Big Sky Ever After: a Montana Romance Duet

by M. L. Buchman

  “That is screwed up,” Shamus said. “You never had the law firm’s money, and your books will show that.”

  “My books won’t show a damned thing,” Bridget retorted. “It looks like I stole the money from the law office, then replaced it with distillery funds as soon as Nate noticed the client account was short. Nate will doubtless swear a huge wad of ill-gotten cash is still stuffed under my mattress or in some whisky barrel.”

  That earned her a squabble between Shamus and Luke about what Bridget’s books would reveal, with Patrick observing that a walk with Nate into some dark alley would reveal a lot more.

  “Can’t do that,” Luke said. “Nate’s engaged to Georgie Truman, and if Prescott Truman got wind we’d had a two-fisted talk with Nate, our line of credit would dry up faster than a mud puddle in a prairie fire.”

  “Well, Bridget can’t have a damned pipeline running through her land,” Patrick shot back. “That’s one of our best water supplies, and Bridget needs that water for her distillery. I’m not rabidly opposed to developing mineral resources, but one teeny, tiny leak in Nate’s pipeline, and she’s out of business and we have a whole lot of thirsty livestock.”

  “Thirsty people too,” Shamus added. “The reservoir for the ranch house draws from the same springs as that stream. We have others, but we’d have to lay a lot of pipe.”

  “And we’d have to borrow from the bank to lay the pipe,” Luke said, “so that’s not happening either.”

  Bridget was encouraged that her brothers hadn’t castigated her for trusting Nate in the first place, though the practice of always having some signed checks on hand was one her own mother had instituted at the ranch.

  “Speaking of the bank,” Magnus said. “Does Nathan make transactions at the bank window, or use the drive-through?”

  “He stops by to flirt with the tellers,” Bridget said, “or shoot the breeze with old man Truman. That’s what he said he was doing. Bank errands were usually added to Nate’s lunch outings.”

  “What difference does it make?” Patrick asked. “Almost all the ranchers use Prescott’s bank. The merchants tend to use First Finance and Trust, and the resorts pick and choose, though Prescott has the largest of them.”

  “I ask,” Magnus said, “because here in the land of the free, you use a bloody lot of security cameras. I thought it had something to do with all the guns. At the petrol stations, grocery stores, drugstore, everywhere, you have security cameras. If Nate got all that cash from a bank teller, the transaction was recorded on a security camera. The film quality might be poor, but it would be good enough to implicate him in any investigation.”

  Bridget sat back and simply stared at Magnus as he finished his pie. I should have thought of that warred with a compulsion to call the bank.

  “A year is a long time to keep security footage,” Shamus said. “Casinos keep security data just about forever, but a bank…”

  “I know somebody we can ask,” Luke said. “Somebody who used to be in law enforcement and has been a good friend to this family.”

  “Somebody who does a mighty fine two-step,” Patrick added.

  Thank God for friends and family. “I’ve invited Martina over for pizza this weekend. I’ll make sure she’s coming.”

  Magnus rose and took his empty plate and fork to the sink. Bridget liked watching him strut around in his kilt, but he did lovely things for a pair of jeans too.

  “Now that we have that settled,” he said, “which one of you fine gentlemen is traveling to Scotland in my place?”

  The whisky samples arrived on Saturday, much to Magnus’s relief, along with a text from Elias confirming that the sample of Logan Bar water was at the lab.

  “This reads like a book of the Old Testament,” Bridget said, setting Celeste’s memorandum of mayhem on the coffee table. “You can’t keep all the heretofores and wherefores straight long enough to get the gist of the story.”

  “And the Old Testament is crammed full of violence and betrayal,” Magnus replied.

  While Bridget got up to feed the woodstove, he poured a flight of three tasting portions. He detected the scent of his ailing batch without even bringing the glass to his nose.

  “You can’t be considering this deal,” Bridget said. “You’re being used as a back door to give Celeste a greater share of her spouse’s business, while you give up control of your own.”

  Straight to the heart of the problem. “Celeste’s scheme comes to fruition only if I accept MacKinnon stock on behalf of Cromarty Distilleries, and transfer the Cromarty assets to Celeste personally, which even in an alternate universe, I would not do.”

  He set the tray before Bridget and took the place beside her.

  “This is your problem child?” she asked.

  “One of them is. Taste cautiously.”

  She kissed him. “I always do. Relax, Magnus. I’ve signed a nondisclosure too.”

  Bridget had insisted on that courtesy and made her brothers do likewise regarding Cromarty Distilleries. Lena had been included in the family pact by virtue of a pinky swear with Magnus, which she’d promptly dashed off to explain to her three-legged kitten.

  His first pinky swear, as it happened.

  Bridget lifted the glass of ruined whisky. “That is the smell of trouble.” Her expression became meditative as she held the glass under her nose, then moved it away, then held it under her nose.

  “Do you dare taste it?” Magnus asked.

  “Shush. Of course, I’ll taste it.” She did, taking several small sips. “I need to think about this.”

  “Don’t think too long. I have a bicentennial year coming up.”

  “How long has this been in the barrel?”

  “A little more than five years.”

  Magnus fell silent, because nattering wouldn’t change what was in the glass or ease the tension gripping him.

  “Do you have access to competent coopers?” Bridget asked, setting the glass down.

  “For a price, and with enough notice, I can gain access.” Kentucky had a thriving community of barrel makers, and their livelihood was ensured in part by a law prohibiting the use of their products in the bourbon industry more than once. The used barrels were purchased by whisky distilleries for reuse, sometimes for more than one batch of whisky.

  “I’ll need to make some phone calls on Monday,” Bridget said. “And I’ll want to taste this again before then.”

  “I’m surprised you’re willing to.”

  Bridget patted his knee. “Some whiskies are like infants. They keep you up all night, don’t smell very nice, and cost a lot simply to warehouse. A few years with the right kind of nurturing in the right environment, and you get an adorable toddler, a computer genius, or a concert violinist.”

  “Or a disaster.”

  She kissed him again. “Or a disaster.”

  Magnus rested his forehead against hers. “You’d tell me if it was hopeless?”

  “I would, and it might be, but I don’t know that yet. What’s in the other two glasses?”

  “Consolation.” Magnus passed her a drink. “This one’s the same age as I am, and I got the last bottle.”

  They sipped in silence, the fire in the woodstove snapping and popping, while outside the eaves dripped even as the sun set.

  Bridget sampled her whisky. “Oh, that is… grassy, minty, a hint of bleached sheets drying on the clothesline. Everything sunny and mild, maybe a touch of the sea… Lovely. What will you do if I can’t fix your whisky, Magnus?”

  Cry. And Bridget alone might understand his tears. “I have some other years that could finish very nicely.”

  “You’ll let me have a taste of them?”

  “I was hoping you’d ask.”

  They finished their drinks in silence, but Magnus’s burden had eased. Bridget would try to rescue his whisky as a professional courtesy, and she’d assist with finding a substitute if necessary. The problem wasn’t solved, but it was shared. For a Scotsman far from home, that
was nearly the same thing.

  So why wasn’t Magnus feeling more pleased with life and with the prospect of returning to Scotland with his mission accomplished?

  Once upon a time, Nate had loved to ski. Montana was the sort of place where you either learned to enjoy the fun to be had, no matter how cold, hot, dusty, or drenched that fun, or you went somewhere less challenging.

  Having passed the Montana bar, and only the Montana bar, going elsewhere wasn’t an option. Nate no longer went up into the mountains either.

  And now, he’d have to start avoiding the Bar None.

  “Nate,” Mandy Glascock said, sliding onto the stool next to his. “Been a while. How’s business?”

  Mandy’s family owned a spread that straddled the valley and the slopes, and they’d made bank selling off chunks of road-front acreage for trust-fund palaces. On the western boundary, their land abutted the Logans’ property, then ran along state land for miles.

  “Mandy, nice to see you. Business is fine, and you look fine too.” He made no move to touch her, not so much as a handshake, though she was a well-built brunette with a friendly smile.

  On the dance floor, the weekend fishing trip was in full swing with locals, tourists, ranch hands, and a smattering of student types scootin’ into pairs. Nate would have been out there—a cute little mojito-drunk blonde had been eyeing him up for the past half hour—except Georgie sometimes dropped in at the Bar None and her tolerance had limits.

  “Haven’t seen you on the slopes much this year.” Mandy caught Preacher’s eye and tipped the bottom of her longneck in his direction.

  Preacher uncapped a cold one, poured it to a perfect head, and set the mug and bottle before Mandy. Nate said a prayer the bartender would hang out and make small talk, and Preacher moved right back to the drink station to take the next order.

  “Been busy,” Nate said. “Solo practice is like that. Never rains but what it pours.” Trouble was like that too, and trouble sat right beside him.

  “I understand you might be handling a little land transaction for the Logans.”

  How in the hell…? “Now where would you hear something confidential like that?”

  She took out her phone, tapped a glossy red nail on the wallpaper of a cowboy on a bronc, and an image of Nate appeared, grinning with all the stupidity of a man who thinks he has privacy.

  “Look at the time.” Mandy stared at her phone for an excruciating progression of instants, during which Nate’s lovely, comfortable life flashed before his eyes.

  “Here’s the thing, Nathan. That land transaction for the Logans will make possible another land transaction for my dear daddy, and I like to keep my daddy happy.”

  The words were meant to carry a creepy undertone, and they did. “I’ve already approached Bridget, and we’re setting up a time to discuss the details. These things require discussion, as you well know, and nothing has been officially said about the pipeline by anybody who matters.”

  She shoved the phone into the pocket of her denim jacket. “I’m pleased to hear that you’ve made a priority out of this, Nathan. Very pleased. You’ll keep me posted?”

  He wouldn’t have to. He’d be watched everywhere, and just when he thought he’d sidled off the radar, Mandy and the very nasty people she called friends would yank him back where they wanted him. He’d considered turning state’s evidence, but the resulting mess would doubtless cost him his license to practice law.

  And—when had this begun to matter so much?—his engagement to Georgie.

  All over a roll in the hay he’d been too drunk to properly enjoy.

  “When the deal goes down, you’ll be the first to know,” Nate said. “And it will go down.”

  “Good,” Mandy said, patting his shoulder. “I knew I could count on you.”

  She prowled off, swingin’ it, though Nate wasn’t in any mood to appreciate the taunt.

  “You paying for her beer?” Preacher asked.

  “I’m paying,” Nate said, slapping a twenty on the counter. “From now until hell freezes over, I’ll be paying.”

  Preacher took the money and headed off to the register, but first, he gave Nate the same sort of look he’d give a college boy overdoing the shots. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  And the look was deserved, because sure as shit, in that picture Mandy had of Nate, he’d been wearing nothing but a bit of latex and a smile, the girl—because she was a girl—in the photo had been wearing even less than that.

  “You want another one?” Preacher asked, coming back with the change.

  “Why not?” Nate replied. “Monday is a long way off, and I’ve got a powerful thirst.”

  Oddly enough, his thirst was not for the mojito-swilling blonde, or even for more rye whisky. His thirst was for a life with Georgie and a couple kids on a nice little spread not too far from town. He’d eventually have his judgeship, Georgie would stay busy with her charities and the children, and life would be sweet.

  Until the next time Mandy came around, demanding another piece of Nate’s soul.

  The whole time Bridget drove into town for pizza, the whole time she stood with Lena carefully deciding to have the same thing they had every week, the whole way back to the ranch, she mulled over the problem with Magnus’s whisky.

  “Are you sad?” Lena asked as Bridget turned off the highway at the Logan Bar sign.

  “Not particularly. I’m thinking. What about you? Are you sad?”

  Lena stared out the window at a landscape that included wet, bare ground, patches of snow on the shady side of swales and ditches, and bright winter runoff rills crisscrossing the fields.

  “Sometimes, I’m sad. I miss Mom. Do you like Magnus?”

  The truck hit a mud puddle, splashing dirty water even onto the windshield. “I do. I like him, and I respect him.”

  “He talks funny, but he has honest eyes.”

  Slow hands too. “He makes whisky in Scotland, which is far, far away. We might visit him sometime.”

  Lena shot a glance at Bridget, then resumed studying land she’d seen nearly every day of her life. “I could go with you?”

  “That would be up to your daddy, but Shamus is going to visit there this week.”

  “Will Uncle Shamus come back?”

  “Yes.”

  But would Magnus come back? What did it mean when a man scrawled I want a future with you on a sticky note, trusted you with his worst whisky, and made no plans beyond the end of next week?

  “Why does pizza have to smell so good?” Lena asked. “The uncles wouldn’t notice if I had just one pepperoni.”

  Why does Magnus have to be such a good man? “Split a cheese stick with me.”

  Lena’s version of splitting was a division into exactly equal portions. She ate as daintily as a child could, while Bridget wolfed her half down in two bites.

  “Whose truck is that?” Lena asked as Bridget pulled into the ranch house driveway.

  “Martina Matlock’s. She’s sharing our pizza and maybe staying to do some quilting. Would you like to join us?”

  “Can Tornada quilt too?”

  The three-legged kitten was allowed to sleep in Lena’s room, breaking years of cat-less precedent in the ranch house.

  “Yes, unless Martina’s allergic to cats. Please carry the cheese sticks for me.”

  Bridget hadn’t taken two steps into the great room before Shamus relieved her of the pizza, and Luke took the cheese sticks from Lena. Martina, looking delectable and tidy, was giving Shamus’s suitcases a silent inspection.

  “Uncle Shamus is going to Scotland,” Lena said. “It’s far, far away, but he’s coming back.”

  “First, I’m having half this pizza,” Shamus said. “Bridget, hadn’t we better round up your Scotsman?”

  “I’ll get him,” Lena said, darting back out the door.

  Patrick watched his daughter leave. “I don’t know who she’s taken a bigger shine to, Magnus Cromarty or Montana’s most expensive kitten.”

 
“Are you complaining?” Bridget asked.

  “Nope. I’m not standing around here when there’s warm pizza on the premises either.”

  Lena dragged Magnus into the kitchen by the hand and insisted he sit beside her. Martina took the place beside Shamus, and Bridget was just reaching for her first hot, cheesy slice of perfection when Luke started grace.

  Magnus smiled at Bridget across the table, and perfection abruptly became something other than a thick slice of pepperoni with black olives.

  This—this family meal, with noise, banter, sincere gratitude, humor, and a side of cheese sticks—was perfection. If the looks Martina gave Shamus were any indication, he’d soon be straying in her direction permanently. Patrick seemed to be doing better, and Lucas and Will might one day get around to tying the knot.

  Life went on, and Bridget’s whisky would age in its barrels, while she…

  “Ladies first,” Magnus said, holding out the box of plain cheese pizza to Lena.

  “Tornada’s a lady,” Lena said. “So’s Aunt Bridget and Miss Martina.”

  “I’m a hungry lady,” Martina replied, and for a time, nobody said much besides, “Pass the chili verde,” or “Who stole my last jalapeño?”

  When Lena had been sent off to watch a video of barrel-racing championships, and coffee was brewing, Shamus put on the kettle.

  “I have a plane to catch, so we’d best get this confab underway.”

  “I’m all ears,” Martina said.

  “I’m in trouble,” Bridget announced. “But if you’re still an officer of the law, what I can tell you about that trouble is limited.”

  Martina peeled the paper from a chocolate cupcake. “I was a friend to this family before I got my first pony, and I will be friends with the Logans until the day I die. Unless you’re selling heroin to schoolchildren, what my friends tell me in confidence goes no further.”

  Not quite an answer to the question of Martina’s present occupation, but answer enough.

  “Nate Sturbridge framed me to take the blame for embezzlement from the law office client fund,” Bridget said. When she’d tried to explain the situation to her brothers, that admission had been difficult. Now, it made her purely furious. “He has the money, or he had it, and I have no proof.”