Big Sky Ever After: a Montana Romance Duet

by M. L. Buchman

  Bridget touched Magnus’s hand. “You okay?”

  Patrick and Luke came strutting through the door.

  “Martina called,” Patrick said. “Nate barely let her get out the Miranda warnings before he started singing the state’s evidence school anthem. Cromarty’s recording probably won’t even come into evidence.”

  “I’m guessing Nate’s arrest will leave a bunch of legal clients sorely in need of representation,” Luke added, taking a chair. “Bet you Sue Etta would help you get that situation sorted out, Bridget. You could take up where you left off, step right into—”

  “Lucas,”—Patrick appropriated the fourth chair—“now I know you were dropped on your head once too often. The last thing Bridget needs to worry about is hanging out a shingle to clean up after Nate Sturbridge.”

  Magnus watched emotions flit through Bridget’s eyes: bewilderment, impatience, and then a grudging willingness to consider Lucas’s idiot suggestion.

  “Don’t do it,” Magnus said. “You have more distilling talent in your left little finger than I could find in all of Speyside, which isn’t particularly relevant, but you didn’t enjoy being a lawyer, and that’s relevant as hell.”

  “Swear jar,” Lucas muttered as Patrick smacked him on the arm.

  “Bridget is that good with the whisky?” Patrick asked.

  “She is so far beyond good that I could line up consulting clients for her from one end of Britain to the other. Her whiskies finish spectacularly and she grasps both the art and science of the distilling craft with instinctive genius.” So why hadn’t Bridget told Magnus how to fix his ailing batch?

  Maybe because Nate Sturbridge had been threatening her freedom and her livelihood, and maybe because Magnus’s problem could not be solved.

  “I don’t want to talk about whisky right now,” Bridget said. “I don’t want to talk about Nate Sturbridge, or law offices, or anything. I want Magnus to take me back to the ranch, and tomorrow—probably after noon—I’ll call Martina and get a bead on where things stand. Magnus?”

  He rose and, without so much as nodding at Patrick or Lucas, took Bridget by the hand and led her out to the truck.

  “You want me to drive?” He could—the wrong side of the road felt normal now.

  “If you’re okay to drive.”

  “I’ve had three sips of whisky over the past hour and a half. I’m fine.”

  He wasn’t fine. He was relieved for Bridget’s sake, angry at Sturbridge, and worried, not so much for his whisky as he was for his future. For their future.

  “Thank you,” Bridget said as Magnus navigated mostly empty streets on the way out of town. “You’ve solved enormous problems for me that could have wrecked years of my life, if not my whole life.”

  “Sturbridge was already on the law enforcement radar. We merely chased him into the net.” Bridget had explained cross-examination techniques to Magnus, taught him applicable laws, and in every way armed him for battle. “You were a first-rate lawyer, by the way. I’d know that even if Martina hadn’t told me. If you want to resume practicing law, then you should.”

  “I was an unhappy lawyer. I love my distillery, Magnus.”

  While he loved her. Magnus kept that sentiment to himself, hoping it was among the items Bridget would make time to discuss tomorrow. She came right into the guesthouse with him and, as soon as the door swung shut, kissed him within an inch of his life.

  They left a trail of clothing from the front door to the master bedroom, and Magnus considered indulging in a bout of wall sex, but the pressing need to get a condom out of his wallet—and Bridget out of her jeans—dissuaded him from that delight.

  And get her out of her jeans and into bed, he did.

  Chapter 14

  Bridget’s desire warred with profound resentment, because the legacy Magnus had safeguarded for her was about to become her prison. Maybe Mama had sensed that about the whisky business and had chosen to fall in love with Daniel Logan instead.

  Bridget would worry about family history tomorrow, after she’d spent the night—the whole night—making love with Magnus. A lady needed memories to store up against a lonely future.

  “Don’t be so careful with me, Magnus,” she panted between kisses. “Don’t hold back.”

  His clothing had borne the scent of the Bar None—beer, spicy cooking, perfume, and leather—but naked on the bed, he was simply Magnus. Soap, fresh air, and man.

  He smoothed Bridget’s hair from her brow. “Holding back can add to the pleasure.”

  “Add to the pleasure next time. Cowboy up this time.”

  She was desperate to have him inside her, and just plain desperate. Rather than let him start a conversation, Bridget groped for the condom and passed it to him.

  “Are we in a hurry?” he asked, fingering the edge of the foil.

  “Yes.”

  His smile as he braced himself over her was sweet and wicked. “Fools rush in, Mary Bridget.”

  He tormented her with a slow, easy joining, then drove her mad with soft kisses, and just when Bridget was about to break all swear-jar records expressing her frustration, Magnus drove into her with a measured determination that sent her soaring.

  “Better?” he murmured when Bridget was a limp heap of satisfied female beneath him.

  “A little.”

  He moved again, and the aftershocks were nearly as intense as the main event. “Magnus, I need a minute.”

  He eased to a halt, hilted inside of her. “I need you, Bridget MacDeaver.”

  Arousal shifted to encompass impending loss. Magnus would get on some damned plane and fly off to Scotland, and for years Bridget would read all the whisky journals hoping to catch a mention of him. She’d Google him once a week—no need to be extravagantly pathetic—and she’d eventually hear of his marriage to some leggy British whisky princess.

  His whisky would win prizes, he’d find a boutique distillery in Colorado to purchase, and—

  “Have I loved you to sleep?” he asked.

  “Not even close, Magnus Cromarty. I’m just catching my breath between rounds.”

  “You’re awfully quiet about it.”

  “Plotting my revenge.”

  He moved lazily, but Bridget knew by now that wouldn’t last. Magnus was like the best whiskies, growing more complex as the flavor blossomed, until a solo became a symphony, and words failed.

  She ran her hands over the warm contours of his back and buried her nose against his throat. Why did he have to be such a good man, such a decent, smart, honorable, brave, wily, kind, sexy, wish-come-true of a guy?

  Then she was coming, and crying, and silently cursing her distillery and all whisky everywhere, and through it all, Magnus held her and loved her, and loved her some more.

  When she lay along his side a few minutes later, gathering what composure she could, Magnus wrapped an arm around her and kissed her temple.

  “Care to tell me what that was all about?”

  Of course, he wouldn’t just roll over and go to sleep. Not Magnus. “I know how to fix your whisky. It won’t be cheap, and you’ll have to be quiet about how you did it, but the result will be worth the effort.”

  Magnus rolled to his side so he faced her and drew a single finger down her forehead, her nose, her lips, chin, and midline.

  “I came here determined to rescue that batch of whisky, but at the moment, I don’t much care what becomes of it. I care far more about what will become of us, Bridget.”

  So did she, not that it would matter. “Let’s have that discussion in the morning, after I’ve explained what to do with the whisky.”

  She felt him weighing her words, deciding whether to force a confrontation or allow her a few hours of grace.

  He gathered her in his arms. “In the morning, we’ll talk. Now, we make love.”

  Magnus would never have come up with the solution on his own. Probably no Scottish distiller could have figured it out.

  “You make little barrels,” Bridge
t said, tapping the drawing she’d sketched on a paper towel. “They are still technically barrels, still oak, but because they are so much smaller, more of the whisky comes in contact with the wood, and the flavor develops more quickly.”

  “Wee barrels?” Magnus muttered, staring at his bright red mug of tea. “Are you sure?”

  Sitting at his kitchen table, Bridget went off on a discourse about the ratio of volume to surface area, then waxed enthusiastic about temperature fluctuations ensuring the whisky interacted with the wood on an accelerated schedule, all of which made sense.

  But none of which mattered. “So you can rescue my whisky.”

  “I can restore that whisky to the promise it held before it was sabotaged, at least. I’m guessing the result will be spectacular, if you can make the barrels as I’ve suggested.”

  She’d steered him toward a very expensive French red wine for the barrels. Procuring enough barrels to rebuild into smaller casks would take every connection Magnus laid claim to, much of his cash reserves, and all of his guile.

  “What if I instead shipped that whisky here?” Magnus said. “Could you develop other options for it?”

  They’d wolfed down buttered toast with huckleberry jam and chased it with strong black tea. Bridget wore one of Magnus’s plaid flannel shirts, while he’d pulled on jeans and a turtleneck. The morning was dreary with gusts of rain slapping against the windows, and for Magnus, the aftermath of a night of thorough loving blended with growing unease.

  If Bridget had meant to stay for the morning, she’d have started the woodstove.

  “Why would you go to all the expense of shipping the whisky here?” Bridget asked, putting the lid back on the jam jar.

  “Because I want to do business with you, among other things.”

  She stared out at gray skies that obscured the nearby mountains. “I’d better get dressed.”

  Well, shite. “I’ll clean up.”

  Before Magnus was done wiping down the table, Bridget reappeared in the kitchen fully clothed. Her hair was still in disarray, from which he took minor comfort, but she’d put on her boots and draped her jacket and purse over the back of a chair.

  “I’m not looking for a partner, Magnus. I’ve been honest with you about that. I appreciate what you’ve done for me, and for my distillery, but I’m not selling you any interest whatsoever in my operation.”

  She was selling something, and Magnus wasn’t buying it. “We don’t need to merge assets to do business with each other or to have a relationship. I can distribute your products internationally, you can sell mine here in the States. All that takes is a pair of straightforward agreements.”

  Bridget shrugged into her jacket, the pretty quilted one that was soft to touch. “And reaching those agreements will take time, and wrangling, and mixing business with pleasure, and I’m not interested.”

  “You were fascinated for most of last night, and so was I.”

  “That was then, and this is now, and I’m saying no thank you.”

  A gentleman never argued with a lady, but Magnus wasn’t feeling very gentlemanly. “Why no thank you? Why not even a maybe, Bridget? Why not at least listen, consider options, hear me out?”

  “Because I like being in charge of my own show, Magnus. The distillery is all I have, and as soon as I can, I’ll buy my brothers out. The last thing I need is you complicating that situation with your bright ideas and bad whisky.”

  Bridget’s insult reassured Magnus that she was upset, because for the most part he made very good whisky. She knew that, which meant she was trying to provoke him into arguing.

  Into leaving without a backward glance.

  Fortunately, Magnus still had his pride and still had a fine measure of good old Scottish cunning.

  “I’m in your debt for saving my whisky,” he said. “Your talents as a distiller are rare and worth a pretty penny. Send me a bill for consulting services, and if you’d ever like to take on similar projects, I’m sure many a Scottish—”

  She kissed his cheek and fled, not even bothering to close the door. Magnus stood for a moment in the kitchen, letting the hurt and confusion wash through him as cold air gusted into the room.

  He’d get on that plane for Scotland and put in motion the steps Bridget had laid out for saving his whisky, but then he’d be back, and he’d get to the bottom of whatever was coming between him and Bridget, if it was the last thing he did.

  Which, given her stubbornness, it very well might be.

  “We’re here to apologize,” Luke said. “Shamus would be with us, if he wasn’t skiing in France.”

  Happily skiing in France, because Magnus had found a way to pry Shamus away from his spreadsheets. Bridget kicked a stone into the creek that ran beneath her distillery a hundred yards to the east.

  “Apology accepted. Don’t you two have work to do?”

  Patrick slung an arm around her shoulders. “You don’t even know what we’re apologizing for.”

  Bridget sidled away when she wanted to throw them both in the creek. “You’re apologizing for betraying me by inviting Magnus here, for not realizing Nathan had me in a corner, and for failing to see anything but the ranch and your own concerns.”

  Her brothers exchanged a look that Bridget couldn’t translate.

  “We’re sorry for all that and more,” Luke said. “Now it’s your turn to apologize to us.”

  I’m sorry to see Magnus go. “You’re pushing your luck, guys.”

  “Not like you to dodge a challenge,” Patrick said. “C’mon, Bridget. We’re your family.”

  The water babbled by, a happy counterpoint to soft breezes and the fresh scent of the valley welcoming spring. Bridget loved this spot, within sight of her distillery, in the shadow of the mountains she called home.

  She loved Magnus too, though, so very much. “Now is not a good time,” she said, turning her back to her brothers. “If one of you would take Magnus to the airport tomorrow, I’d appreciate it.”

  “I can’t oblige,” Luke said. “Willy and I are going ring shopping over in Bozeman.”

  “About time, Luke, but then, you always were on the slow side. Patrick?”

  “Nope. I promised Lena a trail ride and a picnic if the weather’s nice.”

  Well, hell. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you with my problems,” Bridget said, the understatement of the millennium. “I’m sorry Magnus and I aren’t going to work out, not personally, not professionally. He’s a great guy, and he’s saved my bacon, and—I damned hate to cry.”

  Patrick—the dad of the two—wrapped her in a hug. “You stink at apologizing. He’s not gone yet.”

  “But h-he’ll go tomorrow,” Bridget wailed, “and he got you straightened out and talked to his uncle about funding your windmill trees, and he shook Shamus free of the damned office, and kicked Nate to the curb, and he loves my wh-whisky.”

  “And you love him,” Luke said, patting her arm. “If you want to move to Scotland, then go. Hire somebody to mind the still, come back every few months, teach one of us what we need to know. Three ingredients, right? How hard can whisky-making be?”

  “Really hard,” Bridget said. “Really, really hard, and lonely, and…”

  Patrick and Luke watched her as if she had something profound to add to that sentiment, when all she had was a broken heart.

  “If Magnus Cromarty is who and what you want,” Patrick said, “then don’t let anything stand in your way. Not us, not the still, not your grandpap’s sainted memory, or the ghost of Nathan Sturbridge. More than anything else, Bridget, we want you to be happy.”

  “And what we do not want,” Luke added, “Is to put up with you moping around for the next thirty years because you let Magnus Cromarty get away. There is nothing on this ranch, in the distillery, or in all of Montana that’s worth turning your back on a guy who’d lay the world at your feet if you’d let him.”

  “Be a pioneer.” Patrick punched her arm gently. “In the grand family tradition, bet all
your worldly goods on a hunch and a hope.”

  Magnus had done this too. Turned overworked, grouchy, unhappy step-brothers into the family Bridget very much needed. He’d saved the ranch, which was nice, but he’d also saved Bridget’s heart.

  Nothing on earth was worth passing up a guy like that. Sunlight struck the stream, turning the water to a flowing cascade of silver and gold.

  “I love you both very much,” Bridget said, “but I’m scared and I have something to tell you.”

  “Don’t you dare name the kid after Shamus,” Patrick said. “He’s ornery enough without having a namesake.”

  “I’d like another niece,” Luke mused. “Lena would probably vote for a girl too.”

  “Cripes sake, I wouldn’t even know if the rabbit had died yet, and that’s not what I have to tell you.”

  “So what does that leave?” Patrick asked.

  Luke folded his arms. “If the quilting club is meeting at the ranch again, you have to warn us in time to evacuate.”

  Oh, they were the worst, best brothers. Bridget started talking and hoped they’d still consider her family by the time she was done.

  Magnus had emailed Shamus and arranged to book the guesthouse for most of June. By then, he’d have set up the great whisky rescue, replaced a certain aging board member or three, turned his lawyers loose on drafting distribution agreements, and endured as much separation from Bridget as he could tolerate.

  “I don’t understand why you can’t do all that from Montana,” Elias said. “I’ve done a fine job of minding the tiller in your absence and learned a lot about making whisky.”

  Magnus switched the phone to his other ear and tossed the last of his flannel shirts onto the open suitcase. Shamus had driven the rental car to the airport, which meant Bridget would at least have to provide chauffeur service.

  “You’ve doubtless drunk my best stock, taught my cats to sleep on the kitchen counter, and let Uncle Zeb have a peek at my books, while neglecting half your clients and any number of supermodels.”

  “Uncle Zeb’s quite enthusiastic about your windmill-tree project, and I swore off supermodels two fiancées ago. There’s really no need to hurry home, Magnus, and I suspect you aren’t hurrying so much as you’re running away.”