Cal had said Kitty went to school to be an interior designer. She looked the part of someone who was used to spending time with sophisticated things. She probably dined in fancy restaurants with men who wore Italian suits and had names like Gregory and Vincent—so very different from the girl who’d tromped around Coyote Glen in overalls and stained T-shirts, belting out country songs.
Kitty turned her green eyes on him. “My parents are at the funeral home making some last-minute arrangements. They’ve already talked to the foreman, but I’m sure they’d appreciate your help selling Grandpa’s cattle and equipment, that sort of thing.”
Her words were another painful reminder that Cal was really, truly gone. “Your family doesn’t want to continue running cattle?” He’d been afraid this would happen. Kitty’s father left Arizona when he went to college and had never come back for more than a short visit. That abandonment was something Cal never quite reconciled himself to, a thorn in his side that he’d talked to Landon about more than once.
Kitty shrugged apologetically. “My parents like Seattle too much to move.”
“And you?”
“I was never cut out to shoot pigeons, let alone the rest of it. I’m sure you remember that much about me.”
Oh, the pigeon incident. Back when she was eleven and he was fifteen, Landon was at her grandparents’ house, returning some tools, and he’d seen her head into the barn. She’d been holding a pellet rifle by the barrel like it was a walking stick, which was enough to make him wonder what other safety rules she was ignoring.
He found himself following her into the barn to see what she was up to.
As he stepped through the door, he heard a loud thunk. Kitty had propped an extension ladder up against one wall. The ladder hadn’t been adjusted high enough to reach the rafters, and she scowled at the deficiency.
The pellet rifle lay on the floor next to the door. He picked it up and checked to make sure the safety was on.
Kitty saw him and brightened. “Good, you’re here. I need someone to hold this while I climb.”
“Climb where?” There was nothing for her to do at the top of the barn except break her neck.
Kitty lifted the sides of the ladder to make it longer. “Grandpa told me to shoot the pigeons in the barn, but that’s cruel, so I’m clearing away their nests. That way, they’ll leave and Grandpa won’t know I didn’t shoot them.”
Still holding the pellet rifle, Landon ambled over to Kitty and put his hand on the ladder rung, not to steady it, but to keep her from going up. “Pigeons don’t need nests to roost, they just need two inches of space to stand on. To get rid of them, you’ve got to kill them. And speaking of death, don’t even think of climbing that ladder.”
As though proving his point, half a dozen pigeons—scared off by the noise of the ladder—landed on the rafters. They strutted about, heads bobbing.
“I’ll be careful,” Kitty said.
She wasn’t getting the message. “Pigeons are nothing but flying rats who eat other animals’ feed and poop on the hay. Do you want the horses to get sick?”
She surveyed the barn, thinking. “Okay, I’ll hammer long nails through some boards so the spiky parts stick out and then put those on the rafters. That way the birds won’t have anywhere to stand.”
“Yeah. Except for the only thing more dangerous than you climbing up to the rafters is you climbing up while holding nail-studded boards. So no, don’t do that either.”
She huffed in exasperation. “You think I’m old enough to use a gun but not old enough to use a ladder?”
“Good point. You’re not old enough to use either.” He wasn’t going to bother trying to reason with her anymore. He sauntered back toward the barn door, taking the gun with him.
She put a hand on her hip. “Are you going to tell on me?”
“Nope.” When he’d walked far enough that she was out of his way, he turned off the pellet rifle’s safety, aimed at the nearest pigeon, and fired. The gun clacked and the bird toppled off the rafter without a flutter of protest.
Kitty gasped. “What are you doing?”
“Your job.” He aimed at another pigeon and fired. Two for two.
“Stop it!” she cried.
He aimed at another rafter and shot a bird perched there. “I’ve got to take care of this before you do something stupid and hurt yourself.”
“Stop it!” she yelled again, this time coming toward him. “Give me my gun.”
He took a few steps to his right to get a better view of the next pigeon. “It’s not your gun. It’s Cal’s, and he wants the birds gone. Go on back to the house.” Only a few more birds were scattered around the barn. Wouldn’t take him long.
Instead of being sensible, she marched up to him, hand out. “Give me the gun.”