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Lisa’s mouth opened, then her expression turned positively gleeful. “You had a one-night stand with a stranger?”
Abigail lowered her own voice even further. “Yes.”
Lisa’s hand tightened on Abigail’s arm, as if to hold her in place. “Was he hot?”
“Yes.” Hot didn’t begin to describe Lucky. In fact, even now, Abigail’s body responded with an embarrassing level of arousal at the mere memory of Lucky naked, laconic, gazing at her with that lazy half smile.
“You go, Abby!”
“Shh.”
“Yes. Of course. Wow. No wonder you don’t want to tell Seth.”
“I don’t want to tell anyone.”
Lisa gave a series of rapid nods. “Got it. But if you don’t know his name, how are you going to see him again?”
“I’m not.” Abigail wouldn’t. She couldn’t. No matter how much she wished she could.
“But if he’s hot and, well, if the look in your eyes is anything to go by, maybe you want to—”
“Lisa, look up the definition of one-night stand.”
“One-night stands can turn into something else, you know.”
Abigail coughed on a laugh, seizing on the chance to turn the tables. “Actually, I wouldn’t know. Would you?”
Lisa wrinkled her nose in the air. “No. Not that there’s anything wrong in it. Not with the right person. You know, in the right circumstance.”
“Last night was the right circumstance.” Abigail wasn’t going to regret last night. She refused to regret last night.
She’d never met a man remotely like Lucky. The memory of his voice made her tingle, and the thought of his kisses brought a flood of desire. Her real world was closing in fast, dragging her back into its clutches, while the exhilarating escape with Lucky secretly pulsed just below her skin. She’d lock it away where no one could see, but where she could pull it out to relive that treasured night over and over again.
Fall was on its way to Lyndon Valley. Work on the ranch would begin in earnest now, starting with the roundup. But when the wind howled down from the Rockies, or when she was bone tired out on the range, she’d remember the feel of Lucky’s strong arms around her, the heat of his body against her, his whispered words, his endearing sense of humor and the way he’d made her feel like the only woman in the world.
Three
The Craig Mountain Brewery was tucked in the mountains above the picturesque shores of Lake Patricia, an hour north of Lyndon City. Built of stone and mortar, around 1850, in the style of British castles, Craig Mountain had started life as a manor house for a British lord, a remittance man, a reprobate whose family had paid him handsomely to leave England and never return.
The brewery manager, Lucas Payton, shared the story of Lord Ashton with Zach while the two men made their way along the covered pathway that connected the original castle, which was now mostly offices, to the newer industrial complex housing the warehouse and brewery, with its tanks, filtration systems and bottling line.
“They say Ashton bribed a railroad official for information on the planned railway line,” Lucas continued, tone animated. “Whether the official didn’t know the real route, or he simply lied for reasons of his own, nobody ever found out. But he took the money and left the state, while Ashton built his house a hundred miles in the wrong direction.”
“You a history buff?” asked Zach.
Lucas had worked for DFB for three years now. The two men had met on several occasions when Lucas traveled to Houston for company meetings. But they’d always talked shop, and it had always been amongst a larger group of people.
“You know how it is,” Lucas answered, stuffing his hands into his back pockets. “I’m an orphan. So I’ve adopted somebody’s else’s ancestors.”
“Never thought to do that,” said Zach. Interesting, though, choosing a family history based on interest and convenience instead of strict genealogy.
Like all DFB employees, Lucas had come through the foster care system. When Zach and Alex founded the company, they’d promised each other it would be for the benefit of orphans like themselves, people who had no families and few chances in life.
“You should prowl through the top floors of the castle sometime,” said Lucas, pulling open a door to the cinder-block warehouse. “There’s some absolutely fascinating stuff up there.”
“I’m not going to have time for that.” Zach stepped inside the cool, dim building, and the familiar tang of hops and malt hit his nostrils. Supplies were stacked twenty feet high on steel shelving, on either side of a wide aisle that bisected the big building. A forklift rumbled unseen in the distance, its backup alarm sounding intermittently with the whir of the tires and hydraulics.
“Going right back to the big city?” asked Lucas. “I suppose there’s not much to keep you here.”
“Not much,” Zach agreed, even as his mind slipped back to last night and the incredible encounter with Doll-Face.
When he woke up this morning, the sexy and mysterious woman had already slipped out, leaving him there alone. He’d told himself to let it go. She didn’t want to know him, and she sure hadn’t wanted him to know anything about her.
It was disappointing, and for a few seconds he’d been tempted to hang around town looking for her. But orphans learned one lesson very early in life. Anything good could be snatched away in a millisecond. It was probably better that it had happened fast this time. Something told him, given half a chance, he could have fallen dangerously hard for the beautiful, intelligent, engaging woman.
He came back to the present as Lucas started through the center of the warehouse.
“It’s not the renovation costs that’ll get you,” said Lucas, turning the conversation back to the reason for Zach’s visit. “And there’s plenty of room to expand out back toward the hillside.”
He pressed a red button on the wall, and a big overhead door clattered its way open. He pointed outside to the vast gravel parking lot, past two semitrailer trucks that were positioned for unloading. “We can build a new warehouse over there, free up some space for more production. The bottling plant and the brewery will have to stay put, but we’d have some options around the coolers and the fermenters.”
“If it’s not the renovation costs, what is it that’ll get me?” asked Zach, used to cutting directly to the chase.
“The water,” said Lucas.
“Something wrong with the water?”
“We’ve maxed out the water license. I asked around after your call on Friday, and it’s going to be tough, if not impossible, to get permission to increase our usage.”
This was very bad news. Zach frowned. “Why?”
“Moratorium on water-use licenses all across the region.”
The unique underground springwater of Craig Mountain was a key ingredient in the beer. The springwater was also the cornerstone of the marketing campaign for C Mountain Ale, the most popular brand in DFB’s iconic Red, White and Brew six-pack.
Red, White and Brew contained one beer from each of DFB’s six breweries, and it was taking their international markets by storm. Production was already on pace for the new orders at the other five breweries in Montana, California, Michigan, South Carolina and Texas, but Craig Mountain had to catch up.
“The water-rights battle has been going on for months. It’s the ranchers versus everyone else, and the ranchers are a very powerful lobby group.”
“We’re miles and miles from the nearest ranch.” Zach gestured through the big doorway. “How can our water use possibly impact them?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Lucas, shaking his head. “People have grazing rights nearby. There’ll be no new water licenses. No variances to existing water licenses. No temporary permits. Nothing until the new regulations are drafted and they go through the state legislature.”
Zach swore.
“You got that right.”
Zach smacked the heel of his hand against the doorjamb. He gritted his teeth. Then he straightened and squared his shoulders. “All right. Who do I talk to?”
“Beats the hell out of me. I do beer, not politics.”
“Well, who does politics?”
“You could try a lawyer. Someone local, maybe.”
Zach nodded. He supposed that was a logical place to start. “Who do you use locally?”
Lucas gave a shrug. “We’ve never had any legal problems.”
“Are there law firms in Lyndon?”
Or maybe he should fly back to Denver. If this moratorium thing was broader than the immediate Lyndon area, he might as well go to a big firm with plenty of capacity.
And his clock was ticking. If the Craig Mountain Brewery construction didn’t get started in the next couple of weeks, they’d end up with a shortage of C Mountain Ale, and they wouldn’t be able to fill their spring orders for Red, White and Brew. That would most certainly mean the downfall of DFB.
“There are definitely law firms in Lyndon.” Lucas answered the question. “Sole proprietorships mostly. And I don’t know if they’ve been involved in the issue. Honestly, if I was going for the greatest concentration of knowledge on this, I’d be going to the Ranchers Association.”
“Didn’t you just say they were on the other side?”
“I did.”
“So, then, that would be a foolish move.”
“Well.” Lucas scratched the back of his neck. “If you don’t want to go to the Ranchers Association, you can try Abigail Jacobs.”
“Who’s she?”
“The daughter of one of the ranching families. I was told she has an encyclopedia for a brain and a passion for the water-rights issue.”
“She’s still the enemy.”
“Maybe. Technically.”
“So she’s not going to help us.”
“You can always get creative. You don’t have to tell her exactly what you’re looking for. Just meet her and, I don’t know.” Lucas looked Zach up and down. “Tell her she’s pretty or something, take her out for dinner and a movie, then ask a lot of questions.”
“You want me to romance the information out of some unsuspecting woman?”
“If she’s a research geek, maybe she hasn’t had a date for a while.”
“Did we not give you an ethics quiz before we hired you?”
“I had a dysfunctional upbringing.”
“So did I, but I still have standards. I’m going with the lawyer.” The clock might be ticking, but Zach had absolutely no intention of lying to this Abigail Jacobs for his own ends.
The Jacobs ranch covered thousands of acres in the Lyndon Valley of western Colorado. As it had become more prosperous, Abigail’s grandfather, and then her father, had purchased more and more land. The main house was two stories high, with six bedrooms, overlooking the Lyndon River to the east. To the west the Rockies rose, their peaks jutting to the blue sky behind the three main barns, several horse corrals and a massive equipment garage.
Staff cottages and two low bunkhouses snaked along the riverbank, forming a semicircle around the big cookshack that welcomed cowboys and farmhands with wholesome food and pots of brewed coffee any time of the day or night. Born and raised here, Abigail knew there were many things to love about the Jacobs ranch, and she now spent her days reminding herself she could be happy here. She climbed the front stairs, the summer day’s sweat soaking through her T-shirt, dampening her hairline and wicking into the band of her Stetson. As she started across the porch, she heard male voices through the open living-room windows. The sun was slipping low in the hot August sky. The breeze had dropped to nothing. And a dozen horseflies buzzed a lazy patrol pattern beneath the shade of the peaked porch roof. She slapped her hat against her leg, brushed the excess dust from the front of her jeans, then checked her boot heels for mud.
The voices grew louder, more distinct. One was her brother Travis. The other was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.
“And you expect us to help?” Travis demanded.
“I could have lied,” the other voice returned reasonably. “But in the interest of—”
“Is that supposed to impress me? That you stopped short of lying?”
“I’m not looking to impress you.”
Wondering who her brother was arguing with, Abigail moved toward the door. In the week since she’d returned to the ranch, there’d been a steady stream of friends and neighbors stopping by, expressing their congratulations on Seth’s victory and inquiring about Abigail’s father, who was expected home from the Houston rehab center in the next few weeks.
“Lucky for you that you’re not,” scoffed Travis.
“I just want some information, and then I’ll be on my—”
“You’ll be on your way right now.”
“Not before I talk to Abigail.”
Abigail stopped short. Who was that?
“Abigail’s not here.”
“Then I’ll wait.”
“I don’t think so.”
Well, whoever it was, he wasn’t going to have to wait long, and it was going to be a pretty short conversation. Abigail had a hot shower in her sights, followed by dinner and maybe a nice glass of Shiraz. Then she was falling directly into bed. She wasn’t exactly out of shape, but it had been several months since she’d done full-time ranch work, and her long shift on the oat field today had been exhausting.
“Nobody gets to Abby unless they go through me,” Travis stated.
From the entry hall, Abigail could picture her brother’s square shoulders, his wide stance, the hard line of his chin. He was endearingly, if unnecessarily, protective. She pushed down the door latch with her thumb and silently opened the door.
The unknown man’s voice came from around the corner, inside the big living room. “Craig Mountain’s new usage will be negligible in the scheme of things.”
“And what better way to set precedent?” Travis responded. “You’re the thin edge of the wedge.”
“I’m brewing beer, not setting precedent. It’s one little underground spring.”
“It’s still part of the aquifer.”
Abigail dropped her hat on a peg by the door and raked back her damp, dusty hair. Her ponytail was definitely the worse for wear. Then again, so were her dirty hands and her sweaty clothes. But she was back on the ranch now. And she wasn’t looking to impress anyone. So who cared?
During the local-water-rights hearings a few months ago, she’d listened to every argument in the book. It wouldn’t take her long to send this guy packing.
She rounded the corner. “Hey, Travis.”
