Big Sky Ever After: a Montana Romance Duet

by M. L. Buchman

  So… an undercover investigation, most likely. “I heard a few rumors when I was lawyering,” Bridget said. “The prosecutors have that task force, and Nathan represented the occasional solicitation or prostitution client.”

  The penalties for prostitution weren’t as severe as the penalties for pimping, and the penalties for trafficking a child under twelve included at least the possibility of a hundred-year sentence. Children over the age of twelve, though, weren’t as well protected by the law.

  “You ever wonder why those clients come to Nathan for representation?”

  “Because Nate’s good at what he does, and once you tap into a vein of work, the clients tend to give you more business by word of mouth.”

  Martina put her phone away and said nothing.

  “I’m out of the legal business, Martina. I have no ownership interest, no stock, no seat on the board, nothing. I quitclaimed to Nathan a year ago and haven’t looked back.”

  Careful listening had assured Bridget that the gossips concluded she’d compensated Nathan for taking on additional work, management responsibility, and business disruption. The legal effect had been a clean break—Bridget had made sure of that. She’d handed over her life savings for deposit in the operating account, though most of it went to cover the personal injury settlement.

  Nate had immediately re-incorporated, meaning Bridget couldn’t get the money back even if Nate came into a windfall.

  “Whatever you do, Bridget, don’t go back. Hang out a new shingle on your own or pass the bar in some other state, but stay clear of Nathan Sturbridge.”

  This went beyond advice between friends. “I intend to. You stay clear of him too.”

  Martina stood. “He’s been asking after you, and after your Scotsman.”

  Bridget rose as well, though sitting in the sun had felt good. Spring would arrive, just not today.

  “The last person whose concern I’d trust is Nate Sturbridge. He screwed me over, but good.”

  Martina put on dark sunglasses. “You ever want to tell me the details, I might be able to do something about it.”

  Magnus’s admonition came back to Bridget: She should tell her brothers why she wasn’t practicing law, why she could not practice law. Before she aired that dirty laundry with Martina, she owed her brothers a heads-up.

  “Come over on Sunday for some pizza, and we’ll talk.”

  Martina passed Bridget the white box. “For Shamus. Huckleberry scones are his favorite.” She sauntered off, and a trio of young men emerging from the Cupcake stopped to goggle, their expressions reverent.

  Magnus trotted across the street, his kilt flapping about his knees. “I hope I didn’t abandon you at the wrong time.”

  “Just catching up with a friend. I invited Martina out to the ranch this weekend for pizza.”

  Though Martina hadn’t accepted.

  “So I heard. Does that mean you’re refusing my invitation to travel to Scotland? I’d entrust you to no less hospitality than my own home and my own most charming cousin. You might get to meet Zebedee, the current Earl of Strathdee. What’s in the box?”

  “A peace offering. Martina asked me to deliver these scones to Shamus.”

  “And so we shall, once we’ve done our bit for the local economy and my own somewhat depleted reserves of energy.”

  “Altitude, Magnus. You have to hydrate, I’m telling you.”

  Nathan Sturbridge came out of the hardware store next door, a bag of rock salt in his hand. Bridget held eye contact, because backing down when Nate issued a challenge had nearly ruined her the only time she’d done it.

  “Why if it isn’t my long-lost, best-ever, former law partner. Bridget, how you doin’?”

  He offered a bare hand. Bridget shook, glad to be wearing gloves. “Nate. I’m fine. You?”

  “Just enjoying the hell out of this lovely weather. Flies will be hatching next, and won’t that be the most fun ever? I’m Nate Sturbridge.”

  He stuck his hand out toward Magnus, and abruptly, Bridget felt uneasy—more uneasy than usual around Nate.

  “Magnus Cromarty. Pleased to meet you.”

  Except he wasn’t. Magnus’s tone was cordial, his handshake friendly, but his eyes had gone as cold as a Montana sky on the nasty end of a January blizzard.

  “Interesting attire, Cromarty,” Nate said, eyeing Magnus’s kilt. “You hail from Scotland?”

  “I have that honor. You’re a lawyer?”

  “I’m not sure that qualifies as an honor, but it’s how I earn my living. What brings you to Montana?”

  “I needed a change of scene.”

  “Lord knows we have scenery. I’ll wish you a pleasant visit. Bridget, give me a call when you have a minute. I have an interesting case I’d like to discuss with you.” He touched his hat brim and headed off toward his truck.

  “Right now,” Magnus said, “I’d like to tackle him to the ground and pound that handsome smile right off his face.”

  “The longer I know you, the more I like you, Magnus Cromarty, though I generally frown on violence at first sight. Let’s see what’s on the Cupcake’s menu before we head out to the distillery.”

  Magnus’s gaze remained on Nate’s retreating figure. “He reminds me of my ex-wife. Lovely to look at, charm oozing from every orifice, almost too good to be true. No wonder you trusted him.”

  “I didn’t, actually, which is why I handled the books, but talking about the law practice has stirred up my curiosity about something.”

  Nate climbed into his truck and drove off, neglecting to either stop or signal before he turned onto the street.

  “I’m curious about what he wanted to speak with you about,” Magnus said. “A blackmailer seldom knows when to quit, though Sturbridge has to recall that he obliterated all of your reserves.” Magnus held the door to the Cupcake for Bridget, and the warm, yeasty scent of freshly baked carbs nearly restored her mood.

  Except... Nate wanted to talk to her, and that was a bad thing, like a nagging ache at the base of her skull, just waiting to blossom into a migraine.

  Only worse.

  “Let’s get something to go,” Bridget said. “I want to be heading back to the ranch before all the melting freezes and the roads turn to black ice.”

  Magnus ordered for her, paid the total, and carried the bags out to the truck. The afternoon was sunny, mild by post-storm standards, and pretty. Bridget was about to give a tour of the distillery to one of the few people who could appreciate her business for the gem it was.

  And yet, seeing Nate had been like spotting a rat scuttling away from the feed room. Trouble was afoot, more trouble than she’d had when she’d awoken in Magnus’s arms.

  “You drive,” Bridget said, passing Magnus the keys. “I’ll do some quality assurance on the goodies.”

  He unlocked the doors and held hers for her. “You trust me to drive on the wrong side of the road?”

  “I trust you to handle just about anything.” She climbed in, and Magnus stood by the truck, his hand on the door.

  “Do you mean that?”

  She took the bags of food from him. One bag held ham and cheese croissants made with more butter than physics could explain. Another held a pint of broccoli cheddar soup that should have single-handedly restored the reputation of broccoli as a food source.

  Bridget was more interested in the veiled question in Magnus’s eyes. “I trust you, Magnus. I don’t like that I trust you, and I didn’t plan on it, but here we are, and the soup’s getting cold.”

  He looked around, then leaned in and kissed her. “I trust you too.”

  Those weren’t the traditional words signaling that a romance had found more substantial footing, and yet, to Bridget, Magnus’s words meant everything. A year ago, she had failed her clients, failed her family, and failed her own expectations. Nate was circling again, like a starving coyote sniffing around a half-full dumpster.

  And yet, Magnus had come to her to rescue his whisky, and she would not fai
l him.

  He started the truck and let it idle for a moment. “You mentioned that your curiosity has been stirred up, and because there’s not an inch of me you’ve failed to explore—God be thanked for Yankee initiative—now I’m wondering what’s on your mind.”

  He pulled out of the parking lot at a sedate pace, while Bridget inhaled sheer, gustatory bliss.

  “I’m wondering now, when I should have asked myself a year ago, why did Nate steal from me? Technically, he stole from the business, but the money came out of my pocket. Why? What was his motive, when he knew I’d see exactly what he’d done.”

  Magnus navigated the post-snowfall traffic, which was made a little trickier by occasional patches of packed snow on the road surface and the odd pile of snow narrowing the travel lanes.

  “You mean, Nate essentially killed the goose who was laying golden eggs?”

  “Not to be arrogant, but I ran the practice. I handled the clients, revenue was growing steadily, and we landed that big personal injury case only because I knew that aspect of the law cold. The insurance companies respected me, and more big cases were likely to come along.”

  “Was there anything special about that case?”

  Good question. “I can’t discuss details, because all parties and counsel signed a nondisclosure. It was the sort of case that puts a practice firmly on its feet, though.”

  “If I’m considering buying your business, and I sign a nondisclosure agreement, can you share details then?”

  Bridget thought about it, while the bags of fresh food in her lap and the seat heaters under her butt and at her back cocooned her in warmth.

  “If you sign a nondisclosure, I can tell you about that case, but I’m not selling to you, Magnus. I’ll fix your whisky as a professional courtesy, but come locusts, auditors, or addled step-brothers, I’m keeping hold of my business.”

  Or the business was keeping hold of her, and her future, dang it all to perdition.

  “So we’ll tour your distillery,” Magnus said, “and when we get back to the ranch, you can tell your brothers what happened with your law practice.”

  She ought to. She’d meant to. “I’ll think about it.”

  She was stalling, though, and Magnus’s smile said he knew it. The truth was, if Magnus sat in on the discussion with Luke, Shamus, and Patrick, Bridget would find a way to tell them what had happened.

  How to stop them from going after Nate with malice aforethought would be a trickier challenge.

  Chapter 10

  Distilling whisky required only three ingredients—water, barley, and yeast—but the decisions to be made between the barley and the bottle were endless.

  Which barley to use? Higher sugar content was desirable but costly, and the logistics of transporting the grain affected the price and freshness of the crop.

  Once the barley had begun to germinate, how long until the germination process was stopped?

  How much peat—if any—to use in the fire that dried the malted barley?

  What sort of yeast and how much to add?

  What water source to use, and to what temperatures should the water be heated and then cooled?

  Should the washbacks be Scottish larch, Oregon pinewood, or stainless steel?

  The head distiller made most of those calls, and yet, for Magnus many of the decision points had been traversed generations ago. Bridget’s distillery was an altogether different animal.

  One entire wall was glass, bringing a panorama of Montana mountains into the plant. A fast-moving stream ran from the nearby foothills directly under the distillery, chunks of melting snow bobbing past in water so clear, Magnus could count every pebble in the streambed.

  Security cameras were discreetly tucked into corners of a beamed ceiling. He’d noticed cameras at nearly every distillery he’d toured in the States. At Cromarty Distilleries no such precautions had been taken, though he’d institute them upon his return.

  Bridget’s office struck him as more of a bedsit than the nucleus of a business empire. Her desk was a wooden behemoth that looked to have spent time in a covered wagon. A long sofa lined one wall, three different patchwork quilts folded over the top and worn pillows tucked against the armrests. A coffee table covered with whisky periodicals sat before the sofa, and a braided rug covered the flagstone floor. A kiva occupied one corner, and the pungent scent of mesquite blended with the yeasty aroma of whisky-making.

  She had a mini-fridge and microwave in another corner, but no proper table where she could take a meal. Magnus’s office lacked the same feature.

  “Is there a conference room or break room where we should eat?” he asked.

  “The guys will be changing shifts soon, and I like to leave them their privacy.” Bridget set the bags of food on the coffee table, right on top of the magazines.

  Magnus organized the magazines by date and piled them on an end table. “Do you read these?” “Cover to cover, especially the ads. The whisky industry employs some of the smartest advertising minds on the planet.”

  She opened a set of curtains, revealing another magnificent view of the mountains and sky. From this perspective, the afternoon sun turned the rushing stream to liquid silver.

  While Magnus set out the food, Bridget rummaged in a desk drawer. “You could put some honey in my tea.”

  He obliged—Montana organic clover honey—and waited for Bridget to join him on the sofa.

  “This is a nondisclosure agreement,” she said, passing him three copies of a two-page form. “It says you won’t tell anybody anything about my business, except as necessary to run your business in the ordinary course. That means you can tell them where you’re staying, or that you held a business negotiation with me to justify your expense report. Nothing about my whisky-making, my books, my legal arrangements, my pending liabilities, the hours I keep, who’s on my payroll, or the make and model of my copying machine.”

  Based on the size of her copying machine, the make and model were matters of antiquity.

  “I’m surprised you let me tour the facility before I signed this.”

  “The tours are open to the public. This time of year, we schedule them for weekends, but come summer, they’ll be going six days a week.”

  Magnus signed the form in triplicate and folded one copy to tuck into his rucksack.

  “Give that back,” Bridget said, waggling her fingers. “Shamus will notarize your signature and make you sign all three forms again if he’s in a finicky mood.”

  Magnus surrendered the release and passed Bridget a croissant.

  “For what we are about to receive,” she said, “we thank Thee, and if it’s not asking too much, please send Nathan Sturbridge a permanent case of indigestion and boot blisters, amen.”

  “Amen. Remind me never to cross you.”

  “Remind yourself. Did you put honey in my tea?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Magnus passed her a serving of chips—fries, rather. “Does hunger make you snappish, or has Sturbridge upset you?”

  “Yes to both. What could he possibly want to talk to me about?”

  “We’ll probably find out soon enough. What are the laws here about taping conversations?”

  Bridget took a bite of her croissant, closed her eyes, and chewed. “I was hungry.”

  Hungry. Well.

  Magnus was dealing with an interesting case of chronic arousal. Watching the Montana breeze whip a strand of hair across Bridget’s mouth, he got ideas. Seeing her utter concentration around the equipment and employees making her whisky, those ideas became imaginings.

  Watching her sit, knees splayed, while she devoured her food, the imaginings became fantasies.

  That he could be sexually preoccupied while in a whisky-making facility was a profound relief, and a little amusing.

  “I was hungry too,” Magnus said. “And you have a lovely distillery. Is that stream your water supply?”

  “You betcha,” Bridget replied, considering a big wedge of fried potato. “I own—and
I do mean I, and I do mean own—about five thousand acres of those foothills, and that stream originates in a spring-fed pond at the lip of a hanging valley. I own the valley, the pond, and the water, thanks to my sainted grandpap’s will. I lease the water rights to the distillery on a nonexclusive basis year to year.”

  In Scotland, drought was a foreign concept, an inconvenience suffered by English farmers, poor blighters. In the American West, water was serious business, and Bridget’s ownership of water rights was enviable.

  “And you grow your own barley?”

  “Try to. Last year, that didn’t go so well. Damned hailstorm. Are you going to eat that croissant?”

  Magnus bit off a mouthful of takeout heaven. “Tell me about the distribution arrangements for your product.”

  While finishing off her croissant, Bridget described a convoluted set of liquor licensing and distribution laws, the likes of which Magnus had never encountered. Breaking into this market from outside the United States, even from outside of Montana, would be a complicated undertaking, and here again, Bridget’s position was ideal.

  She was an attorney admitted to the Montana bar who understood both the liquor laws and the whisky market. She was within easy delivery distance of resorts that catered to those with spare time and spare money.

  Scottish distillers would hire her to consult and pay handsomely for her expertise, irrespective of her ability to age whisky to its maximum potential.

  “Do we spare Shamus a scone or destroy all the evidence?” Bridget asked, taking a considering sip of her tea.

  “The issue is not the scones, Bridget. It’s Martina’s thoughtfulness.”

  “Right,” Bridget said, opening a small white box. “And two scones can be as thoughtful as four.”

  She’d learned that reasoning from her brothers. “Or three. I’ll pass for now.”

  She shrugged, broke a scone in half, and tore off a corner. “Nathan Sturbridge is up to something.”

  And Bridget’s mind never rested, except in those lovely, drowsy moments after a thorough loving. Magnus brushed her hair back over her shoulder.

  “Tell me about the case he used to blackmail you. I’ve signed the nondisclosure, and we have privacy.”