Page 1 of Storm in Montana (Montana Becketts, Wild Spirit Ranch #3)
Montana
The oil lamp cast moving shadows across the Philadelphia Bulletin newspaper society pages, the flame dancing with each sway of the train car.
Annalee Beckett’s teacup chimed softly against its saucer as she studied a photograph of debutantes arranged like paper dolls before a grand manor house.
The scene seemed to belong to another world entirely, though it had been mere days since she stood among them.
The narrow wooden panels of the car embraced her, their varnished surfaces reflecting the dull amber light.
Her traveling suit, though still crisp despite the long journey, felt as if she was wearing a costume, its eastern cut and careful tailoring marking her as surely as the brand on cattle.
She smoothed one hand over the fabric, feeling the reassuring weight of the pocket pistol beneath.
Outside, snow tapped against the windows with increasing urgency, each flake a reminder of the long Dakota winter.
The newspaper rustled as she turned another page.
A game of croquet on the expansive lawn, excursions to New York for shopping, trips to the University of Pennsylvania, her first view of the Atlantic Ocean, and crystal glasses catching lamplight at evening soirées floated across her mind.
Such gentle pastimes seemed fragile when peering outside at the increasing storm.
A woman across the aisle caught her eye, offering a thin smile. “Going home, dear?” The question hung in the air as heavy as smoke.
“Yes,” Annalee replied, her voice carrying the lilt of Philadelphia finishing schools, the same as her cousins. “Though home is somewhat farther west.”
The woman’s eyebrows arched, and she exchanged a meaningful look with her companion. Annalee has grown accustomed to such reactions. It was the subtle recalibration occurring when people realized she wasn’t another eastern traveler bound for the nearest comfortable hotel.
The train’s rhythm changed, wheels clicking more slowly against the rails as Bismarck approached.
Other passengers began to stir, gathering belongings and straightening clothes with the anxious energy of birds before a storm.
Annalee folded the newspaper with deliberate precision, tucking it into her carpetbag alongside memories of lawn parties and afternoon teas.
Through the frosted glass, the station platform emerged in the distance, all sharp lines and smudged shadows.
Steam billowed past the windows, transforming the falling snow into ghostly shapes, twisting before vanishing upward.
The heavy tread of the porter’s boots resonated through the floorboards, each step drawing them closer to Mystic, Montana and the moment Annalee had been anticipating since leaving Philadelphia.
She adjusted her shawl with one hand while the other remained near her compact weapon, her movements so practiced they appeared natural.
Her reflection in the window showed a composed young woman with light-brown hair arranged in a perfect chignon and alert blue eyes beneath her neutral features.
Who’d suspect, concealed under the cultivated exterior, her nerves hummed as tight as piano strings.
The platform crowds drifted past. Rough men in heavy coats, women clutching children close, workers with downcast faces. Annalee cataloged each face with the sharp attention her brothers taught her, noting hands drifting too close to coat pockets and eyes lingering too long on the train’s windows.
The porter’s voice carried through the car, announcing their arrival at the Bismarck station in a deep baritone voice.
Annalee rose and gathered her belongings with the same grace she’d employed at garden parties a few weeks earlier.
She patted her skirt, the weight in her pocket speaking of nastier purposes than serving tea.
Other passengers murmured their goodbyes, their voices hushed as if in church.
A child near the front of the car pressed his face to the window, breath fogging the glass as he traced patterns in the frost. His mother tugged him back, her expression tight with the particular anxiety Annalee had come to recognize in these border territories where civilization meets wilderness.
The train shuddered to its final stop, brakes squealing. Steam and snow swirled together on the platform, creating shapes able to hide any type of threat. Annalee stood ready, her beaded handbag in one hand while the other hovered near her skirt pocket.
The train car door groaned open, letting in a rush of bitter winter air, causing the oil lamps to flicker.
Annalee took a few steps toward the conductor, each movement precise despite the weight of the pistol against her thigh.
The first warning came as a shadow, quick and dark, crossing the frosted windows like a bird of prey.
Her heart quickened, sensing danger, though she didn’t know what.
The crash came next. Glass shattered somewhere in the forward car, followed by shrill screams, making her body stiffen.
Annalee’s fingers found the grip of her pistol even as her mind cataloged the sounds.
Heavy boots on wooden floors, at least two men moving with the direct purpose of those accustomed to taking what they wanted.
They burst through the door with violence, sucking all the air from the car.
The first man wore an unruly beard streaked with patches of gray and an old coat Annalee guessed had once been of military issue.
The second man was younger, lean as a winter wolf.
His lifeless eyes darted from passenger to passenger in warning.
Both held revolvers with the casual confidence of those who had killed before.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the older man announced, his voice carrying the gravel of too many cigarettes. “This is a simple transaction. Valuables in the bag, and everyone goes home to tell exciting stories about their adventure out West. Resist and, well… you won’t make it home at all.”
Annalee felt the familiar clarity settle over her and willed herself to stay calm. Her brothers had taught her about the calm enveloping them when violence moved from possibility to certainty. Her hand was steady as she drew the pistol, the movement smooth as slicing pie.
The first shot took the older man in the shoulder, spinning him in a half circle. Before his partner could do more than widen his eyes, Annalee’s second bullet found his gun hand. The weapon clattered to the floor as he howled, the sound more surprise than pain.
Several things happened at once. A woman close to the outlaws fainted, her heavy skirts whooshing as she collapsed. A child began to cry with the mechanical persistence of a wind-up toy. The older man tried to raise his gun with his good arm, but shock made him slow and clumsy.
Annalee’s voice cut through the chaos with a gentle ferocity, capturing everyone’s attention. “I wouldn’t.” The words carried all the authority of the Beckett name, backed by the unwavering aim of her pistol. “The next shot won’t be nearly so courteous.”
Boots thundered on the platform outside.
Law enforcement arrived with their usual impeccable timing.
A young deputy burst through the door, his badge catching the lamplight.
He took in the scene with visible confusion as his gaze spanned the small space.
Two grown men were disabled, and a slim woman in eastern clothing held them at gunpoint with the steady hand of a professional.
“Ma’am,” he managed, his gaze locking on hers. “I… we heard shots.”
“These gentlemen,” Annalee said, her tone suggesting she was discussing unexpected dinner guests rather than aspiring train robbers, “seemed to have misunderstood the nature of civil society. I felt obliged to correct their misconception.”
The deputy’s face flashed with confusion before transforming to grateful admiration. “That’s mighty fine shooting, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Deputy.” Annalee carefully returned her pistol to its hiding place, smoothing her skirt and jacket with the same attention she once gave to arranging flowers.
“Though I do hope you’ll be quick about removing them.
They’re bleeding on the carpet, and I expect the porter won’t appreciate that at all. ”
Other lawmen poured in, securing the wounded robbers with deft efficiency before escorting them down the steps and onto the platform.
The passengers stared at Annalee with a range of expressions ranging from awe to scandalized disapproval.
She ignored them all, returning to her seat with the same grace she’d employed at social gatherings.
The oil lamps continued their gentle dance, casting soft light on the newspaper pages still visible on her seat.
Outside, snow fell on the Bismarck platform, covering blood and boot prints with equal indifference.
Annalee lifted her teacup, now gone cold, and took a delicate sip.
The cup bore a hairline crack she hadn’t noticed earlier, reminiscent of the various cultures out West. Beautiful, useful, but always on the verge of splitting along its finest lines.