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Wells spins in a circle to face his group. His dark chestnut hair curls from the edges of his cowboy hat. “This is the cooperage. Or what we otherwise refer to as the Coop. It’s where we make all our barrels. If I can just remind you here that no photos are allowed.” He arches a brow, flashes a smile that’s all charm. “Proprietary information, folks. Otherwise, we’d have to kill you if our secrets got out.”

Chuckles and whispers float through the group. Their eyes widen at the monstrous machines that fill the space. The flung-open garage door offers a dramatic view of the rugged mountainside and surrounding tasting room and distillery. Blue Montana sky stretches to infinity. A soft breeze drifts in from the creek.

The cooperage is one of three main buildings that make up Weston Whiskey. It’s sandwiched between the Stillery—where the whiskey is made—and the tasting room and gift shop. Backdropping the distillery are the rickhouses, our storage space for aging and storing barrels.

After more than forty years in business, and as one of the first distilleries in Montana, Weston Whiskey is a well-oiled machine.

And all of it sits on Copper Run Ranch. A 3,500-acre animal sanctuary nestled in the heart of western Montana that allows our guests to sip whiskey in beautiful natural surroundings while they feed our rescue animals.

Just like our father loved woodworking, our mother loved animals. While he ran the distillery on the east side, she made a career out of rescuing and rehabbing hurt or abused farm animals on the west. Animals she couldn’t rehab stayed at Copper Run Ranch.

Wells lifts a hand, makes introductions. “This is our head cooper, Cole, and our raisers, Cy, Bo, and Leon.”

I nod at the group of guests, then stick the sponges back in my ears and focus on my barrels. By now, I know my brother’s spiel by heart.

Our grain is sourced from local farmers, our water from Sweetheart Falls. We are one of the few whiskey cooperages that firebend, heating a barrel over fire and then bending it to the final shape. Weston Whiskey is the official whiskey of the PBR, the Professional Bull Riders. Raising barrels is a dying craft, and we’re one of the few distilleries that still do it.

Goddamn great facts. Facts that make me damn proud.

But what he doesn’t talk about is the dark shadows that hang over the distillery. Our parents’ murder. The death of our oldest brother, Jack. A rivalry that’s lasted over a century. Most guests don’t even realize its history. But the town of Tempest knows.

As Wells describes to the group how we send our barrels down the line for charring and toasting, I give him a once-over. Tall and lean, with the deep blue eyes all the Westons share, at twenty-eight, he’s ten years younger than me, making him the baby of the family. Soft-spoken, kind, and a natural charmer, he always has a smile or a joke at the ready.

When he’s not leading distillery tours, he’s on the rodeo circuit working as a pick-up man. No one can tame our wild-at-heart little brother, although the world’s tried. That kid’s been through some shit that breaks my heart.

I watch Wells’s mouth move. At me.

Fuck.

I tug a bright neon orange sponge out of my ear. “What?”

He grins at me. “I said, does anyone have any questions for our lead cooper?”

I let out a frustrated sigh. Whose damn idea was it to put the cooperage so close to the distillery?

I jerk my chin. “Why don’t you ask Cy?”

“You’re the expert.” Wells looks around the group, gestures. “Don’t be shy. My big brother looks grumpy, but he doesn’t bite.”

“Much,” Bo adds.

Snickers from the rest of the crew. Annoyance must show on my face because Wells lifts a brow and gives me a play nice look.

The guests stay silent, some looking down at their feet or playing on their phones. Finally, a man in a Harley-Davidson T-shirt decides to brave a question. “Where do you get your wood?”

Hands working on autopilot, I fix a stave into the skirt. “Missouri,” I answer tersely.

Another question comes my way. “How much flavor comes from the barrel versus the distillery?”

I grin. My answer’s bound to piss off Ezra. “At least eighty percent.”

Always the peacemaker, Wells whistles. “C’mon, now. Fightin’ words.”

The group laughs softly, and a blond woman on the tour bats her fake lashes at me. To Wells, she says, “I didn’t know we’d be seeing cowboys on this tour.”

I ignore her, and the comment. If I need any excitement, I have three younger brothers to boss around.

“Hey, I know you.” A man with a curly red beard pipes up from the back. “You’re the bull rider who won the million-dollar prize at the PBR a ways back.”