Page 4 of Storm in Montana (Montana Becketts, Wild Spirit Ranch #3)

The Starlight Saloon’s wooden floorboards groaned beneath Brodie’s boots as he turned toward the brewing trouble from his position at the far end of the bar.

Two ranch hands had been trading insults for the past hour at a table near the back, their voices growing louder with each shot of whiskey.

He didn’t smell the thick tobacco smoke or sharp tang of spilled beer as he studied their behavior.

Brodie’s fingers brushed the worn leather of his holster, a habit born from his time wearing the badge. He didn’t need to draw. Not yet. Still, the familiar weight of the revolver brought a measure of calm to his movements as he watched the scene unfold.

“You calling me a liar?” The bigger of the two men slammed his glass down hard enough to splash amber liquid across the scarred tabletop. His companion, a weather-beaten fellow with a week’s worth of stubble, leaned in close enough their breath mingled.

“That’s what I said, didn’t I?” the stubbled man drawled.

The first punch came fast. A wild haymaker connected with a meaty thud from the larger man. Chairs scraped back across the floor as nearby patrons scrambled to clear space. A stool toppled, the crack of wood against wood sharp in the sudden quiet.

“Enough now!” Brodie’s voice cut through the commotion. He moved with deliberate grace, crossing the space in four long strides. His hand caught the larger man’s arm mid swing, redirecting the force harmlessly aside.

“Let go, Sheriff,” the man growled, trying to wrench free. “This ain’t your business.”

“Everything in Mystic is my business.” Brodie maintained his grip, applying enough pressure to make his point. “Especially when it threatens to tear up Doyle’s establishment.”

Behind the bar, the owner’s mouth twitched in what might have been appreciation. The gathered crowd pressed closer, hungry for entertainment but maintaining a respectful distance from the sheriff’s reach.

“He started it,” the stubbled man protested, dabbing at a split lip. “Called me a cattle thief.”

“And I’ll say it again,” the bigger man spat. “Three of my best steers gone missing last week. Saw tracks leading straight to your property line.”

Brodie’s grip tightened fractionally. “Both of you, shut it. Whatever disagreement you’ve got, you’ll settle it proper, through me, through the law. Not with your fists in the middle of the Starlight.”

The tension stretched, neither man willing to be the first to back down.

Brodie felt the larger man’s muscles bunch under his grip, preparing for another swing.

Without changing his expression, he shifted his weight and twisted the man’s arm a little more, sending a shock of discomfort up to the shoulder.

“Think real careful about your next move,” Brodie said softly. “You want to spend the night in my jail? Because that’s where this ends if you don’t simmer down.”

Something in his tone, or maybe the steady pressure on the arm, got through. The bigger man’s shoulders slumped slightly, the fight draining out of him like water from a broken barrel.

“No, sir, Sheriff. We’re done here.”

“Good choice.” Brodie released his grip but didn’t step back. “Now, you’re both going to leave separately and deal with your stock problems outside. Clear?”

Both men nodded, avoiding eye contact. The crowd began to disperse, disappointed at the lack of blood but knowing better than to voice any complaints. Brodie watched as the two antagonists left the bar, then moved to help right the fallen stool.

The oil lamp’s flame wavered as Brodie settled onto his chair at the jail. Stacks of wanted posters lay before him, their edges curled and yellow with age.

The office walls pressed around him, bare except for a gun rack and a map of the territory that had seen better days. A tin cup of cold coffee sat forgotten at his elbow, rings of brown staining the inside where it had been refilled and abandoned throughout the day.

Brodie spread the first batch of posters across the scarred desktop, his fingers tracing the crude sketches and block letters that promised rewards for men whose crimes had stained the territory red.

Some faces he recognized, outlaws who’d been playing cat and mouse with the law for years.

Others were new to him, young guns trying to make names for themselves through violence and theft.

The lamp’s glow caught the sharp angles of his face as he lifted another poster, this one newer than the rest. His throat tightened at the familiar features staring back at him.

“Not this miscreant again,” he muttered, sliding the sheet aside.

As he rifled through the other posters, his gaze kept returning to it, drawn by memories he’d rather forget.

The man in the sketch had once sat across from him at Sunday dinner, had helped bring in cattle during the worst winter storms. Now he was wanted for murder in three territories.

Brodie’s fingers drummed against the desk as he worked through the remaining posters. Each face told its own story of greed, desperation, or simple meanness.

A floorboard creaked somewhere in the building, and his hand instinctively moved toward his holster before he caught himself. The evening had turned to night while he worked, the darkness outside his window absolute except for the distant glow of the Starlight’s lamps.

He returned to the poster he’d set aside, studying it with renewed focus. The reward offered was substantial. Five hundred dollars, dead or alive. The charges listed included not just murder but cattle rustling on a scale, suggesting a great deal of knowledge and organization.

Brodie reached for his coffee, grimaced at the cold bitterness, but drank it anyway.

His mind worked through the implications, connecting dots that had seemed random before.

Most of the missing cattle were reported at ranches between Mystic and Bozeman.

Could the rustlers be moving closer to the ranches surrounding his town?

He arranged the posters in a neat pile but left one on top. Something about the man’s eyes in the sketch tugged at him. The artist had captured a coldness Brodie remembered all too well. It was the look of someone who’d crossed a line and found they liked the other side better.

The silence in the office grew heavier, broken only by the soft sputter of the lamp’s flame.

Brodie’s chair creaked as he leaned back, his gaze fixed on the dark rectangle of the window.

He’d learned to trust his instincts over the years, and right now, those instincts were screaming something more than small-time rustling was going on.

Brodie had seen enough in his years wearing the badge to know sometimes trouble announced itself with a whisper rather than a shout.

Tonight, in the quiet of his office, he could hear the whisper clear as a gunshot.

Wind-driven snow cut across the plains, forcing Brodie to turn his face away from its bite. Beside him, Tripp Lassiter sat tall in his saddle, his shoulders set against the cold as they made their way toward Iron Angel Ranch.

The vast expanse of white stretched to the horizon, broken only by the dark shapes of scattered pine stands and the occasional rocky outcrop. Their horses’ hooves punched through the crusty surface of the snow, each step accompanied by a sharp crack of ice.

“Forty head this week alone,” Tripp said, his words forming clouds in the frozen air. “Good stock, ready for market in the spring.” His mount, Titan, tossed his head as if in agreement, the Appaloosa’s breath streaming from his nostrils.

Brodie adjusted his collar against the wind. “Same as the others?”

Tripp nodded, his jaw tight. “They know what they’re doing, whoever they are. Taking the animals that’ll bring the highest price at market.”

They rode in silence for a while, each man lost in his thoughts. The sky hung low and heavy above them, pregnant with the promise of more snow. Brodie’s mind wandered back to the wanted posters he’d studied the night before, particularly the one with the sketch of a man from his past.

Tripp reined to an abrupt stop, causing Brodie’s horse to snort in surprise.

“There,” he said, pointing to a depression in the snow ahead. “Fresh tracks.”

They dismounted and approached the trail. Brodie knelt, brushing away loose powder to reveal the clear impression beneath. “Cattle, heading west. Can’t be more than a few hours old.”

“Look at this.” Tripp had moved a few yards away, his expression troubled as he studied another set of prints. “Wolf tracks. Big ones.”

Brodie joined him, frowning at the marks in the snow. They were wolf tracks, right enough.

“Never seen a wolf follow cattle in daylight,” Tripp muttered. “Not in this territory.”

“This pack isn’t following the cattle.” Brodie moved forward to study more of the tracks. “The pack is chasing the cattle.”

“That’s impossible. Wolves kill and eat cattle. They don’t herd them.”

“I’m just telling you what the tracks show, Tripp.”

Their eyes met, and Brodie saw his own unease reflected in Tripp’s face. They’d both grown up in Mystic, had tracked every kind of animal living in the region.

“What do you make of it? Ever heard of wolves herding cattle?” Tripp asked.

Brodie glanced around and shook his head. “Never.”

They mounted up and followed the overlapping tracks for another hundred yards where they disappeared into a grove of snow-laden pines. The wind had picked up, carrying with it the first flakes of fresh snow. Soon, all signs would be obliterated.

“My father used to tell stories.” Tripp’s voice was barely audible above the wind. “About men who could change their shape. Walk as wolves among the cattle.”

Brodie shot him a sharp look, but his friend’s expression remained deadly serious. “You believe in fairy tales now?”

“I believe in what I see.” Tripp gestured at the tracks. “And what I see here isn’t natural.”

A sound carried across the snow. It wasn’t quite a howl, but not quite a cry. Both men turned toward it, hands moving instinctively to their weapons.

The horses shifted and danced around, picking up their riders’ tension. Within a few minutes, the snowstorm intensified, almost blinding them. Brodie’s hand tightened on his revolver as he squinted into the growing storm.

“Tripp,” Brodie shouted over the howling wind. “We’d best turn back.”

“Not yet.”

Brodie watched as Tripp continued forward. Having no choice, he followed, hoping his friend could see better in the growing storm than he could. It wasn’t long before he reined up alongside Tripp, who’d dismounted to study more tracks.

“What do you see?”

“Something real strange. Cattle and wolf tracks combined. Only now, there are horse tracks. Almost as if the wolves are pushing the cattle toward riders.” Standing, he swung up into the saddle and reined his horse around to look at Brodie.

“I know what I’m seeing but can’t quite reconcile with what I know about wolves, horses, and men. ”

Brodie looked past him to the tracks already fading with the new snow. No one would believe them, he thought as they headed back. Then he paused, remembering something when he was a boy, and knew the exact person who could provide some answers.