Chapter 1
The Spirit of a Scotsman
Amanda
April
‘Aye, Dad,’ Amanda replied. ‘And the wee pen, too.’
‘Good. Mind and note down aw they’re up tae, fae the notes in the whisky tae the colour of the tablecloths on the tasting tables.’
‘Um, okay then.’ Amanda couldn’t always tell what was her dad’s dry sense of humour and what was his dogged desire to tear down the competition. She erred on the side of the latter.
‘I’m joking aboot the tablecloths.’ Bill clapped Amanda on the shoulder. ‘But not the rest of it. Just see what they’re daein and what this festival is all about. I willnae have Butler’s whisky outshining Kincaid’s.’
‘Do we need to spy?’ Amanda asked, albeit with a lump in her throat. You didn’t question Bill Kincaid. ‘And if we do, would Micky or Billy not be better at this?’
‘Aye, we dae. And they’re daein something else for me today.
’ Bill’s tone shut the conversation down.
Amanda knew her dad and brothers were heading to the bookies and the pub, while she did the donkey work for the business.
‘Oh, and mind and only use the camera if you have tae,’ her dad added. ‘Film’s nae cheap.’
‘Okay, bye, Dad. See you tomorrow.’ Amanda was grateful the bus driver had arrived with his coffee.
She was also glad her dad had coughed up for a night in a B&B, so she didn’t have to get the bus home tonight.
‘A chance to write up your notes and competition analysis,’ he’d said.
Just the word competition filled Amanda with dread.
What was the obsession with beating everyone else?
And why couldn’t she have chosen her own career?
Not that being a brand ambassador for Kincaid Distillers, a Glasgow-based whisky company, was a bad thing.
Amanda got to travel a bit, enthusiastically promoting Scotland’s national spirit.
But brand ambassador was a misnomer. It would have been more honest to give her the title promotional dogsbody.
‘Oh, and Mandy…’
‘Aye?’ Amanda swung back to her dad. Maybe he would tell her she was doing a great job, or to have a nice time while she was away. Give her a hug.
‘Bring us back a dram or two. Wangle a free bottle out of them somehow.’
‘Sure.’ Amanda turned away so the expression of disappointment and frustration on her face was hidden. Her sole worth to her dad was as a spy for the business. It was as if having a daughter was only useful because you could plant her in rival whisky camps and nobody would bat an eyelid.
By the time Amanda had taken her seat on the bus, her dad was sauntering away from the stance, confident that his only daughter was on her way to do his bidding. Now, he had a few hours until the pubs opened. Amanda pulled a book out of her bag. It was the best way to block out the hurt.
Two and a half hours later, she closed the covers of the well-worn novel, having finished it for the fifth time in two years.
Every time, she was right there with the sculpted and commanding Texan ranch hand, tipping his Stetson, cupping her cheek and telling her he was going to take care of her in more ways than one.
Along with the other romance novels that lined the shelves of Amanda’s bedroom, it was the perfect escape.
Amanda dropped the closed book to her lap and gazed out the window as they passed rolling green fields, dotted with sheep and cattle on one side, and rugged, wildflower-strewn coastline on the other.
She’d lived in Scotland her whole life, most of it spent in Glasgow, but the view from her bus seat was like a window into a new land.
It was also a stark contrast to the wide, dusty expanse of Texas she’d been reading about, although just as breathtaking
The idea of the whisky festival filled Amanda with dread, but she was also excited about it.
Away from her dad, she could try to enjoy the freedom this wild peninsula offered.
She’d fill out the notebook he’d given her, with the bookies pen, but she’d pretend she was doing it for a reason other than competition notes.
Maybe it was research for a novel or a diary entry of a whisky enthusiast. Maybe she’d be scribbling away in a corner with a dram on the table beside her when a striking man with broad shoulders and a chiselled jaw would approach and ask what she was writing.
She’d look up into his piercing blue eyes and say ‘whisky’.
He’d appear surprised, hold out his strong hand and ask her if she wanted to come and see his barrel store.
Then they’d get into the dark depths and whisky would be on neither of their minds anymore.
Amanda sighed. The whisky, at least, was a guarantee.
Another ninety minutes of winding country roads, and the bus arrived in the coastal village of Kinshore.
It was an adorable place where old stone cottages sat side by side, their brightly coloured doors and flower-lined paths saying come and live here.
Amanda lugged her overnight bag through centuries-old streets to her B&B, gazing into curious shops and cafes on the way.
After checking into her room – and ingesting a pick-me-up coffee and piece of plastic-wrapped shortbread – she headed out to catch the shuttle bus to Butler’s Distillery.
As far back as Amanda could remember, her dad had scoffed at the name Butler’s whisky.
According to him, the Kintyre operation was nothing to worry about in terms of competition, but recently, he had mentioned it more.
The ownership of Butler’s had recently changed from the late James Butler, Senior, to his sons, Jimmy and Archie, who were only in their twenties.
While James Butler was content to let the company coast along with moderate sales, in the wake of his untimely passing, with his brother having emigrated to Canada years past, his sons were intent on moving things into the present.
There was to be an upgrade to the distillery, a new visitor centre and now the Kintyre Whisky Festival, a promotional vehicle for the brand.
It was impressive stuff, although Amanda would never say that to her dad.
As she stepped off the shuttle bus at the distillery grounds, the delectable scent of malted barley hit Amanda.
She stopped and embraced the midday sun on her face.
It was strange: although Butler’s was a rival distillery to Kincaid’s, it immediately felt more like home.
Could that feeling bode well for the day?
Maybe her visit could be more like a holiday than work –– if only she could forget why she’d been sent here.