Page 5 of Storm in Montana (Montana Becketts, Wild Spirit Ranch #3)
The kitchen windows rattled, each gust of wind testing their resolve.
Annalee’s knife scraped against potato skin in steady strokes, though her eyes drifted to the glass more often than the spud in her hands.
Beyond the frosted panes, Montana’s winter fury colored the world in shades of white and shades of gray, while inside, the warmth of the cookstove did little to ease the chill of worry in her chest.
Her mother worked the bread dough with practiced movements, each push and fold releasing the scent of yeast into the air.
Flour dusted Naomi’s apron, settling into the creases of the fabric.
The familiar sight should have been comforting.
Today, it only emphasized the absence of those who should have already been gathered around the supper table, warming their hands with coffee cups and sharing tales of their day’s work.
“Do you think they’ll be all right?” Annalee’s voice cracked on the last word, betraying the fear she’d been trying to swallow down.
Naomi’s hands stilled for a moment, then resumed their steady kneading. “Your brothers were raised in this wilderness, same as you. They know how to handle themselves.” Her words carried the weight of experience, of years spent sending men she loved out into the teeth of Montana storms.
Annalee set down another peeled potato, her fingers trembling as they released it. The pale flesh showed marks where she’d gripped too tight, bruising the surface. “Maybe we should send someone after them.”
“And who would that be?” Naomi’s question held no mockery, only the practical tone of a woman who’d learned long ago worry was a luxury they couldn’t afford. She wiped her hands on her apron and crossed to the window, resting her palm against the cold glass.
“I won’t send Parker alone, and Lilian—” She glanced toward the parlor where her youngest daughter sat with Jolene, Grayson’s wife, both women occupied with mending. “I say we finish in here and set the table.”
The wind howled its agreement, throwing a handful of snow against the glass like a child’s tantrum. The windows shook with vehemence, and Annalee tried to tap down the tide of worry settling in her chest.
She weighed Naomi’s words, trusting they came from a place of wisdom, yet fear still gnawed at her insides.
The wilderness was unforgiving, and sometimes knowing how to handle it wasn’t enough.
At her mother’s silent insistence, she picked up another potato, forcing herself to focus on the simple task before her.
She set the edge of the knife to its surface, her fingers working to find a rhythm and her mind racing far away.
Freshly fallen snow had erased all signs of the men’s departure, but still, she pictured them riding out toward the foothills, the sky already threatening above their heads.
Cody, his hard-set jaw belying the deeper pain he’d carried since losing his wife and child, urgency driving him where others might turn back.
She bit her lip at the thought of him, relentless in his pursuit of what needed doing, regardless of the weather.
The rough skin of the potato beneath her fingers grounded her, even as she thought of her older brother, Elijah, solid as the mountains themselves, pushing them onward with quiet resolve. He would say little, his commands brief and to the point, but Annalee knew his mind would be on the stock.
Nathan, too, riding alongside them, his grin at odds with the grimness of the weather, not fooling anyone who knew him. She imagined him laughing the storm away, though even Nathan had looked uneasy when he’d set out with them that morning.
Annalee’s voice quivered with the same trepidation she’d felt as they’d left. “And who says we can’t be the ones to go after them?”
Naomi turned from the window, her expression softening at her daughter’s earnest plea. She moved back to the worktable and rested her hands on Annalee’s shoulders, steadying her as the younger woman’s hands continued to shake.
“If it’s their time, there’s nothing anyone can do about it. And if it’s not, they’ll be back before you’ve finished those potatoes.”
“It’s hard to just wait,” she murmured. Her mother’s confidence did little to fill the void in their home or in Annalee’s heart.
“Your father used to say a storm like this was God’s way of reminding us we’re not in charge,” Naomi said, returning to her bread. “Didn’t stop him from riding out in them, mind you, but he’d say it all the same.”
The mention of Millard Beckett brought a wan smile to Annalee’s face. “I remember. He’d come in looking like a snow-covered bear, stomping his boots and demanding coffee before he’d even shed his coat.”
“And tracking mud all over my clean floor,” Naomi added, but there was fondness in her voice. She punched down the dough with perhaps more force than necessary. “Your brothers have his spirit in them. All of you do.”
Annalee moved to the sink, dumping the peeled potatoes into a pot of water. The metal bucket by the pump was nearly empty. They’d need more water soon, but filling it would mean a trek to the well. She glanced at the window again, watching the snow swirl in patterns that seemed to mock her concern.
“I saw Brodie in town yesterday,” Annalee said. “He mentioned something about cattle going missing from the north pasture.”
Naomi’s hands paused again, this time longer. “Did he now? And I suppose he has nothing to do with why you’re wearing one of your best dresses while fixing supper?”
Heat crept up Annalee’s neck, and she busied herself with adjusting the pot on the stove. “It’s the first one I grabbed this morning.”
“Mmhmm.” Her mother’s knowing tone made Annalee flush deeper. “Well, since you mentioned it, I did hear talk about missing cattle. Not just from our land, either. The Lassiters lost a few head last week and the Hendersons before that.”
The wind threw itself against the house with renewed vigor, making the flames in the cookstove flutter. Annalee wrapped her arms around herself, the worry finding a new focus. “Rustlers?”
“In this weather?” Naomi shook her head. “Would have to be mighty desperate men to try moving cattle through a storm this bad.” She began shaping the dough into loaves, her movements precise and measured. “Though desperate men often do desperate things.”
They worked in silence for a while, the familiar rhythm of kitchen tasks offering what comfort it could.
Annalee set the table, taking extra care with each plate and utensil, as if the precision of their placement could somehow ensure the safe return of those they waited for.
The everyday articles seemed to take on new significance, which often happened during times of stress.
Several heavy plates had survived the journey west. The mismatched forks told the story of their growing family.
The chipped coffee cups held memories of countless conversations.
“I remember my first winter here.” Naomi slid bread pans out of the oven and onto racks, covering them with towels to hold the warmth.
“Growing up in Philadelphia, I’d never seen winters as bad as the ones here in Montana.
I thought surely we’d all freeze to death before spring.
” She straightened, brushing flour from her hands.
“But we didn’t. We learned, we adapted, we survived. Becketts are a hardy bunch.”
Annalee nodded, though her eyes strayed once more to the window.
The storm showed no signs of letting up, the wind’s voice rising and falling like a wolf’s howl.
In the parlor, she could hear Lilian and Jolene’s quiet conversation, punctuated by the occasional laugh.
The sound seemed at odds with the weather’s fury, yet somehow right.
Life continued despite the storm’s best efforts to halt it.
“They should have been back by now,” she said softly, more to herself than her mother.
Naomi crossed to her daughter’s side, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“They’ll come when they come. No use in worrying about it before then.
” She squeezed gently. “Now, help me get these vegetables ready. When they do return, they’ll be hungry as bears, and you know how your brothers get when supper’s late. ”
The familiar complaint brought a reluctant smile to Annalee’s face.
She picked up her knife again, returning to the simple task of preparing a meal for men who might or might not be there to eat it.
Outside, the storm raged on. Inside the kitchen, mother and daughter worked side by side, their quiet activities in defiance against the prowling of an imaginary wolf at their door.
The kitchen door’s hinges screamed a warning before the wind thrust it open, admitting three snow-laden figures whose shadows stretched across the wooden floor.
Behind them, outlined in the storm’s fury, Sheriff Brodie Gaines filled the doorframe with the solid presence of a man who’d seen trouble brewing on the horizon.
Annalee’s hands clutched her apron as Cody stomped snow from his boots, his expression as frozen as the crystals clinging to his coat.
Elijah followed, shouldering past his brother with the kind of graceless urgency speaking of too many hours in the saddle.
Nathan brought up the rear, his usually cheerful face drawn tight with something more than the biting cold.
“Land’s sake, close the door before you let all of Montana in!
” Naomi’s sharp command cut through the wind’s howl.
Brodie complied, pushing it shut with a decisive click, sealing away the storm’s fury, though its voice still muttered against the walls outside.
A moment later, Grayson came in the back door, brushing snow from his coat, making the others laugh.
Jolene emerged from the parlor, her arms cradling baby Cody as she made her way to Grayson’s side. Her husband’s eyes softened at her approach the way they always did, as if she were a lamp lighting up his personal darkness.