If Bridget was smart, she’d lead Cromarty on a dance and then make him pay through the nose for the damned distillery. Bridget was smart, but alas for her, she wasn’t devious.
“What has this to do with me?” Though Nate could connect the dots easily. Cromarty was buying the Logan Bar distillery and wanted to control the terms of the pipeline easement. Nate drank to that good news, because Cromarty would save him the trouble of convincing Bridget to see reason.
Preacher was drying glasses with a red towel, Martina waggled her fingers at Cromarty, and Joey Deardorff was sulking at the end of the bar, probably trying to find the nerve to buy Martina a drink. Several other couples had taken up tables at the edge of the dance floor, but the place was mostly empty, it being midweek and early for the singles crowd.
Nate should do business here more often. The informal atmosphere was good for loosening tongues, and the service was good.
Cromarty brought his drink to his nose, then set it aside. “You ask what my business aspirations have to do with you.” He hit a few keys on his phone, and tucked it into his breast pocket, suggesting the negotiating was about to get productive. “Bridget MacDeaver hates you, and that bothers me. I’ve seen the books for her distillery, thanks to her brothers, and on those books is a substantial loan that she made essentially to your law practice.”
Bookkeeping was not Nate’s strong suit, which was why the Almighty had created legions of gray-haired women in sensible shoes who delighted in spreadsheets and stray pennies.
“I can assure you, Mr. Cromarty, that my law practice is under no obligation to Bridget MacDeaver or her distillery. Just the opposite. When her sister-in-law died, Bridget bailed on me with no notice, left me holding about eight different bags, and had the decency to pass along token compensation for my inconvenience. No loan to me or the law practice was made, and no payments on that loan will be forthcoming, regardless of what her brothers might have intimated.”
Half of lawyering was storytelling, creating a tale from facts and evidence. Bridget had doubtless nearly bankrupted her distillery to cover the law office’s shortfall, but Nate’s embellishments had sounded convincing to his own ears. She had left the practice, and he was doing the work of two lawyers as a result.
More or less.
Sorta.
“Would you like another drink, Mr. Sturbridge?” Cromarty gestured with his chin at Nate, and the nice waitress—who had nice legs too—brought over the bottle of rye.
“Much obliged,” Nate said. “Any other questions, Cromarty?”
Cromarty poured Nate a generous shot. “I’m what you might call snakebit—did I use the term correctly? My ex was in the whisky business, still is, and she left a path of destruction from my bank account to my distillery to my board of directors. Five years on, and I’m still looking over my shoulder for some female to wreck what I’ve rebuilt.”
That made sense, women being women regardless of nationality. “Sorry for your troubles, Cromarty. I didn’t appreciate it when Bridget left me a mountain of work to do, and no time to prepare the cases. The bar association frowns mightily on lawyers who drop the ball, but I felt sorry for her because her family was going through a hard time.”
Cromarty capped the bottle of rye. “Good of you. I appreciate the warning too, because a woman who will welsh on a partner bears watching. What do you know about making whisky and about selling whisky in Montana?”
Guys were supposed to look out for each other. If that wasn’t part of the code of the west, it was certainly part of the code of the locker room.
This question about whisky was probably Cromarty’s real agenda—free legal advice, same as half the valley wanted at some point. Nate rambled on convincingly about nothing much in particular—he preferred criminal defense to corporate law—while Cromarty appeared to be swilling down every word.
Thinking himself quite the clever corporate raider, no doubt, a regular whisky tycoon in a skirt. Over the course of couple more shots of rye, Cromarty waxed eloquent about tradition, pot stills, the challenges of breaking into international markets, and God alone knew what. The accent—or a bit too much drink, maybe—made some of his bull tiresome to decipher.
“Timing is everything,” Nate observed. “So when will you buy that distillery out from under Bridget?”
“An acquisition always requires due diligence, Sturbridge. I’d sign a memorandum of understanding first, take a very close look at the books and the facility next, and execute a contract of purchase thereafter, assuming Bridget and I came to terms. This business of Bridget leaving a law partner with no notice doesn’t sit well with me at all. Though you’ve been very helpful, I still have significant questions about the Logan Bar’s finances.”
Well, crap. Significant questions meant significant delays. “What questions, Cromarty? I’ve known the Logans all my life, and they run a good outfit. Distilling is your bailiwick, but Bridget’s a hard worker and doesn’t half-ass anything. I was in business with her, and I oughta know. There was a death in the family, the hailstorm from hell came through… I cut Bridget some slack.”
Cromarty leaned nearer, glancing around first, as if his piddly little whisky deal would be of interest to couples intent on getting horizontal with each other before midnight.
“Then answer me this, Sturbridge: Why would a woman planning to run out on her law partner be entering her appearance in court cases right up until the day she left?”
The Bar None had begun to fill up, and the noise level made Cromarty’s words harder to grasp. “Beg pardon?”
“Bridget MacDeaver was taking on cases and meeting with clients right up until the week she made that loan to the law practice. Why would she jeopardize the distillery she loves to cut out on a business that showed every evidence of earning a healthy, steady income?”
Damn, Cromarty was like a dog on a bone, but the guy was right to be cautious where Bridget was concerned.
Nate took another sip of patience. “I’m tellin’ you, there wasn’t any damned loan.” Preacher shot them a mildly curious look. Nate leaned closer to Cromarty. “There wasn’t any loan from the distillery to the law practice.”
Cromarty looked unconvinced. “So if I were to examine the books from the law practice, they wouldn’t show an influx of cash equal to what Bridget took from the distillery?”
Not a question Cromarty could ask Bridget directly, so Nate didn’t take offense. “I already told you, Bridget compensated me for the trouble of taking over the whole law office, and what does any of this have to do with agreeing to a pipeline easement?” The question, for reasons Nate would recall any minute, seemed pressing.
So did a trip to the john.
“I can’t acquire a business with dirty books, Sturbridge,” Cromarty said, keeping his voice down. “The whisky industry is heavily regulated, particularly when the product is shipped internationally, and dirty books are soon obvious. If you can’t tell me what really happened with that money, I’ll be on a plane back to Scotland in less than week. Just between us, you should also know that Bridget will never permit an easement to cross her property—and it is her property, not her brothers’.”
Well, hell. Nate dipped a chip into the salsa, but the chip busted before he could scoop up a decent serving.
“How do you know the land is hers?”
“Because land records are public, and the distillery I might buy sits on that land, for now.”
Cromarty must really want that distillery, if he was personally checking land records this soon after hitting town. If Bridget knew she had the poor bastard by the balls, she’d grip and twist with a vengeance.
“How badly do you need to close this deal?” Nate asked.
“Bridget MacDeaver is sitting on a gold mine,” Cromarty said, sending another nervous glance around the room. “Her products are undervalued and underdistributed, and she doesn’t know what to do about it. If she won’t expand with my help, somebody else will come along and make her an offer
she can’t refuse, probably one of my competitors. Does that answer your question?”
“You want it bad.” Which was good, for Nate.
“I am exceedingly interested, but if Bridget isn’t managing her business on the up and up, I can’t afford to make an international investment in a dodgy venture. The distillery’s books aren’t adding up, which means Bridget could finish the job my ex started. I can’t take another hit like that.”
So… to get the pipeline easement through, Nate had to do Bridget a genuine favor, and talk Cromarty into buying her distillery. Why did life have to be so complicated?
As skittish as Cromarty was, he’d ride off into the sunset, unless Nate explained about the money.
A niggling sense of caution warned him not to do that—Nate had been played for a fool and didn’t like admitting that to a stranger—but self-preservation voted in favor of securing the easement sooner rather than later.
“I took a little unscheduled loan from the law office,” Nate said. “Got painted into a corner, the kind of corner only a wad of cash could get me out of. Bridget handled all the money, but she always had a few signed checks where I could get to them in an emergency. She made it too easy to help myself, so I did. She got all worked up about it and replaced the money, then left the practice. It wasn’t any big deal.”
Cromarty drew a finger around the rim of his untouched drink. “A cash-flow problem? I despise cash flow problems.”
“Exactly. I had a personal cash-flow problem, got tangled up with some mighty impatient folks you’d never want to meet in a dark alley. I might have eventually paid it back, but Bridget left in a huff, so why bother?”
A comforting bit of logic, come to think of it.
“I’m not sure I understand. You took a business check Bridget had signed, used it to solve this personal cash flow problem, and haven’t reimbursed Bridget or the business for the funds you appropriated?”
Lord abide, Cromarty was slow. Maybe all the whisky fumes had addled his business brain. “You make it sound like I stole that money, when it was Bridget’s signature on the check.”
“Her signature?” Cromarty’s expression was befuddled, as if simple monetary transactions weren’t something covered in Whisky-Making 101.
How had this guy stayed in business at all, much less come from two-hundred years of whisky-making stock?
“You bet it was Bridget’s signature on that check, which is why Bridget replaced the money in a big-ass hurry. As far as anybody knows, she wrote the check, therefore she got the funds.”
Nate was still pleased with himself for being clever enough to put the whole thing together. Not like Bridget was using that money anyway.
Cromarty used a thumbnail to peel the label on the bottle of rye. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Sturbridge, but doesn’t your federal government keep an eye on transactions in excess of ten thousand dollars?”
Nate scooped another chip through the salsa and got most of it to his mouth, except for a bit that dropped on the table.
“We occasionally handled sums over ten thousand—as retainers, settlements, and the like—and nobody ever asked us about it. Do I look like some whoop-de-do securities and finance lawyer to you, Cromarty?”
Damn, it was time to see a man about a horse.
Cromarty tore a strip off the label on the bottle of rye, then sat back, his gaze flat. “You look like a criminal. The worst kind of criminal, who has no remorse for his wrongdoing and takes advantage of anybody to avoid being held responsible for his crimes. If the cash was disbursed to you, then the security cameras at the bank very likely recorded the whole transaction.”
Cromarty’s expression was serious enough to make any sane person uneasy. He wasn’t angry, he was in the grip of an ice-cold rage that could have dropped Harley Gummo with a single punch.
And yet, Nate couldn’t quite make sense of what Cromarty had said. “What transaction?”
“Somebody counted out a lot of money at a teller window, probably counted it several times, while you stood waiting. Then you—not Bridget, you—walked out of the bank with the money. That’s all on tape somewhere, Sturbridge, and I’m guessing the bank will not appreciate you using them to embezzle from your business partner.”
Embezzle was a word Nate had avoided even in his imagination. Embezzling was… stupid, dishonorable, not something a bank president’s son-in-law could get caught doing.
“So I helped myself to the money,” Nate said. “What of it? Bridget could spare it, and nobody’s the wiser. You going to agree to that pipeline, or has this little tête-à-tête been a waste of time?”
“You admit to stealing from Bridget MacDeaver?”
“For crap’s sake, yes, I stole from Bridget. I also admit she made taking that money too easy. Wasn’t all that much, she could spare it, and the alternative for me was something you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy.”
Cromarty finally took a sip of his drink. “As it happens, you’re wrong. You are my worst enemy, Sturbridge, and while everybody makes mistakes, not everybody breaks the law, fails to take responsibility for those mistakes, and exploits the trust of business associates to ensure the burden falls on the innocent instead of the guilty.”
Cromarty raised his hand in the direction of the bar, though Nate was not about to get stuck with the bill for this farce.
“Judge me all you please,” Nate said, pushing to his feet. “I got the money when I needed it, and a friendly word to the wise: If you want that distillery, then I’m the only guy who can get Bridget to sell it to you. All I have to do is remind her whose signature was on that check and what the bar association would do to a woman who steals from her own law practice. She’ll turn up sweeter than wild clover honey.”
Cromarty remained seated, which meant he’d be paying the tab. A fitting retribution for having wasted Nate’s evening.
“You threatened Bridget with disbarment to get her to leave the practice?”
“I didn’t threaten her, Cromarty, I promised her. If she made any trouble for a guy who was down on his luck and a little short of cash, then I’d make trouble for her right back. I did her a favor, if you want the truth. She isn’t much of a lawyer and was never going to love the law the way she loves that distillery. Let me know when you’re ready to deal, but don’t wait too long. I’m a busy man.”
Nate’s stroll away from the table was meant to take him in the direction of the facilities, except he caught his toe on the leg of a chair and stumbled. Martina Matlock caught him, and lordy, the gal had a serious grip.
“Thank you, darlin’,” Nate said. “I’m off to drain the dragon, though if you’re interested in a dance, I could oblige you when I’ve tended to my business.”
Martina kept hold of Nate’s arm. “I appreciate the offer, Nate, but you and I will be taking a little ride.”
“Not until I take a piss, ‘scuse my French. I’ve been negotiating over a drink or two, and nature calls.”
Martina snapped something cold around Nate’s wrist, tucked his arm behind him, and secured his second wrist. “I am arresting you, Nathan Sturbridge. You can either come quietly and we’ll finish this discussion in private, or you can resist arrest.”
Her tone delivered a frigid slap to Nate’s buzz. At Cromarty’s table, a guy in a dark suit collected the phone Cromarty had tucked away most of a bottle of rye ago. The phone Nate had assumed had been turned off.
Shit.
The words arresting you sank in, and the handcuffs—Martina Matlock had put him in handcuffs—drove reality home.
“Martina, I really, truly have to take a leak.”
“Nice try, but you really truly are under arrest.”
She urged him toward the door, and Nate went because, as a lawyer, he knew all too well what could follow when some fool resisted arrest. A few feet away, Magnus Cromarty sat studying his whisky as if it held the secret to eternal life, while Preacher refused to spare Nate so much as a glance.
Magnus left a
few bills sitting amid the crumbs, napkins, and empty glasses on the table and headed to the lounge. He wanted to get away from the noise, the gathering crowd, and the scent of rye.
He needed to see Bridget.
When he got to the lounge, she sprang out of her chair and wrapped him in a bear hug. “Martina escorted Nate in handcuffs across the parking lot. A big guy in a suit climbed out of a Dodge Charger and helped her get Nate into the backseat. I’m babbling.”
Magnus held her close enough to feel that her heart was pounding like a fiddle player’s at the end of a medley of reels.
“Sturbridge incriminated himself in half a dozen directions, and I made very, very certain to start the evening by getting his permission to record our conversation.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. If your lectures about wiretapping laws were any more detailed, I’d be teaching the subject to federal agents myself.”
He smoothed a hand over her hair, which was loose this evening, no tidy bun, no fancy braid. “Sturbridge truly betrayed you, Bridget. His remorse was microscopic at best. If I hadn’t intimated that he was caught on tape walking out of the bank with all the cash, I doubt he’d have admitted to stealing from you.”
Bridget sank back into her chair. “But there are no tapes.”
Martina had discreetly established that the bank kept no more than ninety days of security data. “I gambled on Nate being too lazy to have ascertained that fact himself, because laziness is consistent with everything you’ve told me about him. He never checked the land records before broaching the easement with you, for example. He didn’t even prepare his own cases in the courtroom.”
Soon, relief would begin to seep through Magnus’s rage, but for now, he was still furious. Sturbridge had bragged about taking advantage of his own business partner, bragged about threatening her.
Big Sky Ever After: a Montana Romance Duet Page 43