More and more, Bridget and Lena were coming home to a weekly bickering session around the kitchen table.
“Or,” Luke went on, as if Shamus hadn’t spoken, “we could tell the nice man we’ve changed our minds. We don’t want his money, we won’t honor his reservation, and oh, by the way, the weather’s supposed to turn crap-awful on Tuesday.”
“The weather turned nasty the day you invited this guy to steal my distillery,” Bridget snapped. “I’ll put his refund on my credit cards, or on the distillery, and you idiots can pay me back over time.” With interest, of course.
“You will do no such thing,” Shamus said. “I can ask the bank…”
“You can’t ask the bank.” Patrick spoke up for the first time. He looked like hell, suggesting he’d spent Saturday night cozied up to a bottle, another weekly ritual. “Not again. Why not let the guy have his two weeks, show him around the ranch until he has saddle sores on his saddle sores. He can catch some spring powder on the slopes, and Bridget can give him a tour of the distillery. We can’t force you to sell to him, Bridget, but anything less than the usual Logan Bar hospitality would be just plain stupid when he’s paid for the whole guesthouse at top rates.”
That was the longest speech Patrick had given in weeks.
“We could take him on a trail ride,” Lena said.
Patrick cast a haunted look toward the window, where a mild spring day was lying to everybody about what waited for them on Tuesday.
“That’s a fine idea,” Bridget said before Patrick could pee all over his daughter’s suggestion. “Never met a greenhorn who didn’t want to play cowboy a time or two. He won’t be setting one prissy foot in my distillery though.”
“Technically,” Shamus said, helping himself to his fourth slice of pepperoni and black olives, “it’s not exclusively your distillery.”
“You had to go there,” Luke muttered.
“He’s just being honest,” Bridget said, though she refrained—barely—from pointing out that these three were not her brothers by blood. “It’s not exclusively my distillery, not my ranch, but it’s my hard work that made the distillery about the only profitable aspect of the whole Logan Bar operation. My hard work that put a free lawyer at the disposal of the family businesses. And the distillery—of which I am part owner—sits on my land.”
Patrick shoved away from the kitchen table and went to the window, turning his back to the room. Lena followed, half a slice of pizza in her hand.
“We don’t need to have this discussion now,” Luke said.
“Bull-doots we don’t,” Bridget retorted. “His Royal Majesty will be pulling in to the guesthouse parking lot before sundown, and you expect me to roll out the red carpet for the man who’ll kill my dreams.”
And for what? So the ranch could limp along for another generation? Ever since Bridget’s mother had died, the ranch had drifted. Mama had been the bookkeeper, innovator, guardian of traditions, and voice of common sense for a business as diverse as it was difficult. She’d been a kind, tolerant, and even-keeled step-mother to three grieving adolescent boys, and she’d thrived on the challenges of ranch life.
Ranches could be highly profitable, between tourist draws such as fishing and cross-country skiing, livestock, crops, timber, horses, and wool, but ranches went under every year as well.
Development had hit Montana years ago, turning good land into dude ranches, trust-fund mansions, upscale hunting lodges, and ski
chalets. Foreign oil imports had dropped radically, but so had fossil fuel consumption domestically. Any ranch that depended on mineral leases to make ends meet was on borrowed time. Beef consumption was dropping, but Montana weather made crop farming a dicey proposition.
Change had come to the ranching way of life, and the Logan Bar had yet to adjust.
Or the Logan brothers had yet to adjust.
“I don’t see as we have much choice,” Patrick said. “We took the man’s money, we can’t pay it back easily, and if we ever do need to sell the distillery, sending the first potential buyer down the drive without a how-de-do won’t help our prospects. Why can’t you at least listen to what he has to say, Bridget? You might learn something about the European market or the latest technology.”
“I keep up with the tech through the industry publications. Because I have not one dime to expand with, I don’t give a hearty heck-yeah what the European market is doing.”
Lena took her father’s hand, and abruptly, Bridget wished she’d kept her mouth shut.
A distillery was a business. A legacy too, and a livelihood for Bridget, but Lena had lost her mother. What would happen to the girl if the ranch went under? Her daddy was halfway to lost already, and her mama was pushing up daisies.
“I will make an effort to be hospitable to the raider you buttheads have invited into our midst,” Bridget said, “but I make no guarantees. If he gets too uppity, if he doesn’t show my operation proper respect, then you prodigies can just explain to him that you offered him a distillery that’s not for sale. As far as I’m concerned, he’s here to kick tires and take a write-off vacation, nothing more.”
A sigh of fraternal relief went around the room. They’d been worried, and that was good. For their high-handedness, for their lack of trust in Bridget and respect for her, they should be worried.
“Lena, you going to help me slice the apple pie?” Bridget asked. If Judith had been alive, they would have at least had a salad to go with this cardiac disaster of a menu.
Lena was taking a bite of pizza. She dropped her father’s hand and pointed out the window as tires crunched over gravel.
“The enemy has arrived,” Bridget said, shoving away from the table. “And you can expect the longest two weeks of your lives to commence the minute his majesty puts his suitcase down in that guesthouse. You will keep him away from me and from my business to the greatest extent possible, and you will let me choose when to show him the distillery.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Three for three. They were perfect gentlemen when they’d gotten away with being idiots. Bridget could never hate her brothers, but they surely did turn up tiresome more than was convenient.
A knock sounded on the front door. A good solid rap of the knocker. Lena scampered from the room, waving the crust of her pizza. Neither her father nor her uncles made any move to call her back, which meant Bridget would have to admit the enemy to the castle herself.
The family was falling apart, and thus the ranch stood little chance of surviving. All the more reason for Bridget to protect the distillery. She tromped across the great room with a sense of doom and barely beat Lena to the front door.
The great room was intended to welcome and impress, with a huge river rock fireplace along the far wall, exposed beams, woven rugs over hardwood floors, knotty pine paneling in all directions, and diabolically comfy furniture. The place needed dusting, though, needed fresh flowers and the little touches Mama had instinctively added.
Bridget dredged up a false smile. This guy wasn’t her enemy, but he wasn’t the ranch’s savior either. She had two weeks to explain that to him.
She swung the door open and stepped back. “Welcome to the Logan—”
Magnus stood on the front porch, his cheeks ruddy, his dark hair tousled by the Montana wind. The sheer pleasure of seeing him lasted about a nanosecond before reality slammed through Bridget.
His interest in whisky, his Scottish accent, his claim to be on vacation.
On holiday, to use his term. It all made a rotten kind of sense.
“You low-down, slithering, disgusting, creeping excuse for a vile, humping, conscienceless reptile,” Bridget growled. “Get off this property and don’t come back.”
She slammed the door, only to see Lena staring at her. The girl’s chin began to quiver, and she bolted straight up the stairs as Luke, Patrick, and Shamus all emerged from the kitchen.
Chapter 4
Did reptiles hump?
That inane question swirled through Magnus’s brain as he wrestled with the notion that the woman he’d glimpsed for half a second in the open doorway had borne a delightful resemblance to Bridget.
A girl had stood by her side. A mixed-race little sprite with what looked like spaghetti sauce on her cheek and a crust of bread in her hand.
Then boom—literally—the enormous door had slammed shut.
It opened again. “Excuse my sister for her unique sense of humor,” a tall blond man said. “You must be Mr. Cromarty. Welcome.”
Bridget—had that been Bridget?—was nowhere to be seen, but two other tall blond men were in evidence, trying to smile.
“I am Magnus Cromarty. Have I found the Logan Bar ranch?” The turnoff to the drive was well marked, with a timber sign anchored in native stone, but that had been several miles ago.
“You have,” the official greeter said. “I’m Luke Logan, and these are my brothers, Shamus and Patrick. I’ll show you around your new home away from home, and if you have any luggage—”
“I’ll show him around.”
Bridget stood on a flight of steps leading from a truly impressive room. The American West was embodied in this room as a rugged, lovely, comfortable haven. The woman on the steps was furious, though, and nothing would protect Magnus from her wrath.
Which made no sense.
“Thank you,” Magnus said. “I wouldn’t want to put anybody to any bother.”
Bridget descended the rest of the steps and clomped to the front door. “You won’t be any bother at all, I can guarantee you that, mister. Luke, fetch his gear. Patrick, see to your daughter. Shamus, you can start cleaning up supper before the cats get after the pepperonis.”
These must be the infamous brothers, though they scurried off at her command like chastened puppies.
“Bridget?” Magnus didn’t dare touch her, though he wanted to. She had clearly added him to the list of men with whom she was furious, and he had no intention of remaining on that list.
“That would be me,” she said, rounding on him. “What sick sense of humor inspires a man to charm his way right into the enemy’s skivvies, Magnus? I don’t expect much from the male of the species, but that’s a new low in my experience.”
“How did I become your enemy?”
“We’ll discuss that later, when my brothers aren’t lurking in the bushes, thinking up more inspired ways to ruin my life.” She snatched a patchwork quilted jacket from a peg on the wall and flounced out the door.
A gentleman didn’t argue with a lady, not when her expression promised to geld him at the first opportunity. Magnus followed Bridget across the driveway to a handsome stone and timber house with a roofed porch. Luke Logan followed with Magnus’s suitcase and carry-on.
“Thank you,” Magnus said.
“Your groceries got here a couple hours ago,” Luke said. “If you need anything, we’re just a—”
“Beat it, Luke,” Bridget said. “Braveheart and I are due for a parley.”
Luke’s gaze skittered from his sister to Magnus. “You two know each other?”
“No,” Bridget said, just as Magnus answered, “We’re acquainted.”
“That’s… that’s good, I hope,” Luke said, taking himself down the steps. “Bridget, we’ll save you a slice of pie.”
That was a warning of some sort, obvious even to Magnus, who had no siblings.
“Inside,” Bridget said, producing a key from the pocket of her jeans. “Get inside and prepare to explain why
in the hell I should give you the time of day much less a tour of my distillery.”
Her distillery? “Because,” Magnus said, “if ever you should come to Scotland, I’d be happy to give you a tour of my facilities.”
“I’ve seen your facilities, Magnus. I never want to tour them again.”
Bridget’s sense of betrayal was wonderfully righteous, and yet, a stupid corner of her heart hoped that Magnus hadn’t spent the night with her in anticipation of stealing her distillery. Then too, her rage felt a little too good, a little too handy.
She had many, many reasons to be angry, and they weren’t all Magnus’s fault, even if he was in Montana to take her business from her.
He leaned against the guesthouse kitchen counter, looking windblown and wary in his jeans and a flannel shirt. He also looked tired.
“Are you hydrating?” Bridget asked.
“Bridget, I’m not a sot.”
Did anybody sound as offended as an indignant Scot?
“The elevation here is nearly a mile above sea level,” Bridget said, opening the fridge. “If you’re used to living at lower altitudes, then you need time to adjust. You’re also probably not accustomed to how dry it can be here.”
She filled a glass half way with organic raspberry juice—he could afford organic raspberry juice, of course—and topped it off with seltzer water.
“Drink that.”
He crossed his arms. “Not unless you join me, Bridget. You told your brother that you and I are due to parley. That means discussion, not you giving orders while the rest of the world scurries to do your bidding.”
She took a sip of his drink, realized what she’d done—damn, it was good—then shoved it at him.
“Nobody scurries to do my bidding, Magnus. That’s a problem I aim to fix. The Logan brothers suffer a deficit of scurry-ness, but they’re educable, given enough patience and a cattle prod.”
Big Sky Ever After: a Montana Romance Duet Page 27