Page 15
But 1985, the year Weston Whiskey opened, was when the feud turned into a powder keg.
No one knows who had the idea first. What matters is that both the Hales and the Westons opened their own distilleries around the same time. My father partnered with his brother Vaughn; Granger partnered with his brother Junius. While Weston Whiskey soared, thanks to my father securing the water rights to Sweetheart Falls, the Hales’ distillery, Old Hale Hill Distillery, went under. The Hales were forced to sell their land, which our father bought. Bitter, Granger and Junius Hale launched a vitriolic campaign against my family, claiming that our father stole their distillery’s mash bill.
Guarded more closely than the crown jewels, the mash bill is a unique recipe of grains that each distillery follows to make their whiskey distinct from any other whiskey out there.
It was all a bullshit lie.
Together with my father, Uncle Vaughn came up with our distillery’s mash bill years before Weston Whiskey even opened.
The sad fact of the matter is that the Hales’ distillery didn’t have what it took. Ours did.
Though Junius Hale died several years after the Hales’ distillery shuttered, the legend of the mash bill theft is still lore around some parts of Tempest.
Granger Hale, intent on sticking it to the Westons in the only way he could, turned his attention to the land. With what little savings he had left, and savvy real estate investment, he started his own development company, Hale Development. It took off, gaining the backing of investors. He moved fast through the years, moved up in status, stature. Now, he’s one of the most prominent businessmen in Montana.
He owns the land, sits on the board of the city council, and controls the cops. The cherry on top is that his son, Rogan Hale, is mayor. Another puppet he can control.
Rogan makes his way over to us. “Well, look who we have here.” He nudges a Stetson up on his sweaty brow. “Can’t take a shit in this town without running into a Weston.”
“My bar, Rogan.” Warren fixes his cuffs. “You know that.”
My fists clench on the bar top.
I don’t just want to punch Rogan Hale. I want to take him to the Pit, skin him, and bury him alive. Because both he and his father have fucked with my family. And I know beyond a shadow of a damn doubt that the Hales are behind my parents’ murder.
Rogan’s eyes narrow, his knuckles turning white as he grips the back of a stool. “Just came to say hello to my constituency. Not sure why you have a problem with that, Weston.”
Coolly, I sip my whiskey. “Think the town has the problem with you, Hale.”
The distillery and the Weston last name are respected in town. The Hales are feared except when it comes to big business, government. They’re seen by locals as ranchers who forgot their roots and now push around the little people.
Anger reddening his face, Rogan straightens up, brushes aside his jacket pocket to discreetly flash a pistol. “Careful, Weston.”
I pause, eyebrow raised, a laugh bubbling on my lips. Motherfucker couldn’t hit shit. Hale was raised a poor, hardworking Montana boy, but now he sits in his flashy mansion on the outskirts of town and lets the Tempest police force do his dirty work.
Crooked law enforcement and a good ol’ boy mentality. That’s what Rogan Hale is all about.
His nostrils pulse as a slow smile spreads across his face. “It’s a pity, isn’t it? Here I am celebrating, and you’re mourning two ghosts.”
Warren hitches a breath.
I rip off my stool. “I should tear your fucking head off.” The smirk on Rogan’s face tells me he’s deliberately pushing my buttons. He knows damn well what tonight means.
“Cole.” Warren points at me, a reminder to keep myself in check. “Don’t.”
I release my fists.
Rogan holds up his hands. “Just being friendly.”
“You want to drink or to talk shit all night?” Warren cuts in, his voice hard. There’s murder in his eyes, but unlike mine, it’s contained. “We don’t have time for your bullshit, Hale.”
“Whiskey.” Rogan’s bulging eyes scan the shelf, then a smug smile overtakes his face. “Blanton’s.”
Warren and I share a look. We’ve killed and buried two men in our life. What’s one more?
Warren snorts, grabs a bottle of our rye, and fills a crystal glass to the brim. He slams it on the counter, looks Rogan dead in the face. “Drink it or not.”
Rogan flushes red, takes the whiskey without paying, and strides off.
