Taken by Storm

by Heather MacAllister

  The next voice Zoey heard was her brother-in-law’s as he took the phone. “Hey, Zoey, thanks for helping us out. I really appreciate it. I’ll book the tickets, but I have no idea what kind of flights I’ll be able to get. I’ll try to get one out of Austin, but you may have to drive to Houston.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She meant it. For once, Kate-the-perfect needed Zoey’s help. “However it works out.”

  “Thanks. Uh...Kate is going to talk to Phyllis—she’s the woman who’s running the kennel while we’re gone—and she’ll have all the instructions ready when you get there.”

  “And promise me you’ll follow them exactly!” Kate yelled from the background. “Even if you think they’re stupid. Even if you think you know a better way. In fact, don’t think at all. We’ll do all the thinking.”

  Her sister didn’t trust Zoey’s judgment. “Tell Kate to relax. I can do this.” She had to.

  The truth was that Kate wasn’t the only one who doubted Zoey. Lately, Zoey had been doubting herself. She tried not to, tried to shake off her mistakes, tried to look at them as learning experiences, but her inner pep talks weren’t working anymore.

  She had to do this for herself, not just for Kate. Zoey had to succeed at something. Once she tasted success, she could start her skin care business with confidence.

  “It’ll be a pain,” Ryan warned. “Since it’s close to the date of the next show, you’ll have to maintain Casper’s daily routine. It’s all about the coat. You might even have to—”

  “Don’t talk her out of it!” Kate’s voice was panicked.

  “She has to understand what she’s getting into.” Ryan’s voice was filled with calm reasonableness.

  Guess which made Zoey nervous? “Hey!” she said to get their attention. “I’m on my way home. Why don’t you call me in a couple of hours after you’ve worked out all this...stuff.”

  They were still arguing as the call disconnected.

  Although she knew she shouldn’t, as she walked to the parking garage, Zoey compared her life to her sister’s. Yeah, Kate was only two years older, but she had a husband and a house and a car that was less than ten years old and had a heater that worked. Although having a working heater in this part of Texas wasn’t that big of a deal. Kate also owned a successful business that was about to hit the big time.

  Her sister deserved the success. Really. She and Ryan worked hard.

  I work hard, too, Zoey thought. Except everything Kate touched turned to gold and everything Zoey touched turned to poo. It had always been that way. Her parents had expected another Kate—and got Zoey. In school, teachers expected another Kate—and got Zoey. So Zoey learned to avoid following in Kate’s footsteps while she tried to find her own success.

  So far, all she’d found was failure.

  But not this time. Zoey gripped the steering wheel on her fourteen-year-old Honda Civic. Here was the perfect opportunity to figure out where she’d been going wrong. Kate and Ryan were making all the plans, all the arrangements. Kate would leave incredibly detailed, nitpicky instructions telling Zoey exactly what to do and how to do it. She’d have a blueprint for success. All Zoey had to do was follow it.

  Success breeds success. Zoey grinned as she backed out of her parking space. Or in this case, Afghan puppies.

  * * *

  CAMERON MACNEIL CAREFULLY packed a bottle of MacNeil’s Highland Oatmeal Stout in bubble wrap. Standing next to him—and not helping—was his annoyed cousin Angus.

  “I don’t see why you want to bring in an investor,” Angus said. “And judging by your caginess, he’s no MacNeil.”

  “Do you know a MacNeil with the kind of money we need who we haven’t already hit up?”

  Instead of answering, because the answer was “no,” Angus chugged the rest of the bottle of stout he’d nabbed. Highland Stout was not a chugging type of beer, but the nuances of hops and yeast escaped Angus. The alcohol content did not.

  “Easy,” Cam warned. “We don’t have a lot of that batch left.”

  “Make more.” Gus reached for another bottle, but Cam grabbed his wrist and guided it to the Highland Spring Bock they were about to release.

  “The stout is a seasonal. Try this one.”

  “Dishwater,” Gus grumbled and went for the high alcohol Pumpkin Porter they’d experimented with last fall. Cam let him have it. He didn’t like the way the porter tasted, although a lot of folks did. There seemed to be some unwritten rule now that all brewers had to come out with a pumpkin beer in the fall. Personally, Cam didn’t think the mixture did the beer or the pumpkins any favors. And don’t get him started on raspberries. Their Highland Heather Honey beer had promise, but so far, he wasn’t satisfied with the recipes they’d developed. But he would find the right one eventually. At least the failures weren’t wasted, he thought with a glance at Angus.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Gus said after a deep swallow. “Och, laddie, ye just gotta have faith in y’self.”

  Cam shook his head at the accent. Cam’s problem wasn’t a lack of faith; it was a lack of help at the brewery. He considered a moment and then packed a bottle of the Pumpkin Porter to take to Seattle.

  “What?” Gus tilted the bottle to his mouth.

  “The accent. It wasn’t that strong when you lived in Scotland.”

  “Lassies luuuuuv m’ accent. It’s part of the package.” He burped.

  “Is that part of the package?”

  Gus waved it off. “It shows I’m a man who enjoys life.”

  “Or at least beer.”

  Gus turned the bottle until the label faced Cam. “Yeah, and whose mug is that on the label, I want to know?”

  A swath of the MacNeil tartan ran across a corner of the label behind a smiling, red-bearded man with a receding hairline—Gus. Although in current versions of the label, his hairline had been considerably filled in, thanks to the miracle of digital photo enhancement. “We don’t want the lads to be associating drinking beer with losing their hair,” Gus had explained virtuously.

  Cam nodded to the label. “Are women really and truly impressed by that?”

  “A man capable of fully appreciating a good brew is a man capable of fully appreciating a good woman.”

  “And that line actually works for you?” Cam decided to add another bottle of the Pumpkin Porter to the wooden sample crate. Gus actually did know his beers. He was the front man for MacNeil’s Highland Beer. Cam was the everything-else man.

  Gus patted his belly. “You’ll never get a hit if you don’t swing your bat, if ye get what I’m sayin’.”

  Cam gave an unwilling laugh. “I do, but I wish I didn’t.”

  “Yer just jealous because the ad folks didn’t pick yer pretty face for the label.”

  “I don’t want to be on a beer label.”

  “Och, surprised ya, though, di’n’t it? That they picked me over you.”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh, come on, Cam. Give a guy a break,” Gus said, dropping the accent. All but the part that was real, anyway. “When I’m hanging around you, I need some kind of an edge. Women won’t notice me otherwise.” He took another sip of beer.

  Cam glanced down to where Gus’s huge belly draped over his kilt. His cousin must have put on thirty pounds since they started brewing beer commercially a couple of years ago. Aesthetics aside, it was also a health issue. And Gus believing his beard disguised his double chin wasn’t good, either.

  “What are you staring at?” Gus spread his arms wide. “The kilt?”

  Actually the stomach, but now wasn’t the moment to get into it. “That’s not a kilt.”

  Gus looked down. “What would you call it then?”

  Cam hid a smile. “A denim skirt.”

  “Get with the times, Cam. Not all kilts are plaid
wool anymore.” Gus drained the rest of his beer. “And I gotta tell you, they’re a helluva lot cooler for a Texas summer.”

  He wiped his shining forehead on his sleeve. He was sweating in the unheated brewing room in a Texas January. It didn’t bode well for when it actually was summer in Texas.

  “The ladies do like a man in a kilt,” Gus informed him. “Now, I know what’s running around in that head of yours.”

  Probably not, Cam thought.

  “But here’s the way I see it—on our next Saturday tour, you put on a kilt and flash those dimples of yours—”

  Cam hated his dimples.

  “—and maybe a little more—” Gus twitched the hem of his kilt and laughed uproariously, holding his belly. He looked like a Scottish Santa Claus. “And every female in the room will buzz right on over to you.”

  “Cut it out, Gus.”

  “It’s true!”

  “Then why would you want me to wear a kilt?”

  “To get it over with. You take your pick of the girls and free up the others for the rest of us mortals. The women will be disappointed, but then they’ll see me in a kilt and if they squint real hard, and sample enough of the beer, they’ll be reminded of you.”

  “I must be getting tired because that makes a weird kind of sense.” Cam arranged curly wood shavings around the bottles for padding. He’d remove the bubble wrap and fluff everything up for a nice presentation after he got to Seattle.

  “And it solves another problem.”

  Cam reached for the crate’s top. “That would be?”

  “You don’t have a woman in your life.”

  “Gus...” They’d been over this, although why Gus felt Cam’s love life, or the lack of it, was his business escaped Cam.

  “I know. You don’t want a girlfriend. You don’t have time for a ‘relationship.’” Gus used air quotes, which Cam ignored. “But you being unattached gives all the lassies hope. And if they have hope in their hearts for you, they aren’t going to fully appreciate my magnificence.”

  “I apologize for the fact that my lack of a girlfriend is impacting your love life.” Cam fit the top onto the presentation crate and admired the MacNeil logo burned into the corner. Without Gus’s face. That had been one argument Cam had actually won.

  Gus set the empty bottle on the table next to Cam’s box of samples. “It affects more than that. And more than me. We’re all well aware you don’t have a woman in your life. You need a woman.”

  “I need to hire help at the brewery.”

  “Why hire someone when you have your family? I’m not talking about a relationship.” Gus moved his arms in a big circle. “Just a short acquaintance. A night or two, even.” Cam picked up a rubber mallet and Gus backed off, palms outstretched. “That’s all I’m saying.”

  It probably wasn’t, knowing Gus.

  “A woman might even be able to change your outlook. You might see things a little different and not want to expand the brewery and take on all that extra work. You’re already complaining about the work you’ve got.”

  “Expanding shouldn’t cause much extra work. Not with all my brothers and cousins around to help.” Cam was being sarcastic, but he didn’t expect Gus to notice.

  “Cam.” Gus touched his arm. “Leave things be.”

  “I can’t.” He faced his cousin. “MacNeil’s is too big to be a family hobby, but we’re not big enough to get any kind of regular distribution. We grow, or we fold.”

  “You have to relax, Cam. Enjoy life.”

  If he did, there wouldn’t be a MacNeil’s, a point he hoped to make while he was gone next week. “You mean I should stand around and drink beer and spout clichés in a fake accent while wearing a skirt, like you?” Cam immediately regretted his words—not because they weren’t true, but that he’d indulged himself by saying them.

  Gus didn’t take offense. “And didn’t that nonsense you blathered just prove me point about you needing a woman?”

  Let it go, let it go. But he couldn’t. “It was a little harsh, but it wasn’t nonsense.”

  “Och, laddie.” Gus shook his head.

  “Fake accent.”

  “It’s the excess man juices bubblin’ around in yer blood talkin’.”

  “You did not just say ‘man juices.’” Cam whacked at the metal fastening staples. They sank into the wood and started a tiny split. Great.

  “It’s the truth. Your juices are all backed up with no place to go, so they’ve spilled over into yer blood, where they’ve been bubblin’ and fermentin’.” Gus illustrated this by wiggling his fingers.

  Cam whacked another staple into the box.

  “Until one day, you’ll see a female and you’ll blow your top, just like that batch of summer ale the first year.”

  “Gus.” A corner of Cam’s mouth twitched.

  “It’s why men make poor decisions with the wrong women.” Gus took the mallet from him. “Or they let the right one get away ’cause they’ve got no finesse and scare her off.” He expertly pounded in the final staples and tossed the mallet onto the table. “Or they go begging to some Sassenach for ‘expansion’ money so he can share in the profit after we’ve spent years establishing ourselves, doing all the hard work, developing and testing recipes and pouring free beer down the gullets of the public so they’ll get a taste for it.”

  Cam clapped. “Very dramatic.”

  “But true.”

  “Agreed. But now that they’ve got a taste for our beer, we’ve got to supply it to them. Here’s the thing. The Beer Barn in Wimberly is getting rid of their tanks. They’re outsourcing the house brew.”

  Gus gasped. “That’s sacrilege!”

  “That’s opportunity. For us.” He gestured for Gus to hand him a foam cooler. “I want to buy the tanks and then lease the space so I can leave them there for now. We brew more of our two bestsellers there or we brew one of ours and make a pitch to brew the Beer Barn’s house label in the other.”

  “Och, laddie, yer a crafty one.” Gus waggled his finger, then turned shrewd. “Who’s our competition?”

  “It doesn’t matter if we slip in with a cash offer.”

  “Ah.” Gus gave him a long look. “But we don’t have the cash.”

  Cam shook his head. “Not yet. But if my meeting in Seattle goes the way I hope it does, I’ll have the money.”

  Gus shrugged. “Bringing in an outsider will have to come to a vote, and the lads won’t agree.”

  He meant Cam’s two brothers and assorted cousins for whom the brewery was more a source of fun and free beer than a business. “Then the ‘lads’ can take over. Because I’m tired of going without. I’m tired of being poor. I’m tired of never having a day off. I’m tired of living paycheck to paycheck.”

  Once Cam got started, the words just rolled out, louder and louder. “I’m tired of driving an old car. I’m tired of paying credit-card interest. And I am bloody well tired of not having a girlfriend!” His voice echoed in the cavernous space.

  Gus didn’t even blink. “Fair enough.” He opened the door to the visitor fridge and stared inside. “You never said who your investor was.”

  “A guy I know from school.” The crate squeaked as Cam forced it into a cooler. “A computer geek who sold an app to Apple or Google or some big company.” Cam taped the lid on to make sure it stayed put. “He thinks owning part of a brewery will make him seem hip.”

  Not that Cam intended to sell any part of MacNeil’s. He was hoping to sell naming rights for a custom-brewed beer, but if his trip made the family nervous, so much the better.

  Cam set the cooler into the shipping container for the plane and added more padding. It might be overkill, but he didn’t want to chance the bottles breaking or freezing.

  Gus was still staring into the fridge. “I su
ppose I could live with an outside investor.” He shut the fridge door without taking a beer. That meant he was still thinking. The thing about Gus was that he wasn’t stupid, although he encouraged people to believe so. But he was less smart after a few beers.

  “As long as you aren’t asking us to get into bed with one of those infernal Campbells.”

  Gus needed more beer.

  Cam bent down to grab a double handful of the packing shavings.

  “What’s this investor’s name?” Gus asked.

  Oh, here we go. “Richard.” Cam straightened. “Hey, as long as you’re standing there, would you slap a label on the box?”

  Gus took his time peeling the backing off the label. “Would ye be referrin’ to the aptly named Dick Campbell?”

  “He prefers Richard.”

  “I’ll bet he does.”

  “Campbell is a common last name.”

  “Common, yes.”

  “Gus! Don’t go there. Clan rivalries are fun at the Highland Games, but nobody takes it seriously.”

  “I take it seriously.” He did.

  “Then be serious in Scotland.” Cam held his gaze. “This is Texas. The brewery’s at stake. Are you really going to fight me on this because of some quarrel our ancestors had with the Campbells hundreds of years ago?”

  “If I don’t fight with you now, you’ll be fighting with him later.” Gus slapped the label on the box. “No Campbell is going to write you a check and just stand back and let you do whatever you want with his money.”

  “Richard has his own business to run, and he’s in Seattle. He’s not going to bother us.” As Cam added samples of yeast and hops to the shipping container, he was aware of Gus’s stare. “Look.” He turned to his cousin. “We’ll invite him down and let him help us brew a batch of beer. Then we’ll send him a few cases and he can give it to all of his friends. Trust me—this is only about Richard wanting to be cool.”

  “Trust me,” Gus warned. “It’s about a hell of a lot more than wanting to be cool.”

  Cam finished taping up the shipping box and Gus reached around him to flip off the light. “Hey, what are you doing?”