Page 2 of Storm in Montana (Montana Becketts, Wild Spirit Ranch #3)
Snow, thick as fog and sharp as needles, stung Brodie Gaines’s face as he guided his horse through the narrow valley.
The wind howled between the steep walls, driving the icy flakes sideways, obscuring everything beyond a few yards ahead.
His fingers had long since gone numb inside his leather gloves, but a different kind of cold settled in his gut.
It was the familiar chill of pursuit from tracking men who’d crossed the wrong side of the law.
Behind him, the posse moved in tight formation through the deepening drifts, their horses’ hooves breaking through the crusty surface with each labored step.
Six men, all veterans of previous manhunts, though none had tracked quarry through weather this fierce.
Their heavy coats were crusted with layers of snow, their hat brims pulled low against the relentless storm.
“Brodie,” called Cody Beckett, the sheriff’s closest friend, from somewhere in the white chaos behind him. “Trail’s getting harder to follow.”
Brodie reined his mount to a stop, studying the barely visible tracks ahead.
The rustlers had pushed their stolen cattle hard through this weather, leaving a confused mess of partial hoof prints and trampled snow.
But there was no mistaking the direction.
The valley narrowed ahead, hemmed in by sheer rock walls.
Their quarry had chosen poorly, trapping themselves in what would become a dead end.
“They’re running out of options,” Brodie called back, his voice nearly lost in the wind. “Keep formation. The rustlers will find they’ve driven the herd into a canyon without an escape.”
The next day became a grinding war of attrition.
The rustlers, cornered but desperate, had found defensible positions among the rocks at the valley’s end.
Brodie’s men took what cover they could find, trading occasional shots across the snow-filled space between them.
The cattle, confused and half frozen, huddled in whatever shelter they could find from the endless storm.
Sleep came in short, fitful bursts. Every man knew relaxing too much could mean death.
The cold was as much an enemy as the rustlers, creeping into bones and joints until fingers could barely work rifle actions.
They melted snow for water and chewed on jerky, watching their breath freeze in the air.
On the morning of the second day, something changed. Brodie sensed it before he saw anything. There was a shift in the tension, similar to the moment before a lightning strike. The storm had begun to ease, and with newfound clarity, the rustlers made their move.
They came in a rush, spurring their horses through the snow, firing wildly as they tried to break past the posse’s position.
Brodie’s rifle came up smoothly, his body responding with the automatic precision born of long practice.
The first shot caught one rustler high in the chest, throwing him backward off his horse. The valley erupted in gunfire.
The narrow space became hell on earth. Horses screamed, and men shouted. Powder smoke hung in the cold air, mixing with the remaining snowfall. Brodie lost count of how many times he reloaded, working the lever of his rifle with fingers threatening to betray him at any moment.
When it was over, three rustlers lay still in the bloodstained snow. A fourth staggered past their line in the chaos, leaving a trail of red droplets on the fresh powder. The remaining two threw down their weapons, hands raised in surrender as Brodie’s deputies moved in with rope.
Through the settling gun smoke, Brodie saw Cody and Joshua Beckett already moving to gather the scattered cattle. The brothers worked with the efficiency of men born to the task, their horses cutting through the drifts to turn the frightened animals back toward safer ground.
“Bind them tight,” Brodie ordered as his deputies secured the prisoners. “Double-check those knots. We’ve come too far to lose them now.”
As darkness fell, they made camp in the shelter of an overhanging rock face. The prisoners sat huddled together, their hands bound behind them, while the deputies took turns standing watch. In the distance, coyotes began their nightly chorus, their yips and howls echoing off the valley walls.
Brodie stayed awake long after the others had settled into their bedrolls. He stared into the fire they’d built to ward off the chill, listening to the wind’s mournful song through the rocks.
Tomorrow, Cody and Joshua would take the herd back to their ranch while Brodie and his men would head for Mystic with their prisoners.
Tonight was for vigilance. The cold had settled deep into his bones, but Brodie welcomed it.
The biting weather kept him sharp, kept him thinking about what needed to be done next rather than dwelling on the day’s violence.
The coyotes called again, closer now, and Brodie checked his rifle one more time. It would be a long night. He’d seen plenty of those in his life. Part of wearing the badge was accepting some nights were meant for staying awake, watching the darkness, and waiting for dawn.
Mystic didn’t live up to its name when Brodie and his men rode into town the next day. The streets had turned to soup, a mix of half-melted snow and mud sucked at boots and wagon wheels.
The deputies delivered their grim cargo to the undertaker with minimal ceremony.
The three bodies had already been stripped of anything valuable for safekeeping by Brodie until he had a chance to locate their next of kin.
The three living prisoners went into the jail’s sole cell without resistance, their eyes vacant and clothes crusted with mud.
The town stirred around them, smoke rising from chimneys into a sky the color of old pewter.
Shopkeepers scraped at the boardwalk with dull-edged shovels, piling ice and mud into dirty heaps that would melt and refreeze until spring.
The sound of their scraping followed Brodie as he made his way to his office, his body moving with the effort of a man who hadn’t slept in days.
Inside, the stove let out a welcomed warmth, indicating someone had continued to stoke the stove while he was away.
Brodie walked to the tin basin filled with tepid water.
He stripped off his gloves, revealing hands similar to someone older, someone who’d spent too long in the cold.
The water stung as he plunged them in, but he welcomed the pain. It meant he could still feel something.
Washing with methodical intensity, he watched the water turn gray with the grime of the trail.
His face in the small mirror above the basin was a stranger’s.
Several days of beard, shadows under his eyes mirroring the look of bruises, and a new line or two around his mouth he didn’t remember earning.
The badge on his chest caught what little light made it through the grimy window, a dull gleam reminding him why he’d been out in the blistering storm in the first place.
His heavy coat shed water like a duck’s back when he shook it, spattering drops across the wooden floor. Someone would need to mop it up later. Right now, Brodie couldn’t bring himself to care.
The distant sound of the train whistle reminded him he had another duty to perform. Sighing, he slipped on his gloves. The heavy coat settled across his shoulders with familiar weight as he stepped back out into the muck of Mystic’s main street.
The walk to the railroad depot took longer than it should have.
His boots found every deep spot in the churned-up mud, and his tired legs protested each step.
Still, something about the sound of an approaching train pulled at him, even after all these years of wearing the badge.
Each new arrival brought possibilities. Old friends returning, people new to Mystic, some who’d cause trouble, and all of them his responsibility until they proved otherwise.
The whistle cut through the gray afternoon sharp as a knife.
Brodie straightened, adjusting his hat and collar against the lingering cold.
His badge might be hidden under his coat, but he carried its authority in every movement.
The depot platform creaked under his boots as he took up his usual position, watching the train ease into the station with a hiss of steam and the squeal of brakes.
Four passengers emerged from the westbound train, each moving with the uncertain steps of people finding their legs after long hours of sitting still.
Their clothes marked them as city folk, too fine for Mystic’s mud and too new to have seen much weather.
They carried their bags as if they contained precious things, keeping them above the platform’s wet boards.
Brodie nodded to each in turn, touching the brim of his hat in a gesture as natural as breathing.
He caught details automatically, such as a woman’s ring catching weak sunlight, a man’s watch chain indicating eastern money, and the way another passenger’s coat hung oddly on the right side where it might conceal a weapon.
But nothing raised immediate alarm, and he let his attention drift to the baggage being unloaded behind them.
The oil lamps cast pools of uncertain light across the platform, their flames fluttering in the cold wind sweeping down from the mountains.
Brodie watched as the porters continued their work, their movements creating a strange dance of shadows on the wet boards.
More trunks appeared from the baggage car, each one landing with a solid thunk that spoke of full contents.
The workers moved with the careful precision of men walking on ice, their boots sliding on the snow packed down by countless feet.
Steam still rose from the locomotive’s stack, creating ghost-like shapes that twisted away into the darkening sky.
The sound of wood scraping against wood echoed across the platform as two final trunks were positioned near the edge.
Something about those trunks caught Brodie’s attention.
Perhaps the quality of their leather or the way their brass corners caught the lamplight made him study them.
They weren’t the usual traveling cases passing through Mystic.
These spoke of money, of eastern cities where people dressed for supper and danced in ballrooms he’d only heard about.
He’d started to turn away, his tired mind already shifting toward thoughts of his office’s warmth, when that whisper of fabric stopped him.
The sound was so subtle it might have been imagination, but years of wearing a badge had taught Brodie to trust his instincts.
He turned back, his body moving before his mind had fully processed why.
The figure standing near the trunks was partially hidden by shadow, but something about the way she held herself sent a jolt of recognition through his exhausted brain.
She wore a traveling dress that must have been the height of fashion somewhere far from Mystic’s mud and snow.
Dark fabric fell in elegant lines, and a hat perched at exactly the angle ladies’ magazines insisted was proper.
But it wasn’t the clothes making Brodie’s breath catch in his throat.
It was the way she stood with one hip canted slightly, head tilted in a gesture he’d seen a thousand times across dinner tables and church pews and summer picnics.
He shook his head and turned toward the jail, his boots sinking into the mud.
But something bothered him. He turned back and felt the world shift beneath his feet.
The lady waiting by the trunks wasn’t some Eastern stranger passing through on her way to somewhere more civilized.
The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow, driving the exhaustion from his mind and replacing it with a clarity he hadn’t felt since before the storm.
Annalee Beckett stood in the lamplight, watching him with eyes filled with curiosity and not a small amount of amusement.
She’d grown more beautiful since he’d last seen her, if such a thing was possible.
The girl he’d known had become a woman during her time in Philadelphia, and the knowledge settled in his chest, a weight he hadn’t expected to carry.
She made no move to speak, and he found himself frozen between one step and the next, caught in an odd moment of indecision.
The distant sound of the locomotive’s steam release broke the silence, but neither of them moved.
They stood like actors waiting for their cues in some play neither had rehearsed, while around them Mystic continued its late afternoon routine, oblivious to the drama unfolding on its depot platform.
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of snow and wood smoke and the promise of another storm.
It caught at Annalee’s skirts, creating the same whisper of fabric that first caught Brodie’s attention.
He watched her hand move to smooth the material, a gesture so familiar it made his chest ache.
How many times had he seen her make the same movement while standing in her family’s house or walking down Mystic’s main street?
The oil lamps flickered, making shadows dance across her face.
In the uncertain light, she could have been the same girl he’d watched grow up, the one who’d ridden as well as any of her brothers and laughed at jokes that would have scandalized the proper ladies of Mystic.
Studying her, it was obvious she wasn’t the same girl anymore, and he wasn’t the same man as when she left Mystic a year ago.
Wearing the badge and carrying responsibilities associated with it had day by day changed him into a man more distrustful, more stoic, and more questioning than when he’d stood on the platform watching the eastbound train take Annalee away from Mystic.
They stood in awkward calm while the last of the day’s light faded from the sky, neither willing to be the first to break the growing silence. Around them, Mystic settled into evening, unaware something significant had shifted in the space between one heartbeat and the next.