Love on Tap (Brewing Love)

by Meg Benjamin

  “Cut the crap. Did you sell the Zoria to Wyatt Montgomery?”

  Bec sighed again. She could prevaricate a little longer, but there didn’t seem to be much point in that. “Yes, I’m probably selling the Zoria to Montgomery.” Assuming he doesn’t wimp out and gets me all the ingredients I need.

  “For how much?” Liam’s voice had shifted to barely suppressed excitement.

  She gritted her teeth. “That’s between him and me.”

  There was a pause on the other end. Then Liam was back. “How exactly do you figure that?”

  Bec flopped down on her slightly ratty couch. She’d been thinking about this conversation all afternoon, and she wasn’t any more ready to talk about it than she had been earlier. “Your last words to me before you walked out of the brewery were, and I quote, ‘The goddamn thing’s all yours, Rebecca. I don’t want to ever see or hear of it again.’ I assumed that included the building and everything in it, including the Zoria. Which I’m now going to sell.” And she would put the proceeds back into the brewery, damn it.

  Another pause. Liam’s voice sounded slightly ragged now. “My money went into that place, Bec, the same as yours. And I didn’t get any more out of it than you did.”

  “And as soon as I can get something more to sell, I’ll pay you back. With interest. But I need the money I get for the Zoria. I need seed money to get production going.” She rubbed a hand across her forehead. She felt almost too tired to talk about this right now.

  “Seed money for what? Jesus, Bec, how do you expect to pay the property taxes on that place? With your cheese money?”

  She gritted her teeth again. Such a fun conversation. “Believe me, I’m well aware what our property tax bill is. And the electricity. And the water and sewer. Thank God Colin paid off the bank loan before he took off. But, yeah, I know where we stand economically. We either sell the place or start making beer again. I’m going with option two.”

  Liam snorted. “How are you going to buy the ingredients? Antero Brewing doesn’t even have enough in the bank to cover a bag of malt. Hell, where are you going to get your supplies? All of our suppliers were terminally pissed off when Colin left them holding the bag.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m working on that. Part of the deal involves Montgomery getting the ingredients I need for another round of brewing.”

  There was another long pause. Now Liam sounded almost as tired as she did. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up, Bec. We had a good run. But it’s not going to happen again.”

  She clutched the phone so tightly her hand began to hurt. “Watch me,” she said.

  …

  The next morning, Wyatt parked his truck outside the smallish brick building that was apparently Antero Brewing Company. There were no signs or other identifiers, but the address was right. He climbed the steps at the side, then banged his fist against the door, hoping somebody inside would hear him.

  Bec opened the door a few moments later. “Right on time.” She gave him something that was close to a smile. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her smile in a non-ironic way up until then.

  He followed her through the door, checking the interior. A large copper mash tun occupied one end of the room, along with a couple of stainless steel fermentation tanks. There was a faint lingering scent of grain and yeast. He wondered if she’d been brewing at all during the past few months.

  She paused at a desk in a corner of the room, rummaging through some papers. Finally she pulled loose a sheet and handed it to him. “These are your instructions for the day.”

  “My instructions?” He frowned. “For doing what?”

  “Your first task.” She narrowed her eyes. “I thought you wanted to get started.”

  He nodded. “I do, but why do I need written instructions? Can’t you just tell me?”

  Her eyes stayed narrow. “It’s better if you know exactly what you’re supposed to do, starting with this one.” She pointed to the first line of his instructions: Do not mention my name or Antero Brewing while completing your tasks.

  Wyatt blinked. “I’m not supposed to tell anybody this stuff’s for you? Why not?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve had business dealings with these people before. They’re sort of prejudiced against Antero.”

  “Why?” He raised an eyebrow. “Do you owe these guys money?”

  She sighed. “We owe them some—not a lot. There were some outstanding orders when we closed down. We didn’t part on the best of terms. If they know you’re buying for me, they may not sell to you.”

  Which went a long way toward explaining why she’d concocted this particular plan. “I’m supposed to tell them I’m buying ingredients for beer but not the brewery I’m buying them for? Aren’t they likely to find that a tad suspicious?”

  She shrugged. “Make something up. You know all the breweries near Denver. Pick one.”

  Yes, he knew all the breweries near Denver. But he didn’t know a good excuse for him to be traveling all the way to Antero to buy ingredients for one. “I’ll think of something. What am I buying today?”

  “Hops.” She pointed to the sheet of paper again. “I wrote down the varieties and the amounts. The guy who grows it has a farm around twenty miles from here.”

  He frowned slightly as he read her instructions. “Cascade? You can get Cascade hops anywhere, can’t you?”

  “Not like Harlan grows. I want his Cascade.”

  He frowned harder as he read the rest of her list. “Dunraven? I’ve never heard of Dunraven hops.”

  She shrugged. “It’s Harlan’s. He developed the strain—you can only buy it from him.”

  That at least made her doggedness about buying the hops locally a little more understandable. He could almost write the ad copy now: Flavored with rare Dunraven hops, found only in the Colorado highlands. “Okay, hops, got it.”

  “That’s your task for today. Go over to Harlan Cooper’s farm and get me what I need.” She folded her arms across her chest, challenging him to disagree. He decided not to.

  He slid the instructions into his pocket. “Seems simple enough.”

  Bec’s lips moved up into a faintly mocking smile. “That’s because you haven’t met Harlan yet.”

  That sounded a little ominous, but he’d been selling things to people since his first paper route. It wasn’t like he’d never encountered tough customers before. And in this case, he was buying. “You have the address?”

  “It’s on the sheet. But if you’re using your GPS, it’s likely to tell you the place is unknown territory. Drive to St. Cloud and turn right onto the first county road out of town. Harlan has a sign out. Or he used to, anyway.” Her smile dimmed slightly, as if she was remembering the last time she’d seen Cooper’s sign.

  He nodded. “Okay, I can do that. Are you going to be around tonight?”

  Her eyes became wary. “Why?”

  “Because I’ll have hops to deliver to you, and I figured I could drop the stuff off.” He felt a little miffed. Was the idea that he might ask her out again that unappealing?

  “Oh. Sure. You can come here.” She paused for a long moment. “Let me give you my number. You can call me to make sure I’ll be around.”

  He added her phone number to his contacts list, feeling faintly triumphant. At least he’d gotten this far.

  The state highway to St. Cloud was two lane, but fairly well maintained. The county road beyond it wasn’t. Wyatt slowed his truck to thirty, then twenty, dodging around the occasional pothole and rumbling across frost heaves. He had a feeling there weren’t a lot of people living this far out of town, which should make Cooper easier to find. Still, the sign for Harlan Cooper’s place wasn’t much—a weathered square of white board with Cooper scrawled across it in black paint.

  Wyatt turned up the drive and cut his speed again. The gravel road twisted around a couple of pine groves, dipping down to a gulley and up again to a crest. At the top, he caught sight of the hop fields. The vines rose high in th
e air, twenty feet or more, fastened to long wires strung between poles. The plants formed bushy V-shaped rows with heavy leaves that looked like something out of Little Shop of Horrors.

  He followed the road as it curved between the fields. Harlan Cooper appeared to have quite an operation. Wyatt hadn’t known what to expect, but he was a little reassured to see so many hop vines. Surely it wasn’t that unusual for somebody to come to Cooper’s door looking to buy some product.

  On the other hand, maybe it was. When he reached the small white frame house in the middle of the fields, he didn’t see anyone around. He knocked heavily on the door, then waited for a few moments. He was considering a quick drive around the fields to see if he could find somebody when he heard a step behind him.

  He turned to see a man who could have been anywhere from forty to eighty. His face was heavily lined from working in the sun. His hair was the steel gray color that came early in life, but his black eyes snapped. “Who are you?” He sounded like he wasn’t crazy about visitors.

  Wyatt managed a smile. “Mr. Cooper? My name’s Wyatt Montgomery. I need to buy some of your hops.”

  Cooper looked like he’d just tasted some of his own bitter product. “You want to buy my hops? Go talk to the guys who sell my hops. Why the hell would you come to my farm for that?”

  That question had, in fact, occurred to Wyatt, and he thought he had an answer. “I want to buy some Dunraven.”

  Cooper’s expression blanked for a moment before becoming even stormier. “Who the hell are you, Montgomery? And who told you about the Dunraven? That’s not on the regular market.”

  Wyatt took a breath. Now came the tricky part. “I’m working with a brewer who heard about your special strain. He’s interested in trying it. I told him I’d see if you’d be willing to sell some to me.”

  Cooper’s expression went blank again. “A brewer,” he said slowly. “Who heard about my hops. And he wants some?”

  Wyatt managed not to wince. “Yes, sir, that’s right.”

  Cooper rubbed a hand across his chin as his lips spread in a mirthless grin. That slow smile chilled Wyatt to the bone. “Well now, I might be able to come up with some Dunraven on the right terms. How much do you need?”

  Wyatt hastily consulted his cheat sheet and read off the amounts for Dunraven and Cascade that Bec had given him.

  Cooper nodded slowly. “I could do that. But I’d need you to do something for me first.”

  “Do something for you?” Wyatt frowned. Was it possible Cooper didn’t realize he was being paid for the hops? “What kind of thing are you thinking of?”

  Cooper shrugged. “Not much. I’ve got some hops that need picking, and I don’t have time to do it myself. You pick it for me, and I’ll sell you some hops.”

  Wyatt narrowed his eyes. “Dunraven?”

  Cooper nodded. “And the Cascade. I’ll sell you what you need. But first you need to pick those hops for me.”

  Wyatt stared beyond Cooper’s shoulder at the arching vines, taller than any ladder he’d ever seen unless Cooper was planning on wheeling a fire truck into his fields. “I’ve got no experience with that.”

  “Oh, it’s not that hard. You’ll do fine.” Cooper gave him a genial smile. “Come on to the house. I’ll show you where you’ll be working.”

  Wyatt glanced down at his jeans and knit shirt. Expensive jeans and knit shirt. And driving moccasins without socks. This wasn’t going to turn out to be his idea of a good day, he could pretty much guarantee it. He glanced up at the vines again as he followed Cooper across the yard. “You have a ladder that tall?”

  Cooper stopped, frowning at him as he stared at the vines. Then he threw back his head and laughed. “Aw hell, boy, those aren’t the hops you need to pick. They’re not even ready for picking. We do those by machine anyway.”

  He headed around the side of the house, waving Wyatt ahead of him. “This is the one you’re going to pick. It’s my home patch—too close to the house to pick it by machine.”

  Wyatt stared at the small patch of vines near the house. At least they weren’t twenty feet tall. More like eight. “So I stand on a ladder…”

  Cooper shook his head impatiently. “No, no. You don’t need to stand on any ladder. Cut the vine off at the root and unhook it from the wire. Then you pick the flowers off and toss ’em in that basket over there.” He pointed to a large willow basket at the side of the patch.

  Wyatt reviewed his options. Was there any way he could get the hops without spending a sweaty day in the hops patch? Could he maybe offer Cooper significantly more money to save his moccasins? Chances weren’t great. “I’ll need something to cut the vines with.”

  “Oh, you’ll need more than that.” Cooper’s grin had widened considerably. “You’ll need you some gloves, too. Hop flowers and vines will irritate your skin. Plus, the flowers are pretty scratchy now that they’re drying up.”

  “I don’t have any gloves with me.” Wyatt gave Cooper a hopeful look. Would that be enough to get him out of this?

  Cooper went on grinning. “No problem. I got lots of gloves. And a knife. Or a machete. Those vines are tough mothers. Come on, I’ll get you set up.” He headed off toward a building Wyatt assumed was a barn.

  Wyatt stared after him, wracking his brain for something—anything—that would keep him from a day spent picking hops.

  You want that Zoria? He definitely did.

  This is the only way to get that Zoria. Apparently it was.

  Sighing, he followed Cooper to his fate.

  …

  It wasn’t, in fact, a large patch of hops. A single row of vines on both sides of the wire. But it took him all day to harvest them. Cooper hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said that the leaves and flowers were irritating. Wyatt got some on his ankle and itched for the rest of the afternoon. Lunch was a granola bar he happened to have in the truck. He also had his own water bottle, which was fortunate since Cooper didn’t offer him any. The only amenities in the hops patch consisted of a row of Port-A-Johns on the far side of the field that were probably for the crew who ran the harvest machines.

  By five, he’d managed to fill the willow basket with dried hops flowers, like tiny green pinecones. But there were still two vines left. His arms ached from swinging the machete to chop through the thick vine roots and reaching high to detach the vines from the hooks on the wire. His nose itched from sweat and the dust from the leaves. His clothes looked like he’d gotten them from the local Goodwill store, which was probably where they’d end up when he got back to Antero. He was longing for a long hot shower. And a burger. And a beer.

  But he had two more vines. Grimly he cut down the first, lifting his aching arms to loosen it from the wire. Picking the flowers from between the leaves took longer than it had before since he had to force himself to keep going. But nobody had ever said he was a quitter. And he’d bring those two buckets of hops back to Antero if it killed him.

  Which it might.

  He tossed the vine onto the pile he’d already made and started back toward the last one.

  “That’s enough.” Cooper’s voice came from behind him.

  Wyatt glanced back. The last time he’d seen Cooper, he’d been sitting in the rocker on his front porch with a glass of iced tea and a newspaper. He hadn’t bothered to look up when Wyatt limped by on his way to the Port-A-John.

  Wyatt pulled off his gloves, wiping his hands on his shirt, which had the least amount of hop dust. “I filled your basket.”

  Cooper nodded. “I noticed.”

  “Are we square, even if I don’t do the last vine?” He wanted that point to be absolutely clear before he collapsed.

  Cooper nodded again, then he extended his hand. After a moment, Wyatt shook it.

  “Didn’t expect you to last,” Cooper said. “I’m impressed. Not many people do the hand harvesting these days. It’s a pain in the ass.”

  “I noticed.” Wyatt rubbed his shoulder muscles, trying to ease the kinks.
>
  “But if you wanted to get some firsthand experience with the way beer is made, you’ve got it.” Cooper narrowed his eyes. “Not many beer fans make it to the hop fields.”

  For obvious reasons. Wyatt managed to keep his faint smile in place.

  Cooper reached behind him and lifted up two plastic buckets. Each had a piece of tape across the lid with the type of hops scrawled in marker. Cascade and Dunraven. The salary for his day’s work.

  “How much?” It didn’t really matter how much it was. He’d pay it. Anything to get back to Antero.

  “A hundred bucks.” Cooper gave him a bland smile.

  “Seems reasonable.” Wyatt pulled out his wallet. Fortunately, he had the cash.

  Cooper handed him the buckets, then folded his arms. “A hundred bucks and a message.”

  “A message?” Wyatt raised an eyebrow. “For me?”

  Cooper shook his head. “You tell Bec Dempsey the next time she wants any of my hops, she needs to talk to me directly. Won’t be pleasant for either of us, but it’s got to be done. And I’m not gonna give hops to anybody else she sends over until we have that conversation and do some settling up.”

  Busted. Wyatt managed to dredge up one last smile. “All right, sir. I’ll pass the message along.”

  “Do that.” Cooper gave him one more dry smile. “And if you ever want a job picking hops, let me know. I could use you.”

  Not in this lifetime.

  But Wyatt managed a smile of his own, nodding to acknowledge the joke, then wincing when his sore shoulder muscles reminded him why he wouldn’t be picking any more hops in the foreseeable future.

  Chapter Five

  When Wyatt hadn’t shown up by six, Bec began to worry. St. Cloud wasn’t that far away, and Cooper’s farm was easy enough to find. But Wyatt was an outsider from Denver—it was always possible he might have gotten lost. She figured she’d better call him and find out.

  At which point she realized that she’d given him her number without getting his in return. Great. Given the spotty cell phone reception in the mountains, it might not make any difference. If he was lost, she wasn’t sure he could call for help.