Big Sky Ever After: a Montana Romance Duet

by M. L. Buchman

  Bridget ran through the sequence of events while Martina licked the frosting from her cupcake, Magnus poured coffee, and Shamus fixed tea for the ladies.

  “So you want to know what the bank’s security tapes might show,” Martina said, “but you don’t want to tip off Prescott Truman about why you’re curious.”

  “We don’t know if the bank even has tapes that go back a year,” Shamus said. “Storing that much data would cost a pretty penny.”

  Martina took a bite of chocolate cupcake and got a dash of frosting on her nose. Shamus stared hard at the clock, and Patrick and Luke exchanged smiles.

  She used a red-checked napkin to wipe away the frosting. “As it happens, Prescott does some business with the casinos, and they require very, extremely, endlessly fancy security measures. They have to keep a lot of cash up at the resort—enough to cover every chip in play, plus a margin—and that means significant reserves are sometimes kept off-site. Eat your cupcake, Shamus.”

  “I’ll eat his cupcake,” Patrick muttered.

  “No, you will not.” Shamus set his dessert beyond Patrick’s reach. “Be nice to me, or I might not come back from Scotland.”

  “You’ll come back,” Luke retorted. “Lena would miss you.”

  “So would Tornada,” Bridget added, straight-faced.

  Magnus helped himself to a cupcake. “About the tapes. We don’t need to see any footage, but we need to know if they exist and if they could be brought into evidence.”

  “Easy enough to find out,” Martina replied.

  “How?” Bridget asked. “Patrick, you touch my cupcake, you die.”

  The moment turned awkward—Judith had died. A silence hovered, until Patrick swiped Bridget’s cupcake, took a bite, and put it back on her plate.

  “They taste better when they’re stolen,” he said. “Tell us how you’ll get access to Prescott’s security information without letting him know what’s up.”

  “I’ll ask Georgie,” Martina said. “She’s on my bowling team, and there’s nothing about that bank she doesn’t know, but that doesn’t solve Bridget’s problem.”

  “If those tapes exist,” Luke said, “they give Bridget the leverage she needs to tell Sturbridge to step off. That’s enough for now.”

  Martina considered the last of her cupcake, then considered Shamus. “You promise you’re coming back from Scotland, Shamus Logan?”

  “I promise.”

  “Nathan Sturbridge is under investigation by authorities who’ve been trying to bring down a trafficking ring for more than a year. I can’t tell you which agencies are involved, can’t tell you specifics, but Nate made some classic stupid moves. I suspect that’s why he needed Bridget’s money, and why he won’t have it stuffed inside his mattress even if I were able to get you a search warrant.”

  “I’ll kill him,” Luke said.

  “I’ll help you,” Patrick added.

  Shamus set down his cupcake. “I’ll bury the damned evidence.”

  “Swear jar,” Magnus said. “This investigation has been going on for more than a year?”

  “Nearly two years,” Martina replied. “It’s… complicated. One part of it is a setup: The john has a good time, and when he’s ready to saunter on his merry way, he’s told that he was with an underage female, and the encounter was recorded for posterity. The john pays for silence, even though as near as we can tell, the women involved are of age. They just look underage.”

  “So the crime committed isn’t trafficking underage women,” Bridget murmured, “it’s merely prostitution, or possibly pimping, and the money is great, because the johns are chosen for their ability to pay.”

  “The money is great if you don’t mind committing extortion,” Martina said. “Sticks in my craw to ignore felonies.”

  “But the extortion is probably reserved for the select few who have the ability to pay well,” Magnus pointed out, “meaning at least some of the people managing this dirty business are local.”

  “My, my, my,” Luke murmured. “Trouble in River City.”

  “I don’t want to put Nate behind bars,” Bridget said. “I just want to run my distillery without him threatening me over a pipeline.”

  “You don’t want your money back?” Martina asked. “You don’t want him kicked out of the profession of law?”

  “Of course I want my money back, and of course Nate’s a disgrace to the legal profession, but you say the money’s gone, and I believe you. My distillery could be in business for the next hundred years, but if the water supply gets messed up, I got nothin’.”

  “The ranch doesn’t have much either,” Shamus said.

  Patrick rose and gathered up cupcake wrappers. “So where do we go from here? We don’t know if the bank has tapes that would incriminate Nate, we can’t get to those tapes if they exist, and Bridget’s supposed to meet with the guy tomorrow.”

  “Don’t cheer us up or anything,” Luke muttered.

  “Patrick’s right,” Bridget said. “In a sense, I’m worse off because of what Martina has told us.”

  “I told you jack squat,” Martina said. “I’m here to work on a new pillowcase for my hope chest.”

  “Worse off, how?” Shamus asked. “Nate had a motive to steal from you, and now we know what that motive is.”

  “Bridget is worse off,” Magnus said, “because if Nate had a motive to steal once, that same motive will probably inspire him to steal again. Extortionists don’t leave a signed receipt and ride off into the sunset. Even if Bridget signed an easement for the pipeline, Nate could well come after her next time to sell her land or sell her business.”

  “And I’m not selling,” Bridget said. “I’m not selling an easement. I’m not selling my business.”

  If Magnus thought she’d changed her mind on that score, then he’d better take Shamus’s place on that flight bound for Scotland.

  “You’re not selling,” Magnus said, “but Nathan doesn’t know that.”

  Martina downed the last of her tea. “If this is about to get illegal, I’m about to get scarce.”

  “Not illegal,” Magnus replied. “Devious, perhaps.”

  “Well, get devious in a damned hurry,” Shamus said, “or I won’t be on my plane, and then we’ll have two distilleries in trouble.”

  Chapter 12

  Another storm—ice and freezing rain, for variety—gave Bridget an excuse to push the scheduled meeting with Nathan Sturbridge back until Wednesday, and Magnus used the extra two days to get better acquainted with Bridget’s distillery.

  Getting better acquainted with Bridget had stalled, for which Magnus blamed Sturbridge and his meddling.

  “You are full of ideas,” he said as Bridget parked a skid loader in her warehouse. The building was of recent construction, as whisky warehouses went, sectioned off into separate temperature-controlled areas, with modern lighting and ventilation throughout.

  “I have to be full of ideas,” she said, climbing out of the vehicle. “Where you come from, it’s malt whisky, period. Might be single cask, might be blended, but all the other variations—rye, corn, blended spirits—aren’t competing in your bailiwick. We have to be not only the best whisky option, we also have to be the best spirits, period.”

  She was lecturing, nearly ranting. “Bridget, what’s wrong?”

  She pulled off a pair of work gloves and tossed them onto the seat of the loader. “You mean, besides my law-partner-turned-pandering-blackmailer threatening to put my water supply at risk?”

  Magnus had a nagging sense Bridget was keeping something from him. He’d had the same feeling when Celeste had been plotting her exit from the marriage, spreading rumors among the employees, quietly stashing money into her personal checking account, and liquidating nearly every piece of jewelry Magnus had given her.

  When he’d finally noticed she was wearing the same earrings and slim gold bracelet to every occasion, she’d told him they were her favorites.

  He let Bridget lead him to her offi
ce, which necessitated a dash across the frigid parking lot. Montana weather raised fickle to a high art, which was doubtless part of the reason the warehouse had to be climate controlled.

  “You interested in some hot tea?” Bridget asked, pouring water into a chipped blue mug.

  “I have water.” Magnus had filled his bottle at the stream when they’d arrived, and he took a sip while Bridget put her mug in the microwave. The water was wonderfully cold and had a sparkly feeling going down. “Have you analyzed your water? I like it.”

  “Of course I’ve analyzed it, and lo and behold, it’s wet and makes great whisky. I don’t like what you have planned for Sturbridge.”

  So much for the whisky-maker’s version of small talk. Magnus capped his water bottle and took Bridget in his arms.

  “The plan is not mine, but ours, and it’s the best we can come up with when time is of the essence.” The statute of limitations on raiding the till was only one year, and that year would soon be up. Then too, Bridget should not have to endure one day more than necessary of Sturbridge’s perfidy.

  “Nate is lazy, he’s not stupid,” she said.

  “While you and I are neither.” Magnus kissed her, not to make a point, but because he longed for the taste of her. Bridget had been increasingly distracted since the family war council on Sunday, and any hopes Magnus had entertained about sharing a bed again had gone nowhere.

  He’d endured a trail ride with Patrick and Lena yesterday before the weather had turned up nasty again. He’d admired a new foal that had arrived on Sunday night, and watched Bridget stitching away on a quilt for Lena. He’d played damned chase-the-string with the kittens and generally exhausted his stores of gentlemanly deportment.

  Now, he needed to kiss Bridget.

  She apparently needed to kiss him back, because the next thing Magnus knew, he was being pushed up against her behemoth desk, and she was yanking his shirttail out of his jeans.

  “I want this,” she muttered against his mouth. “I want you. Now.”

  Magnus’s body leaped at the invitation, and as Bridget locked the door, he shucked out of his boots and shirt and got his belt buckle undone.

  “Don’t stop there,” she said, pulling her sweater over her head. “We’re burning daylight.”

  “I didn’t bring—”

  “I did,” she said, tossing a condom on the end table beside the sofa. “And that’s not all I’m bringing, Magnus Cromarty.”

  Her T-shirt—Distillers do it with spirit!—joined the heap of clothing on her desk, followed by a lacy lilac bra and her jeans.

  “The curtains are open,” Magnus said, an inane observation when Bridget MacDeaver was nearly naked less than two yards away.

  “I like wild scenery.” She prowled close enough to ruffle the hair on his chest. “I like you.”

  This wasn’t a happy admission, which Magnus would worry about later. “I more than like you and hope what we start here can continue in my bed tonight.” And for many nights to come.

  “You,” she said, pushing him down to sit on the couch. “On your back please, now.”

  Magnus obliged, and Bridget straddled him, took care of the protection, and pretty much took care of his every fantasy and coherent thought over the next thirty minutes. By the time she was panting and spent on his chest, Magnus couldn’t recall the day of the week, month of the year, or which continent he found himself on.

  But he’d never forget the feel of Bridget’s lovemaking.

  “You’re worried,” he said, drifting his hands over her back. “That was worried passion, Mary Bridget MacDeaver.”

  “It was a lot of things, and anybody would be worried in my position. Go to sleep.”

  Their bodies had slipped apart, and Bridget’s breathing became even. A few years ago, maybe even a few days ago, Magnus would have nodded off, content with intense physical satisfaction and good memories.

  With Bridget, he wanted more. Her desire for him had been real, but she’d also used sex to distract him. From what, he didn’t know, and questioning her was pointless. When Bridget MacDeaver made up her mind, there was no unmaking it.

  He liked that about her—no deception, no underhanded scheming—but hoped she’d made up her mind to trust him.

  Because he certainly trusted her.

  He’d barely closed his eyes when a phone vibrated against the scarred wood of the end table.

  “That’s yours,” Bridget muttered, pushing away from him. She stretched to get his phone, which put her breasts within nuzzling distance.

  Magnus resisted, because the chime had signaled a text from Elias. “The board meeting should be starting about now,” he said, accepting the phone.

  Fergus gave Celeste his proxy and your man from Montana hasn’t arrived yet. Celeste is spreading mutiny one smile at a time, and we’re supposed to convene in fifteen minutes.

  “Bad news?” Bridget asked, passing him his shirt.

  “Disaster for Scotland,” Magnus replied, quoting the old sportscaster’s lament. “Or for Cromarty Distilleries.”

  “I miss Uncle Shamus,” Lena said.

  Oddly enough, Patrick missed him too. “He’ll be back this time next week, or that’s the plan.”

  “Do you have any sevens?”

  Patrick passed over the seven of clubs. “You’re cleaning me out, Lena Lilly Logan.”

  She was very serious about her go-fish and put the pair of sevens face-up on the table. “Do you have any twos?”

  “Go fish.”

  She picked up a card, wrinkled her nose, and gave Patrick an expectant look.

  “Do you have any elevens?” he asked.

  “Daddy, I’m not a little girl.”

  Yes, you are, and to me you always will be. “Sorry. Do you have any threes?”

  Even the number was painful. Mother, father, and child were a threesome, but Patrick and Lena were down to deuces. That purely stank.

  Lena passed over the three of hearts. “How far away is Scotland?”

  “Across the ocean, thousands of miles. Way, way, way far away.”

  “Aunt Bridget said we might visit there.” Lena was asking a question—several questions, in fact.

  Patrick pretended to rearrange the cards in his hand. “You like Mister Magnus, don’t you?”

  “He’s not loud, but he’s nice. He can’t ride a horse as well as you used to. If you have a pair, you’re supposed to put them down.”

  Patrick put his lousy threes on the table, and good riddance. “Aunt Bridget likes Mister Magnus too. He lives in Scotland, and she might like to visit him there. He has a distillery, just like she does.”

  “But his distillery is in Scotland, and ours is here.”

  “That does appear to be the case. Would you like to visit Scotland, Lena?”

  She put her cards down. “Jason Prescott goes to Mexico with his grandparents. He says it’s always warm there, and everybody is nice.”

  “What else does Jason say?”

  “That I’m too poor to go anywhere, and only poor people never take vacations. Tara Huxtable said Jason is stupid, and some people have to work for a living.”

  Patrick assessed Jason’s snide remarks for racial prejudice and found only a small boy’s small-mindedness.

  “Some people have to wander all over the place because they don’t know home when it’s staring them in the face. Your mama told me that. I love it here at the Logan Bar, Lena, but if you want to go with your Aunt Bridget to see Scotland, we’ll make that happen when school’s out.” How they’d make it happen wasn’t immediately clear.

  She tidied up her pairs of cards. “Would you come with us?”

  “You worried about your old man?”

  “You used to be fun to beat at cards, Daddy.”

  I used to be a lot of things, including happily married. “It might surprise you to know that I am interested in visiting Scotland. They are way, way ahead of us when it comes to renewable energy. They’re good at things like windmills,
solar power, and tidal power. I have an idea for a solar tree, and Mister Magnus said his uncle might be willing to fund it.”

  “What’s a solar tree?”

  “It looks like a real tree, but it’s collecting sunlight like a solar panel. In Scotland, they have cell towers that look like trees, and—why are you collecting my cards?”

  “Because you weren’t even trying to win. I think it’s time I taught you how to play crazy eights.”

  As best Patrick recalled, crazy eights could last for hours. “How about if you come out to the shop with me and do your homework while I do a little sketching?”

  Her smile was surprised and eager. “Can Tornada come?”

  “If you set her up a litter box and bowl of water, she can come next time.”

  “I’ll get my drawing paper and my library book.” Lena was off like a shot, the kitchen door swinging in her wake.

  “What has gotten into my niece?” Luke asked, coming through the doorway.

  “I’m not sure, but how would you feel about setting up some prototype solar windmills over the summer?”

  “What’ll it cost us?”

  “Spare parts, time, my labor. Maybe a round-trip ticket to Scotland to meet with Magnus’s rich, eccentric uncle.”

  Luke opened the fridge and drank straight out of a quart container of half-and-half. “Magnus this, and Magnus that. The guy has been in town less than two weeks, and it feels like he’s taken over my family.”

  “Our family. Cromarty knows about you and Willy.”

  Luke slammed the door to the fridge. “What in the hell business is it of Cromarty’s what I get up to with whom?”

  “The milk mustache kinda ruins that glower, Lukey-poo. You and Willy were amorous under the moonlight last week, and Cromarty saw you. I don’t reckon it matters a hill of beans to Magnus who you want to tango with as long as everybody’s a consenting adult.”

  Luke wiped his lip with a tea towel. “A fine thing when a man can’t even have privacy in the middle of the night on his own property.”

  “Like you weren’t peering in the guesthouse window when you stacked all that firewood?”