Page 8 of Protected By the Mountain Man

“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.

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