Page 9 of Storm in Montana (Montana Becketts, Wild Spirit Ranch #3)
The oak doors of Mystic Town Hall groaned open beneath Annalee Beckett’s gloved hand, spilling lamplight onto Glory’s mud-streaked boardwalk. Her city dress caught the glow, transforming plain wool into something grander, while Naomi’s practical skirts whispered against the doorframe.
Naomi’s tooled leather purse pressed tight against her hip as she guided her daughter forward with a firm hand at the small of her back.
The hall stretched before them, long wooden benches arranged in strict rows leading to a raised platform at the far end.
Scattered townspeople turned their heads, their conversations dying on their lips.
“Look who thinks she’s too good for ranch work now,” a woman’s voice carried from the third row, sharp as a needle.
Annalee lifted her chin, the elegant line of her neck rising above the starched collar of her dress.
She’d chosen the garment with care. It was modest enough for a small Montana town yet bearing subtle touches of city refinement in its cut and drape.
Now, those same careful choices marked her as different, as someone who’d dared to step beyond the boundaries of what Mystic considered proper.
“Keep walking,” Naomi murmured, her fingers tight around her purse. Her eyes swept the crowd, marking each whispered comment, each sideways glance. The leather of her boots creaked against the floorboards, a steady counterpoint to Annalee’s lighter steps.
The wooden benches creaked as people shifted, creating small gaps between themselves as the Becketts passed.
A cluster of older ranch wives drew their skirts aside, their faces set in careful masks of polite disdain.
Near the front, another woman leaned close to her companion, lips moving in rapid speech behind a raised hand.
Annalee focused on the platform ahead, counting her steps. Twenty more to a middle row. Fifteen. Ten. The weight of dozens of gazes pressed against her, each stare as tangible as a physical touch. Her fingers smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her skirts, the fabric cool and crisp beneath her palms.
“You don’t belong here anymore,” someone whispered, the words sliding past like a spear of ice down her spine.
Naomi’s arm brushed against hers as they reached an open bench. “Sit straight,” her mother commanded in a low voice. “Show them how a Beckett woman acts when she knows her own mind.”
They settled onto the hardwood, the bench offering no comfort despite its polished surface. Around them, the murmur of conversation continued, though Annalee caught fragments of phrases floating back.
“Ideas above her station…”
“What Wild Spirit Ranch has come to?”
“Shame about the Becketts…”
Naomi arranged her skirts with precise movements, her spine as rigid as the bench back behind them.
Her face showed nothing, years of ranch life having taught her the value of an unreadable expression.
Hidden from view, her fingers worked at the clasp of her purse, opening and closing it in a steady rhythm.
More people filtered in through the doors, filling the remaining spaces.
Each new arrival paused briefly at the sight of the Becketts, their reactions ranging from surprise to barely concealed hostility.
A few offered encouraging nods such as longtime friends, old trading partners, and families who’d shared fence lines with Wild Spirit Ranch for generations.
Annalee drew in a careful breath, tasting dust and turpentine furniture polish and the lingering trace of someone’s pipe smoke.
The lamp oil fixtures along the walls were lit in the growing darkness, their glass globes giving off a warm glow.
She tried to see the hall through the eyes of an outsider.
The worn carpet running down the center aisle, the scuffed baseboards, and the water stain spreading across one corner of the ceiling all pointed to neglect.
Annalee knew it had more to do with a lack of funds.
This room had hosted town meetings since before she could walk. She’d sat here as a child, squirming beside her brothers during endless discussions of water rights and grazing permits. Now it felt alien, transformed by purpose and prejudice into something altogether different.
“They’re afraid,” Naomi said suddenly, her voice pitched for Annalee’s ears alone. “Change always frightens people who’ve grown comfortable with the way things are.”
“I know, Mama.” Annalee smoothed her gloves, checking each pearl button, confirming they sat properly in their holes. “They can be as frightened as they like. I’m still going to speak if a topic interests me.”
More townspeople arrived in clusters of two and three, their boots raising small clouds of dust from the floorboards.
The hall filled with the rustle of clothing and the scrape of benches as people shifted to make room.
Annalee recognized faces from the mercantile, the livery, and Maisy from Golden Griddle restaurant, who returned her smile.
A flash of movement near the door caught her attention.
Sheriff Brodie Gaines stepped inside, his badge catching the light as he moved.
Their eyes met briefly across the room before he looked away, making his way to a position near the wall where he could observe the proceedings.
The sight of him sent a flutter through her chest, which she firmly suppressed.
She had more important matters to focus on than Brodie’s presence.
Soon the meeting would begin, and Annalee was determined to comment if she had something worthwhile to say. For now, she sat beside her mother, feeling the weight of tradition and expectation pressing down like summer storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
Mayor Carl Jurgen’s gavel struck wood with dull authority, bringing the scattered conversations to an uneven halt. As the room grew quiet, he shuffled his papers, the sound of rustling documents mixing with the creak of benches as people settled into place.
“First order of business,” he announced, peering over his wire-rimmed spectacles. “Miller’s Creek water rights.”
Annalee’s fingers tightened in her lap as the meeting proceeded through its well-worn rhythm.
Familiar but hardly comforting, the town council’s agenda wound like clockwork through old concerns and grievances.
Ranchers rose to speak about cattle prices and grazing boundaries, their voices a blend of frustration and resolve.
Each comment drew nods and murmurs of assent from the crowd, unified in their shared struggles and understanding.
The owner of Snowden Lumber Mill, Bart Snowden, a stout man with ruddy cheeks, presented his case for expanded logging rights, his tone insistent and authoritative.
His words spurred a fresh wave of debate, volleying back and forth until the crowd grew weary.
Annalee struggled to follow the rapid exchanges, yet her attention drifted, pulled by the weight of expectations and the memory of Brodie’s brief glance across the room.
A row of townsfolk along the side wall shifted position, their boots scuffing the floorboards and their faces showing mixed reactions. Some people involved and intent, others tired and disinterested. Annalee forced herself to focus, her fingernails pressing crescents into her gloved palms.
A young man in the front row voiced a complaint about the cost of replacing the bridge spanning Carter’s Creek, sparking a heated discussion, drowning out the chairman’s attempts to maintain order.
Phrases and accusations flew, punctuated by the sharp raps of the gavel, until the clamor finally settled.
All the while, Annalee felt herself slipping further away from the present.
The clatter of so many voices and opinions formed an oppressive cloud, hanging low in the hall and growing thicker with each passing moment. She lowered her head, eyes tracing the grain of the wooden bench as she tried to find calm amidst the chaos.
She hadn’t told anyone about her intention to speak on education issues.
Would her vision for the school fare any better at the conclusion of the meeting than her dress had at its beginning?
The rebukes she’d heard about her belonging stuck like nettles, and she wondered if the words would fail her once she finally stood to speak.
The row behind her was nearly as restless as the ones ahead, ranch wives and merchants shifting uncomfortably as the meeting stretched into its second hour.
Annalee sat straighter, reminding herself of the purpose of the meeting, the resilience she’d grown to believe in again and again.
It had to be enough to carry her through, even if her words fell on deaf ears as hardened as the wooden walls around her.
This was not the people of Mystic against Annalee Beckett, she told herself.
She rehearsed her speech silently, the words she’d practiced for weeks flowing through her mind. Beside her, Naomi sat motionless, only the slight rise and fall of her chest indicating she was more than a statue.
“Next item,” the mayor declared, shuffling another paper to the top of his stack. “Proposed improvements to the schoolhouse roof.”
This was it. Annalee drew in a steadying breath and rose from her seat. She turned to face the crowd, noting how several people shifted in their seats, gazes sliding away from her direct look.
“Ladies and gentlemen of Mystic,” she began, her voice clear and steady. “I stand before you today not only as a daughter of Wild Spirit Ranch, but as someone who has seen the possibilities education can offer our children.”