Also a nice long couch, three quilts, some pillows, and a door that locked.
“The case was easy. One of the smaller ski resorts didn’t correctly count the chairs on its longest lift at the end of the day. A seventeen-year-old boy ended up spending the whole night sitting thirty feet above the hillside. At seven thousand feet in mid-March, that could have been a death sentence.”
“He survived?”
“He was fine. The night was unusually mild, no wind to speak of. He was a local boy and had dressed for the slopes, right down to a water bottle and a few protein bars in his fanny pack. By morning he was cold and pissed off, but he had no medical issues.”
“So why the lawsuit?”
“Because American tort law, dude. Pain and suffering, mental trauma, slap any label you want on it. The resort’s lawyers were desperate to ensure the kid kept his mouth shut about the whole thing. A lawsuit was a way to back up that desperation with a fat check and a signed court order. I knew his mom from my quilting group, so I got the case, and a fine case it was too.”
“Until Sturbridge turned to thievery.”
Bridget put the unfinished half of her scone back in the box. “Him again. I don’t even begrudge Nate the money. If he’d come to me and said he needed it to get his mom into a decent assisted-living facility, I would have passed over the funds without question and worked out some long-term repayment. But Nate cheated me out of something valuable that I worked hard to earn. That, I cannot forgive.”
Magnus kissed her cheek, because she’d put his own sentiments regarding his ex into words. “Nor should you.” He was considering turning the kiss into something more, when Bridget’s phone vibrated against his side.
“If this is one of my brothers…” She scowled at the screen. “It’s Nathan Sturbridge.”
“Will he keep calling?”
“Yes.” She swiped into the call and gestured for Magnus to lean close enough to hear both sides of the conversation. “Nathan, what the hell do you want now?”
Magnus heard an indrawn breath on the other end.
“Now, Bridget,” Sturbridge crooned, “is that any way to talk to the man who could still cost you your license to practice law and see you sent to prison for embezzling?”
Dealing with Nate always upset Bridget. Most of the upset was fear.
Fear that he’d want more money, and she wouldn’t have it.
Fear that he’d go after the ranch somehow, fear that he’d find another way to put her fingerprints on shady business.
Fear that she’d lose her distillery, the last link she had to her father and to the grandfather who’d made a distiller out of her. The distillery and the land it sat on were the last resources she controlled that might be some protection for her brothers and any family they might have.
She took a slow breath, a tactic she’d learned in the courtroom. Make the bastard wait until she was good and ready to reply.
“That, Nathan Sturbridge, is how I talk to lying, cheating weasels who are a disgrace to the Montana bar association. What do you want?”
“The statute of limitations in Montana for most felonies is twenty-one years, sugar pie.”
“It’s five years except for murder and a few other forms of homicide, which have no statute of limitation.” For theft involving breach of a fiduciary obligation, the fuse was a lot shorter: one year after discovery of the offense. Sexual misconduct against minors had some other specific provisions, which Bridget wasn’t about to recite for Nate’s edification.
“Whatever, darlin’. Your dainty signature is on a check for a huge sum of cash that should never have gone anywhere but straight to the client. Nobody but thee and me know that I was the one to cash that check. Do I have your attention now, or should I file a complaint with the nice folks at the Office of Disciplinary Counsel?”
Never accept a forced choice. That was Bridget’s advice for a witness being asked leading questions on cross-examination.
“What do you want?”
“To talk a little business. Seems your property is under consideration for an easement request. Nothing major, but it could result in some revenue for all concerned.”
All concerned being Nate, of course. “What sort of easement?”
“Just a little bitty pipeline. No big deal. I’m in a position to negotiate sweet terms for you, if you’re willing to see reason.”
His proposition was so outrageous, so audacious, that Bridget nearly dropped the phone.
Magnus covered her hand with his own, as if he sensed the depth of her upset.
Her rage. That was what lay beneath the dorsal fin of fear circling her life. A growing ire that wouldn’t count the cost when it came to taking back from Nate Sturbridge what he’d stolen from her.
So this is revenge? This savage, empowering delusion that an eye for an eye was the solution to all problems? A year ago, Bridget would have recoiled in horror from her own reaction.
Today, she struggled to balance her anger with self-preservation and her family’s safety.
“The Logan Bar doesn’t exploit mineral resources.”
“The Logan Bar is a ranch teetering on the brink of extinction, and all that wealth sitting in the ground doesn’t do anybody any good unless you go after it. I’m only talking about an easement, Bridget—nobody says the pipeline will ever be built—and you don’t own that distillery all by your lonesome. I’m sure Patrick would be willing to talk to me if you’re determined to be mule-headed.”
Patrick, the most environmentally aware of the Logan brothers, might kill Nate for mentioning a pipeline easement. Thank God that Bridget had never discussed the particulars of her family business with Nate.
Magnus scrawled something on a sticky note. Keep your enemies closer.
Bridget grabbed for the sticky note, ready to crumple it up and toss it in the trash. She snatched it off the notepad, her anger swiveling to include all the men—because it was always men—who presumed to tell her how to run her business and her life.
Magnus scrawled another word: Please. Then, I want a future with you.
Well… Dayum.
“I’ve stunned you with the generosity of my offer,” Nate said. “I’m willing to turn over a new leaf and put the past behind us. You were going to have to buy your way out of the practice anyway, and you know it. All you have to do is agree to some reasonable terms on an easement and allow me to handle the money end of it as your lawyer. It’s a simple transaction, unless you force my hand.”
He was such scum, such lying, manipulative, evil, vile, walking, smiling, flirting scum. Starving buzzards would have given Nate Sturbridge’s rotting carcass a fail on the sniff test, he was such a disgrace to the food chain.
His reasonable tone dripped with the victimhood of the abuser: You drive me to violence. It’s not my fault you deserve a whuppin’.
“Send an email to my business addy,” Bridget said, because Nate was her enemy and always would be.
And maybe because Magnus wanted a future with her, or thought he did.
“No can do, sweet cheeks. Emails live forever and are discoverable, as we both know all too well. This little easement project hasn’t hit the public-notice phase yet. Meet me at the Bar None tonight.”
Magnus shook his head, though Bridget had no intention of letting Nate order her around.
“No can do, buttwipe. I have a Scottish whisky baron strutting around the Logan Bar expecting five-star hand-holding. If you and I talk, it’s at the time and place of my choosing.”
“He’s a lucky baron. We’ll talk, just make sure it’s soon.”
Bridget ended the call and passed Magnus her phone, lest she pitch it through the window.
“I truly do hate him,” she said. “I hate him with a burning, thousand-sun, relentless, soul-deep conviction that Montana would be a better place without that pusillanimous polecat above ground and sucking air. That I even think such thoughts ought to scare me. I’m still an officer of the court and a decent h
uman being, I hope, and Nate isn’t half so clever as he thinks he is.”
Magnus wrapped his arms around her. “You were magnificent.”
Bridget leaned against him, her heart beating erratically. “I’m terrified. Terrified he’ll wreck my life, terrified I’ll do something I regret to wreck his. I’m tired of being terrified, and furious, because Nate depends on fear to work his stupid schemes.”
Magnus produced a handkerchief. The sight of it—white cotton, a purple thistle with greenery embroidered in one corner—coincided with a trickle of warmth against Bridget’s cheek.
“Crap. I hate to cry.”
Magnus settled her in his lap on the sofa until she’d cried herself past all dignity. Her eyes smarted, and her nose stung, and she probably looked about as appealing as roadkill. The sheer relief of giving in to emotions grown too heavy to carry alone, though, left a lightness behind and sense of gratitude for Magnus’s company.
“Sturbridge made you cry,” he said. “For that alone, I agree with your estimation of him. I hope you realize he admitted his wrongdoing in my hearing.”
Snowmelt was warmer than Magnus’s tone, but his hands tracing Bridget’s features were tenderness itself.
“Hearsay,” Bridget said, rubbing her cheek against Magnus’s chest. “I can’t get him convicted on the basis of hearsay, but I’m still glad he admitted before a witness what a weasel he’s been.”
Magnus produced his flask and passed it to Bridget. She sat up enough to take a fortifying sip, then another.
“If he admitted it once, he can admit it again,” Magnus said, taking a nip and capping the flask. “We’ll make sure that when he does, we’re there to hold him accountable.”
Bridget indulged in a few more minutes of snuggling in Magnus’s arms. The distillery was a peaceful, happy place, where she was queen of all she surveyed and damned good at it. Showing Magnus around had felt a little awkward, a little foolish.
And a lot wonderful. She had promised her grandpap to defend this citadel at any cost, but Grandpap had never envisioned a future with Magnus Cromarty.
Bridget got off Magnus’s lap, collected the nondisclosure agreements, closed the blinds, and tucked his sticky note into her pocket.
“Time to go,” she said. “The roads will freeze as soon as the sun sets, and that’s worse news by the mile.”
Magnus collected the leftovers, kissed her, and held the door. “Time to talk to your brothers?”
A suggestion, a question, a mere observation. The guy had good instincts.
“Time to talk to my brothers. Are you hydrating, Magnus? The croissants were salty.” She didn’t tell him he looked tired to her. Neither of them had gotten much sleep the night before.
“I’ll refill my water bottle from your stream, if that’s allowed. I’m curious as to the taste. My uncle Fergus insists the water we use is half the reason our single malts are such good quality.”
“You can take the distiller out of Scotland…”
Bridget warmed up the truck while Magnus knelt by the stream, the late afternoon sun slanting over his shoulder. Prospectors had settled this part of Montana more than one hundred and fifty years ago, and one of them might have crouched in that very spot, though he wouldn’t have looked half so handsome.
While Magnus chugged from his water bottle and then refilled it, Bridget adjusted the heat.
He’d written I want a future with you plain as day, and Bridget had the evidence tucked into the pocket of her jeans. No sense denying the obvious just because it was stupid, inconvenient, irrational, and doomed.
She wanted a future with him too.
Celeste MacKinnon, formerly Celeste Cromarty, was a striking woman. She moved with the benevolent confidence of a lady who knew herself to be attractive, powerful, and smarter than most of the people goggling at her.
Elias thus refused to goggle, though every time he saw Celeste, he understood a little better why Magnus had been smitten.
Fascinated was a better word.
Elias rose and kissed Celeste’s cheek, and all around him, he could feel the other diners, the men especially, envying him that privilege. One of Celeste’s greatest assets was her sense of timing. She lingered near for only a moment, but in that moment, women speculated, men shifted in their seats, and the wait staff preened to see such an elegant lady among their patrons.
Elias resisted the urge to wave away a cloud of Joy, though he generally liked that scent on other women. On Celeste, the fragrance lacked its usual appeal.
“Elias Brodie, if you grow any more handsome, somebody will have to marry you for your own safety. How are you?”
He wasn’t that handsome—tall, auburn-haired, as most Cromartys tended to be, with a good-sized beak, the better to sniff whisky—but when Celeste smiled at Elias, offering to admit him to the friendly conspiracy of the very beautiful, he felt handsome.
She was a strawberry-blond cross between Grace Kelly and Julia Roberts, leggy and lush, with eyes the color of wood hyacinths. She wore a wrapped V-neck silk blouse of the same blue and a taupe pencil skirt that showed off her hips and legs without being too tight or too short.
A slim gold bracelet draped about her wrist, and a scarf knotted into a loose choker echoed the blue and the taupe along with soft greens and a shade of pink that likely flattered both her nipples and her lips.
Magnus had once missed a board meeting to take Celeste scarf shopping in Budapest. At the time, Elias had envied his cousin the courage to indulge in such romance. Soon after, he’d felt sorry for the poor bastard.
“I am well,” he said, “and you look to be thriving. I trust Daryl is in good health?” Daryl MacKinnon was the present Mr. Celeste. He prided himself on knowing everything worth knowing about making whisky. The rumor among distillers was that MacKinnon was a competent distiller, but nobody had taught him much about making money.
“Daryl has abandoned me for the last of the polo matches.” Celeste affected a pout. “I suspect he’s fonder of his ponies than of his wife, but one bears up under these tribulations. Are you hungry?”
She reached for the menu and shot a little smile at Elias that suggested he might be hungry for her.
“Famished, and envious of Daryl’s adventures on horseback. I haven’t been on the polo field in far too long.”
She lowered her lashes. “Do you miss time in the saddle?”
Oh, for feck’s sake. Abruptly, Elias wished he’d stayed home in his sweats watching reruns of European football championships and sending nosy texts to his cousins.
“I don’t miss being sore for days at a time, or getting pitched on my arse at forty miles an hour so my horse can play leapfrog with my battered carcass.”
She smirked at her menu, as if Elias had said something adorably masculine.
“I have to ask how Magnus is,” she said, slowly turning a page. She’d doubtless have the grilled salmon and pick at it, chicken being too pedestrian and prawns too untidy. For dessert, chocolate truffle cake with Grand Marnier ganache, though she wouldn’t finish that either.
Elias had been engaged when Magnus and Celeste had married, and he was still great friends with his former fiancée. She’d not liked Celeste, and at the time, Elias had thought his fiancée a wee bit jealous. Celeste was beautiful, charming, gracious, and poised, after all.
Elias’s fiancée had claimed that everything was a prop for Celeste—clothes, food, cutlery, cars, pets, men, everything was a potential performance-enhancing convenience. Elias had eventually agreed that even a husband could fall into the same category.
Thank God that Magnus had slipped from Celeste’s grasp with his soul and his business intact.
“Magnus is off in Montana on a holiday,” Elias said. “Spring skiing, trout fishing, casinos, I’m not sure what all is involved.”
Celeste pretended to peruse the menu, but she’d paged past the dinner selections and was well into the wines and whiskies.
“Montana? Isn’t it still winter t
here?”
“I can’t say. Does anything on the menu tempt you?”
She frankly inspected him. “I’ll have the salmon. What about you?”
“Steak.” A man had to keep up his strength when behind enemy lines.
Celeste patted his hand, except her gesture was more of a caress, and well she knew it. “We can be honest with each other, can’t we, Elias?”
“I’d rather you didn’t attempt to deceive me.”
Another pat. “Magnus doesn’t take holidays, so you’ve already told one fib. Is he soliciting funds from American investors? I’ve told Daryl there’s opportunity in that direction. What Americans lack in respect for tradition, they make up for in extravagant investment schemes.”
Elias consulted to numerous not-for-profit organizations throughout the European market. Celeste might credibly have turned the topic to business, but she instead chatted interminably about mutual acquaintances and asked about Cromarty and Brodie family members to whom she’d never sent so much as a greeting card.
She nibbled her sesame-glazed salmon. She pronounced a fine Gewürztraminer too arrogant for such a subtle and complex main dish, though pleasant enough as a complement to certain cheeses. She named several of those cheeses—the notably stinky Maroilles among them—and patted Elias’s hand a half-dozen times.
Good God, the woman was tiresome.
“Will you share a dessert with me, Elias?”
“I’m as fond of a sticky toffee pudding as the next man.”
“That was always Magnus’s favorite.” She glanced around, as if half of Edinburgh was hanging on her next words. “I worry about Magnus, you know.”
Ach, finally. “Any particular reason?”
“It’s been years since the divorce, though we remain quite fond of each other. I’ve noticed a change in him lately. He’s preoccupied, perhaps even a bit… anxious?”
Elias considered and discarded several honest rejoinders, among them: If I’d been married to you, I’d need medication for my anxiety.
“Perhaps Magnus needed a holiday.”
Big Sky Ever After: a Montana Romance Duet Page 38