Page 7 of Storm in Montana (Montana Becketts, Wild Spirit Ranch #3)

Brodie’s eyes opened to unfamiliar shadows dancing across a pressed tin ceiling.

The foreign comfort of goose down and crisp linen sheets wrapped around him, a stark reminder he wasn’t in his sparse one bedroom house behind the jail in Mystic.

He lay still, listening to the wind whisper across windowpanes, trying to piece together how he’d ended up in the Beckett family home.

The memories filtered back through the haze of early morning.

The sudden storm and biting wind had driven him to seek shelter while returning from tracking cattle rustlers.

The Becketts had welcomed him without hesitation, though he’d noticed the flash in Annalee’s eyes when she’d seen him follow her brothers into the house.

He sat up, running a hand through his disheveled black hair.

The guest room spoke of hard-earned money and refined taste.

Carved mahogany furniture, a Prussian blue rug covering wide pine floorboards, and heavy damask curtains framing tall windows were a testament to Naomi Beckett’s Philadelphia roots.

His own home consisted of two rooms behind the jail, furnished with whatever pieces the previous sheriff had left behind.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet sinking into the plush rug.

His clothes lay neatly folded on a nearby chair.

Someone, probably Naomi, must have cleaned and pressed them while he slept.

At least, he hoped it had been Naomi. The thought of Annalee handling his things sent an unexpected jolt through his chest.

Brodie dressed with efficient movements, each button and fold a familiar ritual grounding him in the unfamiliar space. His gun belt hung on a brass hook by the door, the worn leather a comfort against the refined surroundings. He strapped it on, the weight settling naturally at his hip.

The mirror above the washstand reflected a face he barely recognized.

Rested, his green eyes were clear in the morning light.

He’d washed up before bed last night, using the porcelain basin and lavender soap that still scented the air.

The man in the mirror looked more like a gentleman than a sheriff.

Through the window, the morning sun caught a landscape covered in deep snow. The storm had passed, leaving behind a pristine blanket of white, stretching toward the distant mountains. His horse would be comfortable in the Becketts’ barn, probably better cared for than in his own modest stable.

Brodie gathered his coat and hat, taking a final look around the room.

The Becketts represented everything he’d never had or expected to in his future as a sheriff.

He’d chosen a different path, one of service and solitude.

Still, being here, surrounded by the warmth of family and home, stirred something he’d always considered beyond his reach.

The floorboards creaked under his boots as he made his way downstairs. Morning light streamed through tall windows, illuminating family portraits and carefully arranged furniture. The house breathed history and belonging, so different from his quarters in town.

The scent of coffee and fresh bread drew him toward the kitchen.

He paused at the threshold, struck by the domestic scene before him.

Annalee moved with grace between the cast iron stove and a well-worn worktable, her skirts swishing against the floor.

She wore a simple calico dress under a white apron, her hair caught up in a practical knot at the nape of her neck.

She turned at his approach, and Brodie’s chest tightened at the sight of her face in the morning light. She’d always been pretty, but something had shifted since her trip to Philadelphia. The girl he’d known had become a woman, one who carried herself with quiet confidence and undeniable appeal.

“Brodie, why don’t you join me for breakfast?” Her voice carried the same warmth it had since childhood, except now it held notes causing his pulse to quicken.

He hesitated, one hand still resting on the doorframe. The smart thing would be to decline, to maintain the careful distance he’d created while deciding if they might still have a future. But the kitchen glowed with welcome, and Annalee’s smile held no trace of the awkwardness he felt.

His boots tapped against the wooden floor as he stepped into the warmth of the kitchen, drawn forward by forces he wasn’t ready to address.

Steam rose from the blue porcelain coffee pot in elegant spirals as Annalee poured the dark liquid into delicate cups.

He set his hat on the back of a kitchen chair, the morning light catching the frost patterns on the window behind him.

The kitchen held the comfortable appeal of the heart of the home.

Ironware pots coated in blue enamel hung in gleaming rows, dried herbs dangled from ceiling beams, and a blue and white china clock ticked steadily on the wall.

“Sugar?” Annalee asked, holding silver tongs over a delicate bowl.

“Black,” Brodie replied, though she already knew his preference. This dance of politeness felt strange between them, a new formality where once there’d been easy friendship.

She slid his cup across the table, the porcelain making a soft sound against the wood. Their fingers didn’t touch, but Brodie felt the near miss like a physical thing. He wrapped his large hands around the delicate cup, letting the warmth seep into his palms.

Annalee settled across from him, her own cup cradled between her hands. She’d always taken her coffee with cream and sugar, a habit learned from her mother. The morning light caught the hints of gold in her hair, and Brodie forced himself to look away.

“The biscuits should be ready,” she said, rising to check the oven. The scent of baking bread intensified as she opened the door, reaching in with a cloth-wrapped hand to retrieve the tray. She slipped three onto a plate alongside a large portion of eggs.

“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” Brodie said, taking a sip of the delicious coffee.

“It’s no trouble.” She returned to the table, setting down their plates and placing the basket between them. “Besides, you’re the first breakfast company I’ve had in ages. My brothers are always out working before dawn, Mama is checking on the chickens, and the others are still asleep.”

The mention of her brothers shifted something in the air between them.

Brodie had grown up with the older Becketts, shared adventures and scrapes with the boys, while always aware of Annalee as their little sister.

Looking at her now, she wasn’t little anymore, and the way she gazed at him across the table had nothing to do with childhood memories.

They ate in companionable silence for a few moments, the biscuits still warm enough to melt the butter Annalee had set out.

“I need to ride to Gumption today,” he said, setting down his cup. “Check on some reports of trouble near the silver mine.”

Annalee’s eyes met his, clear and direct. “Sounds more interesting than another day of mending and household accounts.”

The invitation formed in his mind before he could think better of it. “How about riding with me today?”

He expected hesitation, maybe a polite deflection. Instead, Annalee nodded briskly, setting her fork down with a precise clatter. “Let’s go. The day is too fine to waste.”

The decisiveness in her voice surprised him. She stood, gathering their empty dishes with efficient movements.

“Give me ten minutes to change into riding clothes.” She was already moving toward the door. “I’ll meet you at the barn.”

Brodie watched her go, the empty kitchen suddenly holding too much space.

The domesticity of their shared breakfast lingered in the air, dangerous in its appeal.

He’d spent years maintaining careful boundaries between himself and Annalee Beckett.

One night under her family’s roof, and those boundaries felt as fragile as the frost patterns on the windowpanes.

He gathered his hat and coat, stepping out into the crisp morning air.

The barn waited across the yard, and beyond it, the open trail to Gumption.

A ride with Annalee at his side. He told himself it was neighborly courtesy, nothing more, and the warmth in his chest had nothing to do with coffee and fresh biscuits.

Frost crackled under their horses’ hooves as Brodie and Annalee mounted up in the clear winter morning. The storm had left behind a transformed landscape, each branch and fence post outlined in crystalline white, the familiar trail to Gumption rendered strange and new under its blanket of snow.

Annalee sat Cricket with the easy grace of someone born to the saddle, her split riding skirt arranged neatly across the mare’s flanks.

She’d changed into practical clothes, including a deep blue wool riding habit, leather gloves, and a matching hat secured against the wind.

The color brought out the light in her eyes, though Brodie tried not to notice.

They rode side by side where the trail allowed, their horses’ breath creating clouds in the crisp air. The silence between them felt comfortable, broken only by the crunch of snow and the occasional cry of a winter bird.

“I heard about the silver strike,” she said as they crossed a small stream, its waters running dark between banks of ice. “Papa always said there’d be trouble once people started finding silver or gold in these hills.”

Brodie nodded, guiding his horse around a fallen branch. “Your father was a wise man. Silver brings out the worst in people. Greed and desperation make men forget their better nature.”

“Similar to the missing cattle we spoke about at supper last night?” She turned in her saddle to face him, her expression sharp with interest.

He looked at her in surprise, as if she hadn’t been a part of the conversation. “The exact same.”

“I’m not tone deaf or invisible when you and my brothers talk ranching.”

The trail widened as they approached Gumption, allowing them to ride closer together. Brodie found himself watching Annalee’s profile, the determined set of her jaw reminding him she was very much her mother’s daughter.

“You’re hardly invisible,” he said, the words slipping out before he could catch them.

She glanced at him, something flickering in her eyes before she looked away. “Tell that to Brodie Gaines of two years ago, who couldn’t see past the pigtails and scraped knees.”

The comment hung in the air between them, loaded with unspoken meaning. Brodie adjusted his hat, buying time to frame a response that wouldn’t reveal too much. “People change.”

“Yes,” she agreed softly. “They do.”

Gumption appeared ahead of them, a collection of weather-beaten buildings huddled against the morning sky.

Unlike its more prosperous neighbor Mystic, Gumption had always clung to existence by its fingernails, surviving on the strength of its residents’ determination rather than any natural advantages.

The main street showed signs of the silver strike’s influence.

More people on the boardwalk, horses tied outside the saloon despite the early hour, an air of restless energy nonexistent a month ago.

They rode past the general store, where a cluster of men in mining clothes watched their passage with keen interest.

Sheriff Wayne Montrose stood outside his office, his dirt-encrusted duster and heavy hat marking him as a man who spent more time in the saddle than behind a desk. His handlebar mustache twitched as they approached, recognition followed by concern crossing his weathered features.

“Morning,” he said as Brodie and Annalee dismounted, his voice carrying the clipped tone of a man who chose his words with care. “What brings you to Gumption?”

Brodie tied his horse to the hitching post, noting the way Wayne’s eyes flickered to Annalee. “Heard you’ve been having some trouble. Thought I’d ride over, see if you needed any help.”

“We’ve had reports of missing cattle and other problems since the silver strike. Nothing I can’t handle, but…”

He trailed off as voices rose from the nearby crowd gathering at the boardwalk. The morning air had taken on an edge. Brodie’s hand drifted toward his gun belt, a movement so subtle only Annalee seemed to notice.

She stepped closer to him, her voice low. “Trouble?”

“Maybe,” he murmured, scanning the growing crowd. “Stay close.”