“I make it a habit never to look at a screen until I’ve had at least one decent cup of tea.”
Luke pulled on his gloves. “Do they serve indecent cups of tea where you come from?”
“Take your plunder and go. Bridget gets first pick of the brownies.”
“Plying her with chocolate won’t do you any good,” Luke said. “When she makes up her mind, not even brownies from the Cupcake will change it. We might vote to sell you the distillery if you make the right offer, but Bridget will hate you and us for cutting the deal.”
“So why make the offer? You’ve only the one sister, and she has only that distillery.”
“She has us, goshdangit, and the Logan Bar. Mind you stay inside with your decent tea. Shamus said he emailed you a few files.”
He stomped out into the elements, while Magnus sipped a lukewarm cup of tea and put together an omelet—green peppers and salsa, with a side of familiar resentment. On this working holiday, Magnus felt half sick with a headache, worried as always for his business, and not entirely sure whether or how to go forward where the Logan Bar distillery was concerned.
He fired up his laptop and opened his email queue to the usual browser load of business—Elias had contributed heavily to the stack—and a single email from Shamus Logan. Delightful.
The power blinked on another gust of wind.
Magnus fished his cell phone cord and adapter out of his rucksack, plugged in the phone, and saw no less than three texts from Elias.
Call me.
Call me now.
Call me right this fecking damned minute.
Elias was prone to jerking Magnus’s chain, but not to panicking. Neither was Magnus. He scrolled through his emails, starting with the one from Shamus.
No message at all, just an attachment labeled “Logan Bar Distillery General Ledger.”
Magnus’s phone rang—Elias again. “Magnus here.”
“Finally. Why in the hell didn’t you answer my calls?”
“Because it’s barely morning and cell reception is dodgy when there’s a foot of fresh snow and more on the way.”
Magnus would not lie to Bridget, but neither would he let Elias harass him.
“It’s as well you waited a few hours. We were in a proper frazzle, but there’s less reason to worry now.”
Less reason? “Elias, why are you calling?”
“Fergus had a heart attack. The doctors say it’s a warning, and a few changes to diet, a wee ramble every day, some pills, and this won’t be what sends him to heaven.”
A feeling colder than the Montana blizzard washed through Magnus. “What does Fergus say?”
“Mostly profanities, and that drinking city water is what killed his great-uncle Alasdhair, so somebody had better produce a flask of Cromarty fifteen-year-old or the NHS will get an elder-abuse complaint.”
“I want to grow up to be just like him.” Even if he was a thorn in the side of the distillery at every opportunity.
“As do we all, but you have a board meeting next week, and Fergus ought not to attend. Without him and without you, there won’t be a quorum.”
Fuckity-boo. “I can fly home.”
“Make the reservations at least. Old people can take a turn for the worse.”
“You are such a voice of comfort, Elias. If there’s anything Fergus needs…”
“I let him have a nip from my flask. Seemed to settle him. Enjoy your snowstorm.” The call ended, and Magnus stared off at the endless white beyond the window.
How in the hell—how in the freezing hell—did anybody enjoy a snowstorm?
“I’m bored.” Lena had made this announcement several times as the morning had worn on. Her father was out in the shop, tinkering with some ailing piece of machinery. Shamus was buried in ledgers, Luke was in the foaling barn with a crew of ranch hands, bedding stalls and putting the stable to rights before foaling season.
Leaving Bridget to babysit when she ought to have been reviewing her first quarter’s general ledger.
“You have library books, Lena.”
“I’ve read them all.”
“You can sketch.”
“I sketched after breakfast.”
“Haven’t done a princess movie marathon for a while.”
“Princesses are stupid.”
Lena was an only child, and Bridget knew exactly how that felt at the Logan Bar. Nobody to fit in with, plenty of people to be ignored by. Mama had smoothed the way for Bridget up to a point, while Lena was having to blaze her own trail.
Bridget set aside the spreadsheet that Shamus had so kindly printed out for her. “When I’m bored, it helps me to brighten somebody else’s day.”
“The uncles are busy, Daddy’s in the shop, and Estelle chased me out of the kitchen.”
Estelle, the housekeeper, was long on domestic skills and short on patience.
“I guess we’ll have to be inventive. Come with me to the sewing room, Lena Lilly.”
The sewing room had been Mama’s sanctuary, the one part of the ranch house where nobody, not even Estelle, intruded.
Lena’s braids needed tidying, but it was a snow day. If a girl couldn’t relax at home on a snow day, then it was time to leave town.
“I don’t like to sew,” Lena said. “I like your quilts, though.”
“One of the things I enjoy about quilting is that my brothers don’t do it. I’d be happy to teach you, if you were ever interested, but I’m also happy that it’s something I have for myself.”
“Like your distillery?”
“Exactly like my distillery. The quilting is from my mama, the distillery is from my grandpap.”
Lena stopped outside the sewing room door. “Mama gave me the horses.”
Another Logan family mess. “And Luke said you could pick out a kitten from Diana’s litter.”
In deference to the weather, the queen of the stable cats had been given temporary quarters in the mudroom. Her kittens were at that almost-weaned, endlessly cute phase, where they pronked across any open surface, hissed and snarled at each other, then curled up to purr contentedly against their mama’s furry belly.
Only three kittens, thank God. Diana alone had been allowed to retain her reproductive functions, and where she’d found a paramour was a mystery. Once or twice a year, she produced a litter. Because old age, coyotes, and other varmints made off with the occasional barn cat, the feline population stayed under control.
“Choose a color of yarn,” Bridget said, gesturing to her supplies. She often tied off small quilts rather than stitching them. The resulting look was more homey, and the project was more quickly completed.
“Bright red,” Lena said, passing Bridget a skein. “What’s it for?”
“Boredom busting. For you, and for somebody else who’s probably unhappy to be trapped inside today.”
What was Magnus doing with his snow day? He’d sent over his entire stash of brownies, which somehow felt symbolic. Bridget had left him fast asleep on the couch despite all temptation to the contrary, in part because Magnus—true to his damned word—hadn’t cast a single lure since setting foot on the Logan Bar ranch.
Bridget cut off a four-foot length of yarn. “Come with me, and we’ll see what mischief we can stir up.”
“Can I go out to the foaling barn when we’re done? The snow stopped by the time I was done drawing.”
Lena would get in the way of men who’d try to watch their language and fail. “Give the sun a little time to warm things up outside.”
The mudroom was cold, but a baseboard heater kept it above freezing. Diana’s box sat up a few inches off the floor, a sturdy wooden affair Patrick had made in his shop.
Two of the kittens were curled into perfect marmalade fur balls among the fabric scraps Bridget used to line the box. The third—a little tortie—had propped its front paws on the edge of the box and surveyed the mudroom with a bright-eyed attitude of conquest. Diana remained curled up in the scarf and mitten box across the mudroom
, regal in her maternal calm.
“Tornada is awake,” Lena said. “She’s always awake.”
“Then she can start the festivities.” Bridget tossed one end of the yarn across the mudroom and trailed it slowly before the kitten. Lena took over after the first ineffectual pounce, and Bridget was edging toward the door to the back hallway when the other door—the one that opened on the garage—opened without warning.
Patrick stomped into the mudroom, followed by Magnus. They brought with them the scents of cold, wet wool, and engine grease.
“Close the door, Daddy!” Lena yelled. “You’ll let the kittens out.”
Tornada made a dash for the door, which might have resulted in the kitten getting lost permanently in the garage. Magnus got the door closed before the kitten could escape, but Patrick stumbled, and a heart-rending yowl rose from Tornada.
“What is that goddamned idiot cat doing in here?” Patrick’s speech wasn’t slurred, but the profanity was unusual.
The kitten’s distress changed to sheer feline screaming when Lena picked her up. “You stepped on Tornada. You stepped on her, and now she’s hurt.”
“What in the heck is going on in here?” Shamus asked from the hallway door.
“Close the door,” Bridget snapped. “One of the kittens got underfoot.”
“She didn’t get underfoot,” Lena cried over the kitten’s mewling. “Daddy stepped on her, and now she has to go to the vet.”
Oh God. Not the vet. Vet bills could be astronomical, and in the case of a half-stomped kitten, what was the point?
“Can we move this discussion elsewhere?” Magnus asked.
Discussion wasn’t going to happen. There’d be yelling and tears, and a hard decision, and a devastated little girl.
“Bring Tornada to the kitchen, Lena,” Bridget said.
They filed out of the mudroom, leaving an anxious Diana calling for her equally upset daughter. Patrick had yet to shave, and while he didn’t quite reek of spirits, he’d missed sleep yet again.
“Luke didn’t tell you to stay put until the snow stops?” Bridget asked Magnus.
And why, why oh why oh why, did Magnus have to see the Logan family once again grappling unsuccessfully with life?
“The snow stopped more than an hour ago, and Patrick seemed to be having trouble navigating between buildings. The kitten’s leg looks to be in a bad way.”
Patrick steadied himself with a hand on the wall as they moved toward the kitchen in a procession led by Lena bearing the distraught Tornada.
“Luke will deal with the kitten,” Bridget said, “or Shamus will.”
“I’ll do it,” Patrick said. “I’m the one who messed up.”
He sounded contrite, not that contrition would console Lena when the kitten was put down.
Luke came in the front door just as the group reached the great room. “What in tarnation is that racket?”
“Daddy stepped on my kitten.”
“Sh—sugar,” Luke said. “We can’t afford—”
“We’re discussing it in the kitchen.” Bridget nearly yelled over the kitten’s yowling and over the sheer frustration of knowing what lay ahead.
For Lena, another loss, another disappointment in the adults responsible for her welfare. For the kitten, an end to undeserved suffering, and for Bridget, another reason to resent like hell the Logan Bar ranch and the men who ran it.
“Accidents happen,” Shamus said, though his expression told a different tale. Half-drunk idiots stepped on hapless kittens.
“It wasn’t an accident,” Lena retorted. “Daddy didn’t watch where he stepped, and now Tornada has to go to the vet.”
Woe to the uncle who contradicted her.
“Sweetheart,” Luke said, hanging his hat on a hook, “sometimes the vet can’t help. Kittens are fragile.”
“Tornada is not fragile,” Lena said, the cat clutched against her chest. “Daddy is drunk. Again. It’s his fault Tornada got hurt.”
“You can choose another kitten,” Shamus said before Bridget could slap her hand over his idiot mouth.
“I don’t want another kitten. Tornada is the smartest and the bravest, and I want her, and she’s my kitten. Uncle Luke said I could pick out one kitten for my own, and now she has to go to the vet.”
Lena was crying, Bridget wasn’t doing much better, and Shamus and Luke looked ready to punch something.
Patrick knelt carefully before his daughter. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m sorry I didn’t watch where I was going, but Tornada can’t go to the vet.”
“She’s my kitten, and you stepped on her, and it’s not her fault she’s hurt!”
Shamus got a hand under Patrick’s elbow and boosted him to standing. “We’re talking emergency small animal surgery, somebody coming in on a snow day. A couple grand easily, and all for nothing.”
The kitten was merely wailing now, a nerve-excoriating, pathetic little distress signal, which Diana echoed just as heartrendingly from behind the mudroom’s closed door.
I hate this ranch. Bridget was on the point of offering to pay for the vet bills—like she could afford that?—when Magnus reached down and gently pried the kitten from Lena’s grasp.
“The injuries seem to be limited to one leg. I’ll pay for the vet bills, if that’s the issue. Bridget, can you drive us to the nearest small animal emergency clinic?”
“You won’t put her down?” Lena’s cheeks were wet with tears, her nose needed wiping, and nobody—none of the damned, idiot men to whom she was related—thought to scoop her up and hug her, so Bridget did.
Magnus regarded the child with a dead-level gaze. “I will exert myself to the utmost to ensure this kitten enjoys a long and happy life. I suspect she might lose the leg.”
“Will she be able to play?”
“If there are no internal injuries, and it’s simply a matter of going about on three legs, she’ll be able to play of a certainty.”
If Magnus used that grave, calm tone of voice to assure Bridget that unicorns were flying over the barn, she’d believe him. The guy would make a wonderful father, if he ever—
Bridget cut that thought off. Magnus wasn’t looking to remarry, and Bridget wasn’t looking at all.
Lena stroked her hand over Tornada’s head. “T-tell the vet to take good care of my kitty.”
“We will,” Bridget said, kissing Lena’s cheek and setting the child on her feet. “We absolutely will, and we’ll call you as soon as we know something. Somebody get Lena a tissue.”
Three grown men sprinted for the kitchen.
“Let’s get going,” Bridget went on. “If the snow stopped more than an hour ago, the plows have been out.”
Magnus tucked the kitten inside his jacket.
Lena watched Bridget donning her gloves, scarf, and quilted jacket. “I wish Daddy could go to a vet. He’s drunk too much.”
Bridget fished around for a comforting, philosophical reply that a child could grasp. That’s for damned sure didn’t seem quite appropriate.
“You should tell him that,” Magnus said. “Make sure one of your uncles is around when you do, because you’re right.”
For the first time that day, Lena smiled. “I’m going to tell Diana that Tornada will be fine, and then I’ll talk to Daddy.”
Shamus and Luke were likely talking to Patrick at that moment. “Do that,” Bridget said, “and we’ll let you know what the vet says.”
The sounds emanating from Magnus’s jacket had muted to more normal meowing, and outside, the sun was brutally bright on a blanket of unbroken white.
“Come on,” Bridget said, leading the way through the door. “And watch your step. If you fall and squash that kitten, no power on earth will save you from Lena’s wrath.”
“Speaking of wrath,” Magnus said as they slogged over to Bridget’s truck. “You should know Shamus gave me your general ledger from last year, and the year-to-date profit and loss as well. I have questions, Bridget.”
Abruptly, the mome
nt shifted. Over the scraping of the shovels wielded by the ranch hands, the soughing of a bitter wind, and the kitten’s continued lament, Bridget went from worried about her niece to furious with her brothers.
“Shamus opened my books to you without my permission?”
“He did, though given the state of your indebtedness, he might have been trying to discourage my interest in your distillery rather than secure an offer from me.”
Such was the fog of Bridget’s upset that she stood for a moment, hand on the truck’s door handle. “My books aren’t that bad.”
“For the quality of your product, and the position it holds in the market, they aren’t that good either. The issue now is whether you’ll discuss your finances with me, or put me on the first plane back to Scotland.”
No, the issue was whether to disown her brothers. “Get in. We have an injured kitten to deal with and twenty miles of hard road ahead.”
At least twenty miles.
Chapter 7
Because all defense counsel had a solemn duty to thoroughly investigate the facts of a case, even when the client stood accused of prostitution, Nate was cruising paid-escort websites when his phone buzzed.
The ringtone was We’re in the Money, a cheerful old tune that signaled a call from Nathan’s prospective father-in-law, Prescott Truman.
“Prescott, how you doin’?” Nathan asked. “Stopped snowing where you are yet?”
“Stopped snowing, started melting, and probably getting ready to snow again,” Prescott replied. “Courthouse closed?”
“That it is, leaving a poor counselor at law to sit alone contemplating dreams of Cabo San Lucas. Weren’t you and the missus planning a trip this month?”
“Next week. I’m off to the feed and seed to pick up my weight in dog food, or Mrs. T will leave me hog-tied in the outhouse. You got a minute, Nate?”
Nathan silently bid farewell to Luckynluvly.com and opened up a game of hearts. “For you, Prescott, I have whole hours.” The rest of his life, in fact, provided Georgina Truman said I do in October. Georgie had wanted a year’s engagement, which was fine with Nathan. He and she understood each other, and theirs would be a successful and happy, if not always faithful, marriage.
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