3. Kat

THREE

Kat

One moment someone's here…then they're gone.

The body was cremated. Arrangements were made. We held the funeral at First Baptist, and the neighbors rallied to plan a wake.

Livy and I moved around the house like ghosts, Bandit at our heels. I didn't know how to help her. I needed…I needed something . Someone.

The air inside the ranch house was thick with grief and the scent of home-cooked meals brought over by well-meaning neighbors. I wove through clusters of folks in black, nodding at condolences I hardly heard. My gaze kept sliding to the door, hunting for a face I had no right to seek—Gabriel Mitchell's.

What was I expecting? For him to swoop in, all rough edges and helping hands, like he did as Ben bled out on the road? Ridiculous.

"Kat, you need any help with those?" Betty Thompson gestured to the plates piled high in my arms.

"Got it, thanks," I said, brushing off her offer like I'd brushed off half the town's pity.

I dumped the plates in the kitchen, barely registering the clatter. Through the window, I saw Livy sitting on the porch swing, Bandit's furry head on her lap. She looked so small, so alone, even with the dog. My heart clenched tighter than my fists gripping the countertop. Livy hadn't shed a tear since we buried her dad. Hadn't screamed, hadn't raged.

It wasn't right.

I wiped my hands on the dishtowel, ready to go to her, when Sheriff Callahan's voice cut through the murmur of the crowd. "Kat, can I have a word?"

"Sure." My reply was automatic, but my insides twisted with apprehension.

We stepped outside into the cool Montana air. The overcast sky felt fitting for a day like this—like even nature knew to dress in mourning.

"What's up?" I asked. "Any word on the killer?"

"About that—your brother's death…we've been treating it as a murder, based on what you told us," he said, his eyes scanning mine. "But now, some are leaning towards calling it a hunting accident."

"Accident?" My words were sharp, cutting. "Ben was loved by everyone. Who would…"

"Exactly my point, Kat. We haven't found anyone with a motive."

"Sheriff, that doesn't make any sense." I crossed my arms. The idea that my brother's death could be reduced to a mere mishap? I couldn't let this stand.

"Look, I understand it's hard to accept?—"

"Hard to accept?" I cut him off, a bitter laugh escaping before I could stop it. "You think this is about acceptance? This is about truth. And justice."

"Kat…" His voice had that placating tone I despised.

"Save it," I interrupted again. "Ben deserves better than a shrug and an 'oops.' And so do I. So does his daughter. After Ben was hit, the shots didn't stop. They kept coming. Tell me, Sheriff, does that sound like an accident to you?"

Callahan shifted uncomfortably. "Why didn't you mention this earlier?"

"Shock, maybe?" My words were sharp, unladylike—but I didn't give a damn. "You think I planned to get shot at, bury my brother, and then have to convince you there's a killer on the loose?"

He sighed, a hand running through his graying hair. "I'm just trying to piece it all together."

"Well, try harder. Because someone out there took aim with a clear intention to kill. This wasn't some city slicker mistaking Ben for a deer. We're not idiots out here."

"Kat, I understand you're upset?—"

"Damn right, I am." I stepped closer, invading his space to make sure he could see the conviction in my eyes. "And I went back to where Ben fell. Bandit and I found the shooter's perch. Clear view straight to where we were. No way that's an accident."

Callahan's lips tightened, a sure sign he was trying to maintain his patience. "We sent everything out to the experts in Billings. Ballistics, forensics—it takes time."

I stared, incredulous, hands on my hips. "We might not have time. Whoever did this—they could come after Livy or me next."

His expression softened, but it didn't ease the knot of tension in my gut. "I just wanted to update you, Kat. Didn't mean to upset you further."

I hated this feeling—like I was fragile, when I was just trying to get justice for my brother. I searched my mind for anything else I could give to the sheriff to convince him that this was absolutely intentional.

But then, another strange thing about that day struck me.

Gabriel Mitchell, driving in out of nowhere.

"Wait a second…Gabe—Gabe was close. Too close to where it all went down."

"Wasn't he the one who got you to the ER?" Callahan's brow furrowed, and for a second, I saw the gears turning in his head.

"Sure, after the fact. But there's bad blood there, Sheriff. You know the history between him and Ben. Goes back years."

"Alright, I'll take note of it." He didn't look like he was taking notes. In fact, he was peering at me like he thought I was crazy.

"Bad blood doesn't fade easily," I added, locking eyes with him, trying to convey the urgency, the fear brewing in my chest. "Especially not in a town as small as ours."

"Fine, Kat." Callahan let out a resigned sigh, his mustache twitching in annoyance. "I'll add him to the suspect list."

"Good," I shot back, not letting his tone deter me. "And while you're at it, check into Nia George—Ben's ex. Their breakup was anything but amicable, and she's…unstable."

"Unstable?" He raised an eyebrow, dubious.

"Let's just say her temper could start a wildfire," I said, planting my hands firmly on my hips. "She had more than enough reason to want to hurt Ben."

"Alright," Callahan said, scribbling something in his little notebook, most likely just to appease me. "I'll look into them both."

"Thank you," I said, though the gratitude didn't reach my voice.

"Again, my condolences for your loss, Kat."

"Your condolences won't do us much good if the killer's still out there," I said with a glare. "I hope the police will actually do their job."

"Of course, we—" Callahan stopped, the line of his jaw hardening as annoyance creased his forehead. I guess he could read the look on my face—that I'd had enough of his excuses. He tipped his hat, a gesture that should've been courteous but felt dismissive.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away.

Damn him.

I was still fuming, my hands clenched into fists at my sides, when a shadow fell over me. Turning, I found myself face-to-face with a man I didn't recognize. He was the kind of handsome that seemed sculpted for high-rise billboards, with a charm that felt too polished for our little ranch.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice smooth. "You must be Katrina. I've heard a lot about you."

"Is that so?" My words came out sharp, defensive—because Ben never called me Katrina. "And you are?"

"Ah, forgive my manners." His smile never wavered as he extended his hand. "I was a business associate of your family. The name's Everett Jones."

I eyed him skeptically, ignoring his hand. "Ben never mentioned you. And you don't look much like the ranching type to me."

"Understandable," he replied, unfazed by my lack of warmth. From his coat pocket, he produced a sleek business card and handed it to me. Everett Resorts: Bozeman, Tahoe, San Francisco . "I'm sorry to hear about Ben. Tragic. And now you're here managing the Martin Ranch all by yourself. That's quite the responsibility for one person."

His eyes roved the expanse of the property behind me, assessing, calculating. Beneath the guise of concern, I sensed the ravenous appetite of a vulture circling its prey.

"Running this place isn't new to me," I said curtly. "I grew up with dirt under my fingernails and the smell of hay in my hair. I can handle it."

"Of course, of course," Everett said, his voice slick with a patronizing tone that set my teeth on edge. "I didn't mean to imply otherwise."

But something in his eyes told me he thought exactly that. I squared my shoulders, standing as tall as I could. I might not have his height, but I'd learned a thing or two about presence from years of handling horses that outweighed me tenfold. "Look, Mr. Jones, I don't know what you want, but?—"

"Everett, please," he interjected smoothly.

"Mr. Jones," I corrected firmly, ignoring his attempt at familiarity. "I'm not alone out here."

"Right—because your brother left behind a daughter, didn't he?" He surveyed the landscape once more, his gaze lingering a moment too long on the rolling hills that had cradled generations of Martins. "You do realize this land is worth a fortune, right? The kind of money that could set you and your niece up comfortably for life."

The implication hung between us, heavy and unspoken. My heart pounded against my ribs, anger flaring hot and fierce in my chest. This man was here to pick over the bones of our loss, to turn our sorrow into his profit.

"Get lost, Mr. Jones ," I snapped, my voice laced with venom. "We're not selling, now or ever."

He opened his mouth like he would keep trying to smooth talk—or threaten—me. But just then, the crunch of footsteps on gravel pulled my attention away.

Owen was striding over, his brow furrowed with concern. Jones and Owen locked eyes for a second…and it was weird, because I could have sworn there was something unspoken between them. I shook it off quickly though, because a moment later, the developer raised his hands in mock surrender before turning on his heel and heading toward a sleek black car that screamed money.

"Who the hell was that?" Owen's voice brought me back to the moment, his presence comforting. At least he had my back—even if nobody else did.

"He said he'd been working with our family," I muttered. "You don't know him?"

Owen shook his head. "Didn't seem familiar. Are you okay?"

"Just freaked me out," I admitted, watching as the taillights of the luxury vehicle disappeared down the driveway. "He was too interested in whether I lived alone out here."

"Creep," Owen muttered. "You want me to move back into the house for a bit?"

I hesitated, the offer tempting. But Owen…he drank an awful lot, just like his dad. It was nice having him around every so often, but I didn't know if that would be good for us in the long term. "No, Livy and I—we're okay. Thanks, though."

Owen seemed disappointed, maybe even a little hurt, but he nodded. "Alright, if you're sure. Let's head back inside."

"Right behind you," I replied, tucking the business card into the pocket of my jeans. Everett Jones and his fancy resorts were about to get a closer look from this rancher's sister. If Sheriff Callahan wasn't going to dig deep enough, then I'd do it myself.

For Ben. For Livy.

For all of us who called this stubborn piece of Montana home.