Big Sky Ever After: a Montana Romance Duet

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Big Sky Ever After: a Montana Romance Duet Page 36

by M. L. Buchman


  “Dang, Martina. You’ll hurt my feelings. Don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to catch up with Bridget lately?”

  Martina put a can of something organic, non-GMO, ethically sourced, cruelty-free, gluten-free, and probably godawful tasting into her basket.

  “You should never have forced Bridget out of the practice, Nate. Georgie has expensive tastes, and your lazy ass isn’t marrying Prescott’s money.”

  “I didn’t force Bridget out, dammit. She ditched me, left me high and dry, a docket full of unhappy clients expecting me to show up in court and nobody minding the store.” Nate had had enough practice telling that fairy tale that it sounded pretty convincing.

  Martina went back to choosing death by sodium deprivation. “You are an idiot, Nathan Sturbridge. Bridget’s sister-in-law had just died, your practice was thriving, and you wanted the whole thing for yourself. I don’t know how, I’m not even sure why, but you forced Bridget out, and now you’re losing more cases than you’re winning.”

  If there was one group of people who gossiped more than lawyers, it was cops.

  “That is slander, lady. Watch your pretty mouth.”

  She hefted a can of soup. “Truth is an absolute defense to all claims of defamation. Watch your skinny ass, little man. If you got up the balls to ask Bridget to rejoin the firm, you might just find she’s entertaining other prospects.”

  Well, shit. Bridget entertaining prospects might make the pipeline easement more complicated.

  “As if I care which bronc she’s saddling. Get your mind out of the stud barn. My only interest in Bridget is that of a former partner and friend.”

  The look Martina gave him had probably inspired many a felon to either wet his standard-issue orange jumpsuit or confess.

  “Bridget has a potential buyer for her distillery, the same good-looking Scot she was so friendly with on Friday. He’s got money, connections, and class, so take your skanky little concern and shove it where the light doesn’t shine.”

  The lawyer in Nate knew better than to react visibly, but the witness had surprised him. Surprises weren’t always bad, but they were always a pain in the ass.

  “Since when are you kept up-to-date on the Logan Bar business dealings?”

  “Since Shamus Logan is a good friend, a concept your limited abilities won’t be able to grasp, so don’t try.”

  She sauntered off, and not until Nate got to the checkout did he realize that three cans of exorbitantly expensive and extravagantly healthy bean soup had been stashed among his guac, chips, and beer. He paid for the soup because Georgie might be over for a nooner at some point, and while she couldn’t be bothered to heat anything other than water in a microwave, she’d approve on principle.

  By the time Nate got out to his truck, he’d decided that for Bridget to sell her distillery was a fine thing. She’d have put up a fuss about a pipeline easement, but the Scots were a practical race.

  Talking the new Scottish owner into a pipeline easement should be about as difficult as coming up with a closing argument to pitch at a jury of twelve lonely, middle-aged church ladies.

  Magnus’s itinerary had been shot to hell.

  He’d intended to come to Montana and secure Bridget’s expertise by any means necessary, including by buying her business.

  Now this.

  The last thing on his mind was business. Bridget lay against his side, sweet and warm. He couldn’t stop touching her, whether he was drawing question marks along her arm or kissing her temple. Her hand rested over his heart, and he wanted to kiss her hand too.

  “Thoughts?” she murmured.

  To hell with the damned itinerary. “For the first time in my life, a woman has made love with me.” Hochmagandy, shag, how’s your father, bonk, boff… British slang abounded with casual terms for sexual congress, and any of them would have profaned what Magnus and Bridget had just shared.

  Her sigh fanned across his shoulder. “Don’t do that, Magnus. You’re supposed to saddle up and ride into the sunset in less than a week. We have chemistry. It’s not convenient, and it’s not…”

  Disappointment muted the glow of transcendent lovemaking. Magnus waited for Bridget to finish the job of easing him down, cooling his conviction that something precious could take root if she’d give it a chance.

  “It’s not like anything I’ve encountered before,” Bridget said, “but then, I haven’t done a lot of encountering.”

  While Magnus might have done too much. “Then I’m doubly complimented to be in this bed with you now. Can you come to Scotland with me next week?”

  She withdrew her hand. “Not letting any grass grow under your boots, are you?”

  “I want you to see Scotland, to meet my family, to—” To not leave his sight.

  Bridget levered up on one elbow and peered down at him. “You’re not trying to kidnap me so I can diagnose your ailing whisky?”

  What whisk—oh, that whisky. “I can have samples sent here by Friday.”

  “Do that,” Bridget said, kissing him. “I like a challenge, and I’ve never flown anywhere. Lena’s mother made sure we all have passports, but the idea of flying over the ocean on less than a week’s notice doesn’t have much appeal.”

  Magnus kissed her back. “Elias hates to fly, poor lad, but how would you feel about touring a different distillery every day? Sampling three different flights every day, none of them less than twenty-eight years old? Dropping in on the Malt Whisky Society between sightseeing trips in Edinburgh?”

  He expected she’d tickle him for that, or kiss him again, but instead, Bridget’s expression became wistful.

  “I’ve looked at tours online,” she said, tucking close. “They have entire bus routes devoted to whisky. Did you know that?”

  God, she was precious. “I’ve heard the occasional mention.”

  “I’d like to see Scotland someday, Magnus, and England and Ireland, but right now, a trip over to Billings would take some explaining and planning. Patrick’s not doing well, foaling season will start any night, one of my guys at the distillery is about to become a father, and now isn’t a good time to leave Lena without reinforcements.”

  Magnus wanted to argue, by any means necessary, but he knew exactly how she felt. “There’s never a good time to get away, is there? Never the right combination of time, energy, funds, and motivation, much less the right people in place to look after your business while you’re gone.”

  Who looked after Elias’s complicated business affairs when he wanted to grab some sunshine on the Amalfi Coast? Elias was Zebedee’s heir and, for all practical purposes, his errand boy too.

  Bridget should have an errand boy. Magnus was tempted to apply for the position.

  “I can’t recall Luke ever leaving the state of Montana,” she said. “Ten years ago, Patrick traveled a lot, but Shamus’s idea of playing hooky is to hit the slopes in Utah or Colorado. We don’t get out much.”

  She closed her eyes, and Magnus let her drift off. He needed time to think about the situation with Nathan Sturbridge, and Patrick, and—

  His phone softly chimed on the night table. Magnus reached around a sleeping Bridget and swiped into the call.

  “Elias, aren’t you up past your bedtime?”

  “I’m a Scotsman. We never sleep when there’s fun to be had. I started to text you, but thought the matter might require some discussion.”

  “What matter?”

  “You first. How’s Montana?”

  “Beautiful, cold at the moment, interesting. I’m reminded of Scotland. Plenty of room to breathe here.” And oh, by the way, I’m falling in love.

  “Met any cowgirls?”

  “Shut up, Elias, and grab something to write with. I need some samples sent from the distillery.”

  Elias read back the list Magnus had recited. “So you’ll be home for the board meeting?”

  “I’m sending a proxy.”

  A gratifying silence lasted nearly two seconds. “I’d forgotten you could d
o that. Am I to know who’s been taken into your confidence to that degree, or will you, like Uncle Zebedee, delight in high drama for no reason?”

  “I have two candidates in mind, members of the Logan family, and you will show them every ounce of your considerable charm, Elias. Get out the kilt, quote Rabbie Burns, put plaid sheets on the guest beds, the whole bit. Remind Fergus he can vote by personal proxy as well.”

  “Plaid sheets give me nightmares. I don’t suppose you’re sending me any cowgirls?”

  “More likely a cowboy, though if I can talk her into it, I’ll send you one of the most talented whisky distillers on the face of the earth. If Bridget gets a bad first impression of Scotland, I will hold you accountable.”

  “If you want the lady to get a good first impression of Scotland, then perhaps you should make the introductions.”

  “Suggestion noted, but matters here are growing complicated.”

  “I hate complicated, and as it happens, matters here have moved in the same direction.”

  This was why Bridget hesitated to travel. Because the gods of mischief delighted in wrecking the plans of those fools who intentionally left their posts.

  “Well, don’t stop there. Let the suspense build, drop a few more hints, sigh dramatically, Elias. High drama takes effort, and so far, considering your place at Zebedee’s figurative knee, you haven’t impressed me.”

  Bridget’s hand slid down Magnus’s belly, then she wrapped her fingers around his cock. She wasn’t even awake, and she was impressing him.

  “Why has your ex asked me to join her for dinner, Magnus? She’s suggested we meet right across the street from The George in Edinburgh.”

  Her favorite hotel. “Be careful, Elias.”

  “What makes you think I’ve accepted her invitation?”

  “Because you are a randy damned idiot, and because you’re not above a bit of bedroom espionage for the sake of family interests.” And Celeste was beautiful and charming, no denying that.

  “Are you telling me with whom I should and shouldn’t socialize, Magnus?”

  The question was careful, a balance between arrogance and curiosity. The arrogance was mostly feigned, the curiosity a mask for concern.

  “She nearly destroyed me, Elias. I don’t want you getting tangled up in her schemes, though tangle yourself in her sheets if you’re so inclined. Her decisions in that regard have never been mine to gainsay in any case. Just be careful, and don’t go getting notions about revenge or family honor.”

  “You’re worried about me?”

  He sounded perplexed, poor sod. “Somebody ought to be.”

  “And you aren’t interested in getting back a bit of your own where Celeste is concerned? Have you gone English on me, Magnus? All sweet reason and diplomacy when what’s wanted is a swat of the claymore to her bottom line?”

  Bridget gave Magnus a luscious, little squeeze.

  “You’ve been spending too much time around Zebedee. Just get me those whisky samples. Celeste owes me, and I’ll be the one wielding that claymore. You can swing whatever puny dirk is at hand, if you’re so inclined.”

  “I’ll have you know my dirk is not—”

  Magnus ended the call, and Bridget shifted so her head disappeared beneath the covers. For the next twenty minutes, Magnus strove to focus on the frigid Scottish burn that supplied the water for his whisky, and even that wasn’t enough to distract him from the pleasure Bridget wrought.

  “You have to tell them,” Magnus said.

  “I don’t have to do anything.” Fate had thrust three step-brothers upon Bridget. She’d quickly learned that the male animal responded well to clear, consistent boundaries.

  Magnus stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Snow was piled all around them, but in typical Montana fashion, the town had barely paused for yesterday’s storm. The parking lots had been plowed, the streets were clear, and melt water formed a steady stream in the gutters and ditches.

  “Let me put it to you like this,” Magnus said. “Shamus knows something is wrong. Luke and Patrick will soon realize something is bothering Shamus, and then you’ll have all three of them feeling hurt and ridiculous because you didn’t trust them with your troubles.”

  They were outside the Cupcake, the noon sun finding red highlights in Magnus’s hair. He’d worn a black wool kilt with hiking boots and a pair of thick wool socks that made a Highland cow look scantily clad by comparison. His fisherman’s sweater was a similarly sturdy knit, and his down vest hung open.

  “Howdy, Bridget. You going to introduce me to your friend?” Martina had come out of the Cupcake, a white box in her hand. She lived two blocks over and probably made this trek at least twice a day.

  Magnus slapped on a smile, transforming himself from lecturing pest to Friday night fantasy.

  “Magnus Cromarty.” He offered Martina his hand, and she, of course, held on a little too long.

  “Martina, but you can call me whatever you please, as long as it’s polite and that accent is genuine.”

  “I saw him first,” Bridget said, “and I heard him first too. Come out to the ranch for Sunday pizza, and you can listen to him while he helps Shamus with the dishes.”

  “Fast work,” Martina said to Magnus. “You’re already doing dishes with the menfolk, and you’ve been in town less than a week.”

  Her tone was friendly, though her gaze was measuring. Martina had been a cop and could send out the watch-your-step vibe without so much as lifting an eyebrow.

  “Give it a rest, Martina,” Bridget said. “Magnus is just passing through. I meant what I said about pizza, and to heck with Shamus’s delicate nerves.”

  “I’ll excuse myself,” Magnus said, “if the topic is another man’s delicate nerves. Martina, a pleasure, and I’ll look forward to furthering our acquaintance over pizza.” He kissed Bridget’s cheek and loped off across the street in the direction of the drugstore.

  “I heartily approve of a man who’s not too shy to buy his own latex,” Martina said. “Even if he does wear a skirt. The question is, do you approve of him?”

  “Am I under arrest for something?” Bridget asked, taking a seat on the bench outside the Cupcake’s display window. “Walking down the street with a guy in broad daylight?”

  Which had felt wonderful, weird, and normal, all at once. Magnus held doors, he walked on the outside, he had the guy-thing down to a gentlemanly routine. He would also pick up more condoms without being reminded, and Bridget didn’t know whether to be pleased, impressed, or worried.

  “Walking down the street with a guy who kisses you in broad daylight and makes it look sweet.”

  “Are you jealous?”

  Martina took the place beside Bridget. Her legs were a good six inches longer than Bridget’s, but her jeans were the same shade of faded blue.

  “We haven’t had a quilting orgy for more than a year, Bridget MacDeaver. The company at the Bar None gets old fast.”

  The valley had a quilting group, and they met at least nine months out of the year, but Bridget’s attendance had lapsed.

  “I’ve been hibernating.”

  Across the street, Magnus held the door for a lady who had an infant in a Roo Sling and a toddler in a stroller.

  “What’s Magnus Cromarty doing here, Bridget? The tourist weather is months away, and he’s not from around here.” Quintessential Montana skepticism laced Martina’s question, and maybe a little of the cop’s stubborn instincts. People came to Montana to play, and Magnus was tripping Martina’s alarms.

  “He’s after my business, sort of.”

  “So he has good taste in women, but what’s he doing here? The spring skiing will turn to crap soon, the fish aren’t reliably biting yet, construction won’t start up for a few weeks. It’s the shoulder season for every kind of fun we have to offer, and yet, here he is.”

  School had been canceled today, and a steady stream of teenagers banged in and out of the Cupcake. Montana schools took spring break in March as often as
not, probably in defense of teacher sanity. A snow day in April qualified as another much-needed break.

  “Magnus owns a distillery,” Bridget said. “He’s here on business. I have something he needs for his whisky, something he couldn’t look for in Scotland without causing a lot of talk in a very inbred industry. He says he’s interested in buying into the Logan Bar distillery, but that can’t happen.”

  A promise was a promise, and Bridget had promised her grandpa that the legacy would be kept safe from all threats of harm, even good-looking Scottish charmers.

  One of the girls coming out of the Cupcake stopped dead in her tracks when she spotted Martina, but Martina didn’t seem to notice, and the kid scuttled off with her friends.

  Bridget kept her voice down. “Martina, are you okay?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  Not a yes. “Because that kid just looked at you as if you’d arrested her uncle on multiple counts of domestic violence. You haven’t quit the force, have you?”

  Martina got out her phone, though it had neither buzzed nor chimed.

  “Tell Shamus you’re still carrying a badge,” Bridget said. “If you’re putting him off because you have official business to tend to, just let him know that much. He’ll wait forever if you need him to, but he won’t be made a fool of.”

  “When you were lawyering,” Martina said, “you ever hear any talk about trafficking?”

  Despite bright sunshine in a perfect blue sky, the day turned ominous. “Of course. It happens. Montana is the world’s biggest, coldest dead end in the eyes of some girls. Whether you’re stuck on a ranch or a reservation, it’s easy to fall prey to the pimps and handlers when your parents don’t understand you and school’s an exercise in futility.”

  “It’s the girls’ answer to the gangs,” Martina said. “They feel a sense of belonging, they get good at what they do, they make money at it like they’ll never make money ringing up cupcakes, and whoever’s handling them makes sure they’re safe from other kinds of harm… until they’re a little too independent, or a little too greedy.”

  And then the girls disappeared to a foreign market, or worse.

 

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