Magnus Cromarty and Bridget MacDeaver shared a lovely, unplanned encounter that neither of them thought could lead anywhere, but now they’re finding that lovely, stolen pleasure has lead straight to trouble’s doorstep….

Magnus wrestled with the notion that the woman he’d glimpsed for half a second in the open doorway had borne a delightful resemblance to Bridget.

A girl had stood by her side. A little sprite with what looked like spaghetti sauce on her cheek and a crust of bread in her hand.

Then boom—literally—the enormous door had slammed shut.

It opened again. “Excuse my sister for her unique sense of humor,” a tall blond man said. “You must be Mr. Cromarty. Welcome.”

Bridget—had that been Bridget?—was nowhere to be seen, but two other tall blond men were in evidence, trying to smile.

“I am Magnus Cromarty. Have I found the Logan Bar ranch?” The turnoff to the drive was well marked, with a timber sign anchored in native stone, but that had been several miles ago.

“You have,” the official greeter said. “I’m Luke Logan, and these are my brothers, Shamus and Patrick. I’ll show you around your new home away from home, and if you have any luggage—”

“I’ll show him around.”

Bridget stood on a flight of steps leading from a truly impressive room. The American West was embodied in this room as a rugged, lovely, comfortable haven. The woman on the steps was furious, though, and nothing would protect Magnus from her wrath.

Which made no sense.

“Thank you,” Magnus said. “I wouldn’t want to put anybody to any bother.”

Bridget descended the rest of the steps and clomped to the front door. “You won’t be any bother at all, I can guarantee you that, mister. Luke, fetch his gear. Patrick, see to your daughter. Shamus, you can start cleaning up supper before the cats get after the pepperonis.”

These must be the infamous brothers, though they scurried off at her command like chastened puppies.

“Bridget?” Magnus didn’t dare touch her, though he wanted to. She had clearly added him to the list of men with whom she was furious, and he had no intention of remaining on that list.

“That would be me,” she said, rounding on him. “What sick sense of humor inspires a man to charm his way right into the enemy’s skivvies, Magnus? I don’t expect much from the male of the species, but that’s a new low in my experience.”

“How did I become your enemy?”

“We’ll discuss that later, when my brothers aren’t lurking in the bushes, thinking up more inspired ways to ruin my life.” She snatched a patchwork quilted jacket from a peg on the wall and flounced out the door.

A gentleman didn’t argue with a lady, not when her expression promised to geld him at the first opportunity. Magnus followed Bridget across the driveway to a handsome stone and timber house with a roofed porch. Luke Logan followed with Magnus’s suitcase and carry-on.

“Thank you,” Magnus said.

“Your groceries got here a couple hours ago,” Luke said. “If you need anything, we’re just a—”

“Beat it, Luke,” Bridget said. “Braveheart and I are due for a parley.”

Luke’s gaze skittered from his sister to Magnus. “You two know each other?”

“No,” Bridget said, just as Magnus answered, “We’re acquainted.”

“That’s… that’s good, I hope,” Luke said, taking himself down the steps. “Bridget, we’ll save you a slice of pie.”

That was a warning of some sort, obvious even to Magnus, who had no siblings.

“Inside,” Bridget said, producing a key from the pocket of her jeans. “Get inside and prepare to explain why in the hell I should give you the time of day much less a tour of my distillery.”

Her distillery? “Because,” Magnus said, “if ever you should come to Scotland, I’d be happy to give you a tour of my facilities.”

“I’ve seen your facilities, Magnus. I never want to tour them again.”

Bridget’s sense of betrayal was wonderfully righteous, and yet, a stupid corner of her heart hoped that Magnus hadn’t spent the night with her in anticipation of stealing her distillery. Then too, her rage felt a little too good, a little too handy.

She had many, many reasons to be angry, and they weren’t all Magnus’s fault, even if he was in Montana to take her business from her.

He leaned against the guesthouse kitchen counter, looking windblown and wary in his jeans and a flannel shirt. He also looked tired.

“Are you hydrating?” Bridget asked.   

“Bridget, I’m not a sot.”

Did anybody sound as offended as an indignant Scot?

“The elevation here is nearly a mile above sea level,” Bridget said, opening the fridge. “If you’re used to living at lower altitudes, then you need time to adjust. You’re also probably not accustomed to how dry it can be here.”

She filled a glass half way with organic raspberry juice—he could afford organic raspberry juice, of course—and topped it off with seltzer water.

“Drink that.”

He crossed his arms. “Not unless you join me, Bridget. You told your brother that you and I are due to parley. That means discussion, not you giving orders while the rest of the world scurries to do your bidding.”

She took a sip of his drink, realized what she’d done—damn, it was good—then shoved it at him.

“Nobody scurries to do my bidding, Magnus. That’s a problem I aim to fix. The Logan brothers suffer a deficit of scurry-ness, but they’re educable, given enough patience and a cattle prod.”

“Right now, one of them is cleaning up the kitchen; the other is seeing to the child. Luke is making sure there’s a piece of pie waiting for you when you hop on your broomstick and rejoin them at the dinner table.”

“You think so?”

“I think they scurry better than you notice. This drink is exquisite.”

Real men didn’t describe fruit drinks as exquisite, but Bridget had every reason to know that Magnus was a real man.

She fixed herself a glass and put the juice and fizzy water back in the fridge. Magnus had ordered a crisper full of fresh veggies, several different kinds of cheese, artisan bread, butter, eggs, and…

And Bridget was snooping, so she closed the door to the refrigerator and put on her trial-lawyer face.

“You want to talk,” she said, “I’ll listen.” She’d hated the courtroom, but had found that out only after devoting three years of her life and all of her savings to law school.

Magnus held a chair for her at the small round table by the window. Bridget pulled the curtains closed, lest any nosy brothers get to spying, and took a seat. Magnus sat across from her, and for a moment, she battled with the pleasure of simply beholding him.

She’d parted from him yesterday morning, telling herself she’d stored up a fine little memory, but she’d also stored up a fine little heartache to go with it. She liked Magnus—or liked the Magnus she’d met at the Bar None—and had steeled herself against never seeing him again.

Now, she wanted to know if there was a way to keep liking him without losing her distillery or her pride.