Taken By Storm

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 suppose 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?”

“Going home. Aren’t you?”

“I wish.” Cam had another few hours of work ahead of him. “I’ve still got to check in with the volunteers for tomorrow’s tour and start setting up.”

“No, you don’t.” Gus flipped off the rest of the lights. “You’re just making extra work for yourself. They know they’re supposed to be here to set up.”

Cam turned the lights back on. “Some forget.”

Gus waved away his words. “So what if they do? Plenty of people will be around to pitch in if you need extra help. Relaaax, laddie boy. It’ll all work out.”

Relax. It’ll all work out was Gus’s standard response to Cam’s concerns about the brewery. “I’ll relax next week when you’re the one making it all work out.”

“You do that,” Gus said. “And find a woman while you’re at it.”

2

AS SOON AS Zoey got home, she flipped on The Weather Channel and started packing. Central Texas generally had mild winters, but she was flying first to Virginia, then renting a car to drive to her sister’s kennel, then flying to Seattle and renting another car to drive to Merriweather Kennels. Apparently dog breeders favored rural locations.

She caught the tail end of the report: “...stalled over the Rockies. This area of high pressure is feeding all that moist Gulf air, and when it eventually moves along this line, the Midwest will be in for heavy snow, probably within the next couple of days...”

Snow. Zoey did not do snow. She didn’t see snow all that often and had driven in it only twice.

While she waited for Kate and Ryan to call with her itinerary, Zoey transferred samples of Skin Garden creams into airline-approved containers. Flying all over the country was a great opportunity to test which formulas best combated dry airplane air. She even added extras to make a nice gift bag for Alexandra’s owner. Word of mouth had to start someplace.

Near midnight, her sister called. “Hey, Zoey, sorry about the slop in the flight schedules, but not all the commuter planes have pressurized, temperature-controlled cargo holds. And the layover must be long enough to let Casper potty when you change planes in Chicago.”

Chicago. Chicago was in the Midwest. “Hey—have you been watching the weather? There’s a big storm—”

“It’s January. There’s always a big storm,” Kate snapped.

Zoey had kept the TV on for company, and the projections had changed over the past few hours. The storm was growing and moving faster than originally predicted. Meteorologists were thrilled and trying not to show it, which was never a good sign. “Maybe you should have the woman at your kennel put Casper on the plane in Richmond and I’ll just fly to Chicago and meet him there. It would save a day.”

“In other words, leave the kennels unattended for hours, and then let a future Grand Champion travel by himself?”

“Unless there’s something you’re not telling me, he’ll be by himself in the cargo hold anyway. You should turn on the TV. I think this storm—”

“Zoey! You promised not to think!” Kate sucked in a deep breath. “Just follow the plan.”

Right. Zoey’s plans led to failure. Kate’s led to success. “I was just wondering about the effects of the snow.”

“I appreciate your concern, Zoey.” Ryan’s voice. “But Casper needs to become familiar with you and you’ll have to learn his routine. Believe me, it’ll make traveling with him a lot easier.”

* * *

AT CHICAGO’S O’HARE AIRPORT, Cam watched with a crowd of cranky passengers as flights on the departure monitors changed from “delayed” to “canceled.”

He should have called off his trip after waiting for hours at the Houston airport because he knew incoming flights from Denver had been delayed. Snow and ice. Hadn’t Colorado figured out how to deal with snow yet? And now the storm was bearing down on Chicago. If he couldn’t get a flight out, who knew how long he’d be stuck here?

Cam made his way to baggage claim to find out where the checked luggage was being stored. If it was in some unheated warehouse, then he’d have to retrieve the beer. The foam cooler would probably keep the bottles from freezing, but the samples of wort, hops and yeast weren’t protected.

He stepped off the escalator at baggage claim into a solid wall of people and lines that were so long, he couldn’t see the end of them. The babble and smell of overheated travelers made it hard to concentrate.

To heck with this. He’d find the climate-controlled shipments himself. Better to ask the guys actually handling the cargo than to rely on the agents at the counter, who could only repeat what they’d been told.

There weren’t as many people at the end of the building where the administrative offices were located, and Cam took a moment to appreciate the lack of crowd noise. And fresher air. As some of his stress eased, he heard a dog bark. Right. Pets would be traveling in the same cargo hold as his beer. Following the signs, Cam found the area where the animals were being held. Great. Another long line.

Several frazzled owners were trying to soothe their unhappy pets, but Cam’s eyes were immediately drawn to a woman struggling with a large dog wearing what looked like a shower cap and a blue jumpsuit with “Ryka’s Casper” embroidered on the side.

The dog’s butt was firmly planted on the floor; it did not want to go back into its crate. The woman gestured, clearly trying to reason with the animal. She finally grabbed the harness and slid the sitting dog toward the crate. The poor thing had probably been confined in there for hours already.

Cam and the rest of the waiting travelers silently watched as the woman struggled to remove little blue booties from the dog’s paws.

“Casper, please!” She slipped off her backpack and set it next to the crate. “They’re all wet. I don’t even know why I bothered.”

She bent over and the end of her knit scarf caught on the travel crate. As she tried to free the scarf, the dog pulled on its leash.

“Here, let me help you.” Cam quickly moved forward and knelt by the crate.

The scarf was striped red and white, like a candy cane, and made him smile as he unhooked it from the wire door.

“Thanks,” he heard as he straightened and came face to face with flushed cheeks, huge pale green eyes and a grateful but weary smile.

The air left his lungs as though he’d been punched in the chest. He stared, well aware he was staring, but he couldn’t stop. Worse, he didn’t want to stop. He’d happily devote whatever hours before his flight was rescheduled to staring at her and her sea-glass-colored eyes, her flushed cheeks and her...nose. Okay, there was nothing remarkable about her nose. He couldn’t call it cute or even little. She wasn’t crinkling it adorably or anything. It was just a nose. But it really looked good on her.

She did have nice skin—he noticed that. And brown hair, judging from the pieces of her bangs that stuck out from the candy-cane hood she wore. The hood appeared to be attached to her scarf, and he saw the remnants of a price sticker along the turned-up edge.

She blinked at him, and the wool fringe of her scarf moved through his fingers as she gently tugged.

“Oh.” He glanced down and gave a short laugh as he released the scarf. “I guess you want that back.” He stepped away to give her space because her smile seemed a little fixed.

The dog whined and pulled in the direction of the exit.

She didn’t say anything, and Cam didn’t say anything, either, although he wanted to. He was doing well just to remember to breathe. After months of easily chitchatting with the public during Saturday tours at the brewery, now Cam couldn’t string a sentence together to save his soul.

“I guess Casper didn’t get enough of the snow and slush, so I’m going to walk him some more.” She pointed over her shoulder as she backed away, the dog straining at his leash. “Thanks again.”

Cam opened his mouth to offer to walk with her, but he was afraid of coming off as stalkerish, so instead he said, “Have fun.” Yeah. That was the best he could come up with.

He stood, unmoving, and watched the dog pull her away. He couldn’t gauge much about her body beneath the wrinkled beige coat she wore, but her legs were encased in tight jeans tucked into boots. Nice.

She stopped walking and said something to the dog. Abruptly, the dog—Ryka’s Casper, according to the ridiculous doggie coat—returned to her side and froze, head up, tail curled and legs straight. She dug in the pocket of her coat and pulled out red-and-white striped gloves. No. Mittens. She was putting on mittens. Cam grinned, pegging her as one of those quirky, sexy girls. Usually, he avoided that type because the quirkiness wore on him after a few hours, but somehow he knew she was different. Her coat said practical, her legs said sexy, and the mitten/scarf/hat combo said quirky. He liked it. A lot.

Once her mittens were on, she gave a command to the dog and they trotted toward the door in perfect step.

A show dog. No wonder he was dressed in the fancy getup. Ryka’s Casper. Did that mean the woman’s name was Ryka?

Cam might have the opportunity to find out because it seemed he’d be hanging around here for a while. The customer-service line hadn’t moved at all in the past fifteen minutes. He watched the overworked clerks. They had to be as tired and as frustrated as the passengers, but so far, they were doing an admirable job of hiding it. Still, if he got into line now, by the time he made it to the counter, his beer could be frozen.

He looked around for a cargo handler and noticed a black backpack sitting by the empty dog crate. Unattended luggage. Bad. Very bad, as the airport announcements warned. Over and over and over. But Ryka had abandoned it in her haste to get away from him. Yeah, he’d definitely come off as stalkerish. It would be his fault if someone stole the backpack or messed with it or reported it as unattended luggage. So Cam casually sat on the floor next to the crate. He’d keep an eye on the bag and leave when she returned.

He felt a disappointed pang at the thought of walking away from her, although he wouldn’t walk far because the baggage-service line wrapped around the pet area. He could catch a glimpse of her cute nose or sexy legs, but he had to make sure she didn’t catch him at it.

Cam rested his forearms on his knees, hands dangling free. A wave of tiredness smacked him and he dropped his head. He’d oh-so-carefully arranged this meeting with Richard after reading an interview in his college alumni magazine where Richard had expressed an interest in brewing craft beer. Fortunately, the Yakima Valley in Washington State was a huge hop-growing region, so Cam had mentioned he’d be in Washington visiting growers and offered to meet with Richard. When Richard had agreed, Cam then actually had to plan a visit with a grower; Richard was just the sort of man to verify his story. Richard was also the sort of man to refuse to meet with Cam if he was late, even if it was because of the storm of the century.

Cam drew a deep breath and lifted his head, his gaze falling on the backpack again. A tiny edge of white paper taunted him from beneath the bag. The paper looked a whole lot like one of the temporary ID strips the airlines provided at the ticketing counter. If Gus were here, he’d move the backpack so he could read the information on it, but Cam wasn’t Gus. Besides, if Ryka saw him messing with her bag, he’d have a hard time explaining his motives to her—or to whoever monitored all the security cameras trained on the area.

He’d have a hard time explaining it to himself. What did it matter who she was and where she lived?

Deliberately, Cam sought out the door where owners were being reunited with their pets and vowed to talk with one of the workers as soon as Ryka returned. It was while he watched the handler match a man’s ID to a tag on his pet’s crate that Cam thought to look at Casper’s crate.

And there it was, visible for anyone to see: Ryka Kennels, Leeland, Virginia. Virginia. Not close to Texas. A kennel wasn’t exactly a portable occupation, either. Neither was a brewery. And Ryka probably wasn’t her name.

So much for that. Not that there had been a “that.” Cam drew a deep, deep breath and exhaled in a whoosh, trying to blow away his disappointment. Just what, exactly, had he hoped would happen, anyway? After they went their separate ways, was he going to get in touch with her and say, “Hey, I’m that guy you thought was going to hit on you at the airport. You want to go out some night?” And then if she actually said okay, he’d have to fly to Virginia.

Not happening. Getting MacNeil’s up and running consumed all his time and energy. The family had agreed that Cam’s brothers and cousins would put up the money for the brewery and help out when they could, but Cam would run the show. So right now, the brewery had to come first in his life. When Cam started a new relationship, he was very up front about his responsibilities. Women always said they understood, but after a few weeks, when the novelty of spending Saturdays at the brewery wore off, they lost patience. Cam didn’t blame them; they deserved more than he could give.