He would have preferred to continue debating whether or not he was a devil. At least the letters came less frequently these days. “Put it with the others,” he said dismissively, heading for the large, canopy-covered slab of flat earth they’d set aside for barrel making.
“I ken ye dunnae wish to read them, Callum,” Boyd said, lowering his voice as he hurried his shorter stride to catch up, “but burning them’s a bit permanent, aye?”
“Aye. That being the point. Have the new mules and wagons made it up here yet?”
“Deveraux says by the end of the week. But about the let—”
“That’s what comes of trusting a Frenchman,” Callum interrupted. He could practically feel the disapproval coming off his foreman, and with a scowl he slowed. “The letter’s from Scotland, aye?”
“Aye. Aye, it is.”
“Is it from Crosby and Hallifax?” he asked, naming the firm that managed his business on the far side of the Atlantic.
“Nae. It’s from a Mr. B—”
“If it’s nae business,mybusiness, I’ve nae use for it,” Callum broke in again, annoyed that he’d actually rushed his response to keep from hearing the name. But anyone in the whisky business knew to contact the Kentucky Hills distillery through Crosby and Hallifax. And anyone from Scotland who wished to contacthim,personally, could go to the devil. “Burn it, Rory.”
The foreman sighed. “As ye wish, Mr. MacCreath.”
“I’ll lend a hand with Arnold,” Callum decided. “We’ll need another dozen barrels by Wednesday.” Anything to keep his thoughts away from the letters that had begun arriving about four years ago and what they contained, as if he had any desire to know that Ian MacCreath and Rebecca Sanderson-MacCreath had a basket of bairns and their ludicrous business with Dunncraigh had netted them all the money in the Highlands. That wasn’t his life, and they weren’t his family. They’d made that damned clear, and if they deigned to offer him some sort of forgiveness, well, he fucking well didn’t want it. And if they’d written to send him more insults, he didn’t want those, either.
“Aye,” Rory said, obviously not reading his thoughts. “I can smell how nicely she’s coming along.”
Ah, the whisky. Callum could smell it, too. Corn and rye, boiled down for three days before it was combined with wheat and buckwheat mash in just the right proportion—the scent reminded him of Scotland at the oddest of times, even more so than the mix of fading Highlands and Lowlands accents of most of his men. The air at the moment smelled more like a bakery than a distillery, but after three or five or seven years, depending on the size of the barrels and the maturity of the brew, it would be some of the finest whisky in the world.
He glanced toward the large barnlike building at the center of the clearing. Hell, some of the barrels had been lying there in the dark for nearly eight years now, and he would leave them for another three or four. For the rest, though, smaller barrels meant less time to mature, which meant faster turnaround times, faster profits, and faster growth for the place he’d named Kentucky Hills.Hisplace.
While initially he’d begun the venture mainly because it required sweat and muscle, with the bonus that it allowed him to move as far from civilization as he could get, he did appreciate the irony of it, as well. Whisky and its pursuit had ruined his life that night, so it seemed only fitting that he use it now to make himself a living. A very good living. The reputation Kentucky Hills had earned along the way for a fine, smooth brew with a unique taste had been unexpected but welcome byproducts, as was the reputationhe’dearned for being a man with whom others did not trifle.
As for the Highlands, he’d relegated it to a faraway place where he’d once lived for a time. The sooner it faded completely from his memory, the better. All heneeded to remember about the damned Highlands was that folk there liked their whisky.
Shaking himself, he stooped beneath a roof of canvas to enter what they’d deemed the barrel room. A wiry, white-haired imp of unknown age stalked among the uncured casks spaced out on the dirt, muttering to himself as he made certain they stood round and open at the bottoms like Indian teepees. Firewood lay stacked on the ground at the center of each unfinished barrel, while two younger men fitted iron ribs around another group that were already being fired.
“Arnold,” he said, handing his rifle off to Boyd, “I hear we’ll have more whisky than barrels to hold it, come Wednesday.”
The imp’s face went scarlet, his good arm flapping. If the other hadn’t been in a sling, he likely would have lifted into the air to join the flock of ducks heading north toward the south fork of Red River. “Ye gave me but two new lads, MacCreath, both scrawny as scarecrows. Ye cannae expect miracles when ye give me shite.”
“If ye’ll stop yer bellyaching,” Callum replied, shedding his bloodstained hunting coat, “I figure I’ll lend ye my two hands.”
Waya snorted at one of the fires, then padded off in the direction of the cookhouse—no doubt in hope of handouts. Callum, though, rolled up his shirtsleeves and began dragging the remainder of the barrel frames into place for firing and sealing.
Arnold stepped back, lifting an eyebrow. “Ye ken most of us need some assistance to do that,” he observed.
“He’s a damned demon,” one of the striplings muttered, though Callum pretended not to hear.
The barrelmaker didn’t pretend any such thing. “A devil? Nae. What yer employer is, lads, is a bloody grizzly bear. Dunnae expect me to coddle ye.”
Chuckling, Callum heaved over another half-finished barrel. “Dunnae be so hard on ’em, Arnold. We cannae all be as big as mountains or as handsome as the devil.”
The cooper guffawed, slapping a knee with his good hand. “Ye hear that, lads? I can give ye work to make ye stronger, but ye’ll have to curse yer mamas for yer looks.”
Still grinning, Callum gathered up an armload of cedar logs. A few years ago he wouldn’t have been able to heave the barrels alone. But a few inches of height, together with some well-honed muscles and the anger which drove him to use them, had turned him from a stupid drunken pup into a man other men favored with a healthy respect. And that suited him exceedingly well.
“Mr. MacKenzie,” the other lad said, grunting as the two of them hammered another iron rib into place, “if we finish these barrels today, will ye finally tell me who can read me the letter from my ma? I reckon she had Father Michael write it out for her, because the father’s the only man in Carach-duan who can read or write, but—”
“That’s enough, lad,” Arnold snapped, sending Callum a grim look. “I’ll read it to ye myself tonight, if ye’ll stop yammering about it.” The old man straightened. “He doesnae ken the rules here yet, MacCreath.”
Callum narrowed an eye as he looked at the two lads all over again. Neither of them looked even as old as he’d been when he’d fled Scotland. At least one of them had attachments back home, which meant the boy had come here searching for a better life rather than simply escaping from something unpleasant. He preferred when men came looking for a new start, a clean break from whatever former misery their lives had been.
