Read Online Her Colorado Man by Cheryl St.john - Free Book Online Page A

cases and mashing machines shouted at him alongside steaming tanks and chugging engines. The conditions were chaotic to a man used to spending weeks at a time alone in the vast wilderness.
    A whistle blew from the courtyard, and the men paused in their tasks. Machines went blessedly silent and conversations sprang up. Wes followed the workersacross the courtyard to an open-sided building. The sandwiches Henrietta had wrapped were sitting out, along with metal tubs of apples and a cask of beer with a spigot.
    As couples, families and friends sought out each other, he noticed that Philo paired off with Mariah’s cousin Hildy to eat.
    After picking up his food, Wes spotted Mariah and approached her hesitantly. She still wore her cap, and there were smears that looked like grease across the back of her trousers. He sure didn’t mind the way she looked in those trousers. Did she have any idea of how she drew attention to one of her best features by wearing them?
    She turned and met his appraisal. There was no way she could know what he was thinking, but she drew her brows together as though she had. Jerking her gaze to the onlookers, she motioned for him to join her at a table near the back.
    A quick search of the room showed that most eyes were indeed upon them. With appreciation, he watched her seat herself and then sat across from her. His ankle had been aching for the last hour, so he propped it on the bench beside him and unwrapped his sandwich.
    Mariah picked up her sandwich. “Where did he assign you?”
    “The mash house. The smell takes some getting used to.”
    Her gaze flickered to his, then across the room,where it settled briefly on Hildy and Philo before moving away.
    “They’re married, Hildy and Philo?” he asked.
    She nodded. “The smell will change. During the boil, once the hop is added, the mash takes on a sweeter floral aroma.”
    He absorbed that information. “I thought Hildy stayed at the house with your mother.”
    “She brings lunch.”
    “I never knew there was so much that went into making beer.”
    “Bottom-fermented lagering is an art,” she replied. “Grandfather is rather old for the brewmaster title, but my mother is his oldest child, and my oldest uncle was killed several years ago. The title rightfully belongs to my uncle Patrick, but he’s happy to let Grandfather continue.”
    “The difference is obvious,” he said, “from what I’m used to being served.”
    “About all that’s sold throughout the upper states and Canada is ale or top-fermented lager,” she told him. “We’re working to infiltrate markets dominated by whiskey, cider and Americanized English ale. Now that we have machinery, we can produce faster and create a better product.”
    “Why better?”
    “More uniform, I should have said.” She drank from her mug. “This is a very good year for us,” she continued.
    “Why is that?”
    “Last winter was warm. Made ice scarce and expensive for a lot of the major breweries that don’t have icehouses. We’ve been using ice machines for about eight years. The Exposition is the best opportunity we’ve ever had to present our product to the country.”
    For the second time, she’d been drawn into affable conversation because it involved the brewery, and Wes filed away the information. She reminded him of the enterprising women who lived and worked in Alaska. There weren’t many, but those few who had started their own businesses were smart and capable, and some of them even wore trousers.
    None he’d seen had ever looked as good in their trousers as Mariah did, however. The building seemed a lot warmer than it had when they’d entered.
    The whistle blew again, and she rolled up the paper wrapping from her lunch and stood. “You done?”
    He finished his beer, grateful for the cool liquid. “Thanks for sitting with me, ma’am.”
    She walked ahead of him and they threaded their way into one of the lines moving outside. “I didn’t have any