Then she sauntered out into the gathering wind and dropping temperatures. Nate watched her ass on general principles, then winked at the woman ringing up purchases, and tipped his hat to the high school girls.
“You are perfectly capable of driving yourself up here on your own,” Patrick Logan observed. “Why drag Bridget along?”
“Because I’m tired of driving on the wrong side of the road,” Magnus replied, scooting back to avoid being whacked in the face with a snowboard.
“That is bullpoop.”
“No, it is not.” Though it might qualify as a metaphor. “On the interstates, there are far fewer decisions to make. You pick a lane and stay in it for a hundred miles. On the surface streets is where it gets confusing, and backroads are probably the most difficult of all. Then too, there’s the altitude, which tires a fellow out.”
“You are a bad liar.”
“Thank you. If you were looking to pick up women after a day of skiing, where would you start?”
Patrick was wearing dark sunglasses, but even so, his disgust with the question was obvious. Nonetheless, he looked around at four or five possibilities. That so much commercial enticement should be situated atop beautiful mountains fell somewhere between genius and sacrilege.
“That one,” Patrick said, pointing across a small square dotted with evergreens, benches, and grimy piles of snow.
“Why?”
“No families spilling out the front door, no amusement-park vibe to the décor, the gamblers won’t be there, and it’s not shouting a five-star price tag.” He took off his sunglasses and shaded a hand over his eyes. “It won’t be too dark inside during the day, given the orientation and fenestration, and the path from there to the hotels will be well lit at night. That matters to the ladies.”
At some point, a lady had mattered to Patrick Logan. “What’s fenestration?”
“Arrangement and design of the windows. Are we going to stand here all day working on your boyish tan or get on with this?”
Without the sunglasses, Patrick Logan looked like a wilderness survivor. His complexion was sallow, his face gaunt, his eyes weary.
“Get on with this,” Magnus said, “though for a holiday, a Scot will almost always look for a place to lie in the sun. We’re like seals. Give us a warm sunny rock, and we’re in heaven. All you have to do is go in there and ask for a shot of Logan Bar twelve-year-old single malt.”
Patrick stopped walking. “I don’t drink Bridget’s whisky. I don’t drink single malt whisky, period.”
“And you won’t be drinking any here. They don’t stock it, so when the bartender offers you something else, you look aggrieved, sigh mightily, and tell him you’ll try elsewhere.”
“While you do what?”
“Ask for a copy of the menu and wine list, as if I want to take them up to my room to placate a demanding partner.”
Two brunettes went laughing through the doorway several yards away. Their noses were red, their hair windblown, and they wore the loose, synthetic attire of athletes after a workout. One of them glanced at Patrick and Magnus, her gaze merely curious.
“She’s happy, Patrick. We’re going into a happy place. Try not to look like you kick kittens for entertainment.”
“You promise me they don’t stock Logan Bar?”
“They do not stock Logan Bar. Bridget assured me of this, and your sister is not given to mendacity.”
Then too, Magnus had been the one asking at the bars here yesterday. At every likely establishment he’d passed since leaving the airport in Denver, he’d asked for Logan Bar single malt.
Patrick shoved his sunglasses back onto his nose. “I see what you’re doing, and for Bridget’s sake, I’ll accommodate you.”
“Oh, right,” Magnus said, holding the door. “For Bridget’s sake. For whose sake will you sell me her distillery?”
“We haven’t sold it to you yet, your lordship. Go flirt with a waitress and let me do my thing.”
As it happened, Magnus had a lovely wee chat with a waiter, who might have been flirting with him, though Americans were friendly, and Magnus was rusty when it came to reading signals from his own team. Magnus left with a menu, wine list, bar list, and a recommendation to stay away from one particular bar in Bozeman, because the patrons were prone to violent disputes.
Patrick was waiting for him when he left, sitting in a wooden rocker several yards to the left of the front door.
“Now what?”
Magnus took the rocker beside him. The seat was both hard and cold, which was probably intentional. People sitting in rocking chairs weren’t spending money.
“Now we lather, rinse, repeat, until every bartender on this mountain has heard two requests in two days for Logan Bar single malt.”
“And then?”
“And then they’ll hear four more, because I’ll make that happen too. By the end of the week, when Bridget calls the person ordering liquor for the resort, ready to give them a discount because the delivery is local, they’ll be willing to take a shipment. After that, the whisky will sell itself.”
“Sneaky but not quite crooked. I like it.”
“Credit old Tom Dewar. He went to London to peddle his wares, but before he called on a tavern owner, he’d pay a couple of blokes to ask for Dewar’s the day or two before Tom hit the door.”
“Dewar’s, as in Dewar’s White Label?”
“As in the imported Scotch whisky Americans drink more than any other. It’s blended, which means many distilleries have seen a piece of that success.”
“You aren’t doing this for Bridget.”
Magnus rose as a trio of young ladies accompanied by one young man went into the bar. “As it happens, I am doing this for Bridget. While you lot were happily consigning the woman to law school, nobody was teaching her to market some of the best damned whisky I’ve ever tasted. She’s sitting on a gold mine and thinks it’s a business barely hanging on.”
Patrick pushed to his feet more slowly. He might have been a year or two older than Magnus, but he moved as if recovering from a long illness.
“A gold mine you want to buy.”
“One she does not want to sell, and I’ll not purchase this business against her wishes, Patrick. What you three don’t seem to understand is that she is what makes that distillery so valuable. Where to next?”
Patrick pointed across the square to the saloon. “They’ll serve liquor, but also kids’ meals. Might as well get that over with. So who showed you how to market?”
“Nobody. I watched and learned and made mistakes. I married an excellent marketer, though, so I at least had a first-rate example.”
That shut Patrick up, and the rest of the exercise passed without incident. He seemed to gain some color as they trooped about the village, while Magnus felt increasingly as if he were lugging cinder blocks with him everywhere.
“Bridget wants us to meet her in the hotel cantina,” Magnus said, swiping the message on his phone. “That would be…”
“Over there,” Patrick said, jerking his chin to the left.
“You have an excellent sense of direction.”
“I can’t help it. If you pay attention to your surroundings, you get oriented. We’re parked over there, and we started out on the far side of that hotel.”
Magnus would have bet money Patrick was right on all counts. “Is this an American wilderness skill?”
“It’s an artist’s skill. If Bridget asks, I made you drink two bottles of water.”
“I won’t lie to your sister.” Bridget wouldn’t give him a third chance to earn her trust.
“Then I will. You really ought to be upping your fluid intake. This is serious altitude, and we’ll be here for hours.”
And Magnus’s head was starting to pound. “Then I’ll have a liquid lunch.”
Patrick laughed, a bitter sound. Magnus abruptly realized the man had a drinking problem. Puzzle pieces snapped together—Patrick’s reluctance to ask for a drink, his ability to
size up a watering hole, his appearance.
“Patrick, you have turned down endless opportunities to drink today. That should tell you something.”
He walked along in silence beside Magnus for thirty yards, as happy families, overly boisterous young people, and a few red-nosed, hard-core skiers moved around them.
“This morning’s expedition tells me I’ve used up my resolve for now, and if liquor is served at this cantina, I’ll be wetting my whistle.”
Bridget waved to them from down the plank sidewalk.
“Don’t be an idiot. You have the power to say no, and you’ve just exercised that power over and over again. At least think about how you managed that feat.”
“Thinking is part of the problem,” Patrick said. “All I do is think.”
Brood, then, seethe and regret. “I had a couple years like that, then I decided to get even.”
“You can’t get even with death.”
Patrick was a widower with a small daughter. Shamus had shared that intelligence. “You get even with death by living the hell out of your life.”
“Don’t cuss in front of my daughter, or I’ll whup up on you.”
“Point noted.” And in that point, Magnus detected some hope for Patrick Logan.
Bridget looked happy, and she had a stack of menus sticking out of her shoulder bag. “Mission accomplished,” she said. “It was easier than I thought. Never met such a friendly bunch of people as the wait staff on this mountain. What were you two up to?”
“Much of the same,” Magnus said, patting his rucksack. “Though we did a bit of reconnaissance too. Patrick has been nagging me to drink water.”
Bridget beamed at her brother. “Thanks, Patrick. I could use some myself. The sandwiches in the cantina are built for mountain appetites, and I’m hungry.”
Patrick came along peacefully, which was fortunate. To keep Bridget smiling, Magnus would have dragged her brother by the hair anywhere she pleased. They sat at a quiet table and surveyed fare that would have done an Edinburgh pub proud but for the absence of fish and chips and sticky toffee pudding. No alcohol, though.
Bridget had probably chosen this place for that reason.
“I’ll have a Reuben, no dressing, don’t forget the pickle,” Bridget told the waiter.
“Same,” Magnus said. “Patrick?”
Patrick eyed the door, and Magnus nearly stepped on his foot. The bottle was singing its siren song to a man who’d scared himself with his own fortitude.
“Burger, medium, fries, hold the onions. If you’d bring some vinegar, my friend here would appreciate it.”
The waitress scribbled down the order, fetched them three tall glasses of ice water, and left with a cheery “I’ll be right back.”
“Thoughtful of you, Patrick. I haven’t learned to appreciate ketchup yet.”
“Drink your water.” Patrick nudged the glass closer to Magnus. “So, Bridget, did our guest happen to mention that he’s married?”
In the time it took Bridget to bring her water glass to her mouth, she re-experienced the sense of betrayal that had swamped her when Magnus had shown up at the Logan Bar ranch house. She was furious with Magnus, but also—in the same instant—furious with herself.
Would she never learn to guard her trust?
Then a snippet of remembered conversation popped into her head, and she gripped the cold, wet glass more tightly.
“Magnus isn’t married. He told me that himself.”
“Then he was married. Good-lookin’, well-heeled guy with a distillery all to himself parted from a wife somewhere along the way. Bet that’s a story worth telling.”
Magnus flipped a forest green linen napkin across his lap. “Patrick asked for a dram of Logan Bar at every establishment within walking distance. Because he failed to earn your scorn today with irresponsible drinking, he’ll earn it by being overly protective. Will somebody please explain to me why, when it’s barely above freezing outside, there is ice in this water?”
“Because that’s how we do it,” Bridget said. “If you don’t want ice, all you have to do is ask. Why did you put Patrick up to asking for drinks before noon?”
Magnus’s theory—that Patrick was purposely making himself an object of disgust—bore consideration. Later, when Bridget had some food in her belly and a few more answers.
“I asked Patrick to inquire about Logan Bar single malt, just as I did previously, so that when you cold-call the wine and spirits manager at the end of the week, he or she will be more inclined to buy from you.”
Now that was a prime strategy, and more than a bit inventive. “I’ve tried calling her. She doesn’t get back to me.”
The waitress returned and set chips and salsa on the table.
“Hello, Olivette,” Magnus said, sticking out his hand. “I’m Magnus Cromarty, and I’ve a wee proposition to put to you.”
His smile was damnably sincere, and if he’d read the woman’s name tag, Bridget hadn’t seen him do it. The waitress, a pale blonde on the leggy side, wiped her hand on her half apron and shook willingly enough.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Cromarty.”
“Magnus,” he said, peeling a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet. “And I’ve a favor to ask. At some point before Friday morning, can you and a friend go into two or three of the fine establishments in this village and ask for Logan Bar single malt whisky?”
He passed her the money, which disappeared faster than snowflakes falling on a rushing stream. He also served up a heaping portion of Highland charm, hitting just the right note between brash and humble.
“Do I have to drink the whisky?”
“The bartender won’t be able to fill your order because they don’t stock Logan Bar here yet, so no, you won’t get to taste it.”
Strange men passing out fifties probably weren’t all that unusual at the resort, but the young woman still hesitated.
“Is it any good?” she asked.
Magnus gave her a soulful look that nearly earned him a kick under the table. “My dear young lady, you are asking about one of the finest single malt potations this Scotsman has ever tasted. It’s made not twenty-five miles from here, and the very essence of Montana’s wild grandeur graces it from nose to finish. This is sipping whisky, if you take my meaning. An excellent value for the price, distilled by a Montana-born and -bred lady.”
He made sipping whisky sound like a drink only the most sophisticated of adults should be allowed to sample.
“Logan Bar single malt?”
“Aye, lass. Ask for it everywhere.”
She gave Magnus the sort of smile that suggested he’d be living in her dreams long after the fifty had been spent.
“Order up!” sang out from the kitchen.
Olivette scampered off, a loyal minion acquired in two minutes flat for fifty bucks, and without so much as a wink or a promise.
“You can do that only because you’re Scottish,” Patrick said. “She would not have been so accommodating if I’d asked.”
“I can do that because I am sincere,” Magnus replied, peeling another fifty from his wallet. “I am asking her to undertake a simple task for cash proffered, because I believe in the product she’ll request. You could do the same easily.”
Patrick regarded the money as if it could rattle its tail. “What is that for?”
“One of the better hotels is right next door. The bellhops are lounging at their station, and you could recruit one or two of them for a similar errand. Look for one with red hair who’s obviously good at what he does.”
“Why?” Bridget asked.
“Because red hair is more likely to indicate Celtic ancestry,” Magnus said, tucking his wallet away, “and competence suggests somebody who didn’t start here last week. An employee who’s been here all season will make more of an impression on the bartender than a roving stranger would.”
“Give me ten minutes,” Patrick said, shoving away from the table. “Either one of you touches my fries, you die a slow
, painful, vinegar-soaked death.”
Bridget was about to tell Patrick she’d be happy to talk to the bellhops, but Magnus put his hand over hers.
“Let him give it a go,” he said as Patrick stalked off. “Distilleries are supposed to be family businesses, and he needs breathing room.”
“He’ll turn it into drinking room.” Or he might not. Patrick was too proud to drink himself insensate in public—or he had been thus far. “But I know what you’re doing, Magnus Cromarty.”
“Showing you how to market a very good product?”
He was doing that too, for which Bridget would thank him, maybe. “You are making sure you don’t have an audience while you explain to me about your former wife.”
Magnus dipped a corn chip into the salsa and bought himself a little time munching it into oblivion.
“Why do you want to know about ancient history, Bridget? We’re to be business acquaintances, nothing more.”
“Nice try. I’m guessing she had something to do with your whisky-making, and now you’re here, trying to have something to do with my whisky-making. It’s a long walk down the mountain and mighty chilly this time of year.”
An empty threat, but a woman with three older brothers learned to bluff well.
“I’ll tell you about my marriage if you’ll tell me why you don’t practice law.”
The food arrived, and sheer hunger distracted Bridget for the time it took to put away half of a hot, cheesy, too-good-to-be-healthy Reuben. Then Patrick came slouching back, looking pleased with himself, and Bridget resigned herself to getting an answer later.
But get an answer, she would.
Chapter 6
By the time Magnus climbed back into the Durango, he’d parted with several hundred dollars in cash and been given the phone numbers of two waitresses and a snowplow operator. Scottish accents were apparently a rarity at the resort.
He’d also developed a screeching banshee of a headache, and when Bridget pulled into the Logan Bar driveway, he wanted nothing more than to lie flat in a darkened room.
“Our Highlander isn’t looking too good,” Patrick said, slamming the car door much more loudly than necessary.
Big Sky Ever After: a Montana Romance Duet Page 30