Page 17 of Storm in Montana (Montana Becketts, Wild Spirit Ranch #3)

The last rays of sunlight filtered through the curtains of Faith’s front room as she sat in her favorite chair, sewing blocks for a quilt.

Annalee sat a few feet away, her sock-covered feet propped on an ottoman, relating the latest ranch gossip with animated gestures.

The peaceful scene held no warning of what was about to shatter it.

“You should have seen Elijah’s face when the mare kicked over the water trough.” Annalee chuckled. “He turned as red as a—”

The sharp crack of gunfire split the air.

Faith’s hands clenched around the piece of cotton material. The sound echoed off the walls, followed by another shot, then another. Each report seemed to punch through the evening quiet with increasing urgency.

Annalee was on her feet before the echo of the first shot faded. Her body moved with the fluid grace of someone who had spent a lifetime responding to danger. She crossed to the entryway, her eyes fixed on Joshua’s spare gunbelt hanging on its designated peg.

“Those shots came from the middle of town,” she said, her voice steady as she wrapped the leather around her waist. The weight of the holstered revolver settled against her hip. “Near the Starlight, I’d wager.”

Faith rose from her chair, squares of fabric floating to the floor around her feet. Her eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed with resolve. “Josh and Brodie were headed there after the council meeting.”

“I know.” Annalee checked the cylinder of the revolver, counting six bullets as her pulse hammered in her throat. The familiar motions grounded her, kept the fear at bay. Not fear for herself—fear for her brother and Brodie.

Faith stepped closer, her slender frame taut with determination. “We’re going together.”

It wasn’t a question. Faith had grown up in Mystic, had known the Becketts since childhood. She understood what it meant to stand together when trouble came calling. The newspaper editor’s daughter had steel in her spine, even if most folks only saw the gracious smile and questioning mind.

“Are you sure? You don’t have to come with me.” Annalee already knew the answer.

“Joshua’s out there. So is Brodie.” Faith moved to the door, grabbing the loaded shotgun leaning against the wall.

Another volley of shots erupted. The sound carried clearly through the evening air, bringing with it the acrid scent of gunpowder. Shouts followed, indistinct voices raised in anger or alarm.

“Stay behind me,” Annalee said, touching the revolver. “If there’s trouble—”

“I know how to handle trouble.” Faith’s voice carried the same quiet strength she brought to running the newspaper. “I’ve lived in this town my whole life.”

Annalee nodded, a hint of pride warming her chest. This was why Joshua had fallen for Faith. It wasn’t just her beauty or her wit, though she had plenty of both. It was her core of pure grit, wrapped in grace and intelligence.

The two women shared a look of understanding. They were different in many ways, yet in this moment, they were two women ready to stand against whatever waited in town.

“Then let’s go see what kind of mess Brodie and Josh have gotten themselves into.

” Annalee eased the door open, scanning the street before stepping onto the porch.

The evening air carried more than gun smoke.

Raised voices, the sound of breaking glass, and the thunder of running feet on wooden boardwalks signaled a serious threat.

Annalee started down the steps, her boots silent on the worn wood.

The weight of the gunbelt reminded her of countless days riding fence with her brothers, of target practice behind the barn, of learning to be ready for whatever the frontier might throw at them.

She was still the same girl who could outshoot most men and outride the rest.

The sound of splintering wood echoed from the direction of the Starlight, followed by more shouts. Annalee picked up her pace, Faith matching her stride for stride.

The saloon churned with violence, a mass of people moving like waves in a storm.

Joshua crouched behind an overturned table, splinters of wood exploding near his head as another bullet found its mark.

Across the room, Brodie used a thick support post for cover, his sheriff’s badge catching the lamplight with each movement.

Glass shattered somewhere behind the bar, followed by Doyle Shaw’s booming voice. “Not the good whiskey—” His words vanished beneath another explosion of gunfire.

Joshua pressed his shoulder against the table, feeling each impact vibrate through the wood. The air hung thick with gun smoke and spilled whiskey, making every breath taste of powder and spirits.

“Should have known better than to come here tonight,” Joshua muttered, checking his ammunition. Four shots left. He’d have to make them count.

Brodie’s voice cut through the chaos. “Everyone, stand down! This is your last warning!”

A bullet answered him, tearing a chunk from the post he sheltered behind. Joshua watched his friend’s face tighten with frustration. They’d walked into the middle of a powder keg.

The sharp report of another shot rang out, followed by Brodie’s grunt of pain. Joshua’s heart lurched as he saw his friend clutch his arm.

“Brodie!” Joshua started to rise, only to duck back as more bullets whizzed past. He couldn’t reach the sheriff without crossing the open floor.

The saloon doors burst open, wood cracking against wall. Deputy Nash Beaumont filled the doorway, his auburn hair wild around his face, golden-brown eyes taking in the scene. His voice boomed through the room like summer thunder.

“Everyone freeze! Weapons down, hands where I can see them!”

The authority in his tone cut through the chaos. Several men lowered their guns, though tension still crackled through the air like lightning before a strike. Nash moved into the room, his own revolver steady in his grip.

“I said weapons down!” His gaze swept the room, marking each armed man. “Unless you’re eager to spend the night in a cell. Or a pine box.”

Doyle Shaw emerged from behind the bar, his broad shoulders squared. A scatter gun rested in his hands, its twin barrels pointing upward. “Listen to the deputy, boys. I’ve already lost enough good liquor tonight.”

The burly bartender stepped up beside him, armed with a length of oak as thick as a man’s arm. The pair of them commanded attention, their presence adding weight to Nash’s words.

Slowly, the atmosphere shifted. Guns lowered. Men stepped away from cover, hands raised. The violence drained from the air like water from a broken barrel, leaving behind a heavy residue of fear and shame.

Joshua reached Brodie, who still leaned against the post. His face had gone pale, though his eyes remained sharp and alert.

“Just a graze,” Brodie said through clenched teeth. “Probably won’t even need to be stitched up.”

“You always say that.” Joshua tore a strip from his own sleeve, wrapping it around his friend’s arm.

Nash moved through the room, collecting weapons and names with methodical precision. “Anyone care to explain how this started?”

Silence answered him. The kind of silence restrained by guilt and foolishness and too much whiskey.

Doyle lowered his scatter gun, disgust plain on his face. “Started with accusations over a poker hand. Ended with my place shot to pieces and good whiskey wasted.” He kicked a broken bottle, sending glass skittering across the floor. “Someone’s paying for damages before they leave.”

The front doors opened again, bringing a breath of evening air to clear away some of the gun smoke. Joshua looked up to see Faith and Annalee in the doorway, the latter with his spare gun belt secured around her waist. Their eyes widened at the destruction, then locked onto him and Brodie.

The sheriff straightened, trying to hide his wound, though the stain on his clothes gave him away. Joshua saw something flicker across Brodie’s face as he met Annalee’s gaze. Something more painful than the bullet graze on his arm.

Annalee’s heart stopped when she saw Brodie’s sleeve. Her feet carried her forward before her mind could catch up. She reached for his arm with trembling fingers, her chest tight.

“Let me see.” Her voice came out sharper than intended, anger masking the fear underneath. She pulled away the makeshift bandage Joshua had applied, ignoring Brodie’s sharp intake of breath.

“It’s nothing,” Brodie said, though his complexion had taken on the color of old parchment. “Just a—”

“If you say ‘just a scratch,’ I swear I’ll shoot you myself.” Annalee’s penetrating gaze studied the wound. The bullet had carved a deep furrow through the muscle of his upper arm. Not life-threatening, perhaps, yet the sight of his torn flesh made her stomach clench.

Faith appeared at her shoulder, pressing a clean cloth into her hands. “I always carry extra handkerchiefs. Newspaper ink gets everywhere.”

Annalee nodded her thanks, using the cloth to clean away some of the blood. Each touch seemed to spark between them, making her fingers tingle. She refused to look at Brodie’s face, focusing instead on her task. If she met his eyes now…

“Someone get Doc Wainwright,” she called out, proud of how steady her voice remained.

“Already sent for him,” Nash replied from across the room, where he supervised the gathering of weapons and taking of names.

Brodie’s arm tensed under her touch. “I don’t need—”

“You don’t get a vote.” Annalee finally looked up, meeting his green eyes. The defiance there matched her own, speaking of stubborn pride and misplaced courage. “You got shot, Sheriff. Doctor’s orders.”

His lips twitched, almost forming a smile. “Since when are you a doctor?”

“Since you’re too bullheaded to take care of yourself.” The words came out softer than she meant them to, heavy with years of watching him rush into danger. How many times had she seen him ride out to face trouble? Too many to count.

Something shifted in his expression. Recognition, perhaps, of the fear behind her anger. His free hand moved, fingers brushing her wrist where she held the cloth against his wound. The touch sent a shock through her veins.

“Annie…” His voice dropped low, meant only for her ears. The childhood nickname struck her heart like another bullet.

She pulled away, suddenly aware of the crowded room, of her brother watching them with knowing eyes. “Hold this in place. Press firm.” Her hands shook as she stepped back.

The air between them grew thick with unspoken words. Years of them, piled up like cordwood, waiting for a spark. She saw the question in his eyes. The one he’d never asked. Why do you care so much?

Because I’ve loved you since I was seventeen, she thought. Because you’re the only man who’s ever made me feel both strong and fragile at once.

“You could have been killed,” she said instead, the words falling between them like stones in still water.

“It’s my job.” His voice carried a defensive edge.

“Your job.” Annalee’s laugh held no humor. “Always your job. Always rushing in, playing the hero, never thinking about—” She cut herself off before she exposed too much.

About me, her heart finished.

Brodie straightened, his height forcing her to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact.

The lamplight caught the planes of his face, shadowing the stubble along his jaw, highlighting the tension in his features.

This time, she saw something crack in his carefully maintained facade.

A glimpse of the man behind the badge, the one who might feel the same fear she did.

“Annalee.” The way he said her name, soft, almost reverent, made her breath catch. “I never meant to—”

The saloon doors swung open, admitting Doc Wainwright with his medical bag. The moment shattered like a mirror, leaving Annalee with only fragments of what might have been said.

She stepped back, making room for the doctor, yet her eyes remained locked with Brodie’s. In them, she read the promise of an unfinished conversation, of truths too long buried and feelings too long denied.

The question was, would either of them be brave enough to be honest with the other?