Page 12 of A Mile of Ocean

“How are we supposed to move on from this?” Tate asked, her voice barely above a whisper as the truck idled.

Duchess, her voice strained and hoarse, replied, “We take things one day at a time. We have to—for Barrett’s sake. He’d want that ranch to keep running no matter what hardships weface. We’re Callums. We don’t quit. It shouldn’t all fall on Trent’s shoulders, either. You hear that, Tate? Nothing changes. We get up every day and do the work we’ve been doing for years.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Trent said. “Does that sound like a plan to you, Tate?”

“Of course. It’s just that I feel like I’m reliving the same nightmare that happened when we were seven. Another hole in my heart.”

“Don’t you worry about a thing,” Dolly said. “I’ll be there for you just as I was when you two were kids.”

Trent said nothing as he pulled out of the parking lot. The rain began to fall in earnest, slamming against the windshield in a steady downpour. The rhythmic sound of the wipers became a somber metronome, marking each passing moment with a mournful tick.

As they drove through the rain-soaked streets, the familiar landmarks of the town blurred past them—the pub had an overflowing Friday night crowd of patrons, people stood in line at the ice cream shop, and the pier had people eating from a picnic basket. So many memories had been forged while swimming on that same beach. The Pointe—where they had celebrated countless birthdays since he was a boy—was lit up with strings of lights. Customers dined on the terrace overlooking the ocean, enjoying their seafood platters like nothing bad had happened.

People were out and about, proving life went on despite each place holding a fragment of their past, now tinged with the sorrow of their present.

The drive back to the ranch seemed to take forever, each mile stretching into an eternity. Silence enveloped them, broken only by the soft hum of the engine and the occasional sob from Tate. The truck seemed to move through a world apart, a liminalspace where time stood still, and the weight of their loss was the only constant.

As they neared the ranch, the rain began to lighten, the droplets becoming a gentle drizzle. The familiar sight of the rolling fields and the distant silhouette of the barn brought a bittersweet comfort. It was home, but it would never be the same.

Trent steered the truck past the main gate and spotted the police cruiser sitting across the road. He waved at the cop and continued down the long driveway, the tires crunching on the gravel. The house loomed ahead, a testament to Barrett Callum’s fortitude, a man who had lived, loved, and worked this land. The porch light flickered, radiating a warm glow in the darkness.

His grandmother’s voice broke the silence, trembling yet resolute. “We’ll get through this together,” she repeated, her eyes fixed on the house. “We do this for Barrett. For each other. For those who’ll come later.”

Tate burst into tears again and jumped out of the truck, running up the steps.

“I’ll see to her,” Dolly promised, hopping out of the backseat and slamming the door behind her.

All Trent could do was grip the steering wheel, tightening his hold. He knew the road ahead would be long and arduous, but they had each other. And that, in the end, was what mattered most.

He walked his grandmother to the door. Once inside, the familiar scent of the ranch greeted them—a blend of hay, leather, and the earthy aroma of the land. It was a scent that spoke of home, of roots deeply planted in the soil of their family history. But now, it also carried the weight of absence, the void left by Barrett’s passing.

Each room seemed to echo with memories: the dining room, where Barrett had told his stories; the living room, where theyhad gathered for holidays, unwrapping presents; and his study, where his laughter had once filled the air. Now, those echoes were tinged with loss; the spaces he once occupied were now hauntingly empty.

The two of them moved through the house like shadows. Each lost in their grief yet bound by an unspoken understanding. While Dolly busied herself in the kitchen, preparing a pot of tea, the familiar rhythm was a small comfort amidst the chaos. Tate retreated to one of the rooms upstairs that had once been hers as a child, the door closing softly behind her.

Duchess found herself drawn to Barrett’s study. She flipped on the lights, revealing the walls lined with books and mementos of her husband’s life.

Left alone with his grandmother, Trent asked quietly, “Can I get you anything besides tea? Do you want me to stay here tonight?”

But Duchess didn’t answer. Instead, he watched as she headed straight to his grandfather’s massive mahogany desk and opened a drawer, her fingers tracing the worn edges of a leather-bound journal. She flipped through the pages and was greeted by Barrett’s scrawled handwriting, the pages filled with years of his thoughts and reflections. “He wanted you to have this. You need to read it. I want you to absorb what’s in there. If you plan to run this ranch, you need some insight into everything that happened over his lifetime.”

“I haven’t had time to deal with his death, let alone read his journal.”

“Make time,” Duchess insisted.

Feeling the energy between them changing, Trent studied her face. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, dropping into the office chair. “Obviously, that’s a lie, but there’s nothing you can do for me tonight. Nobody can make this go away. If I need to talk, Tate’sright upstairs. And I have Dolly, who can talk to a fence post and always manages to make me forget my troubles. You go home. Get some sleep. Or try to, at least. Tomorrow will likely be brutal for all of us.”

“The morning after,” Trent mumbled. “I should let the ranch hands know. Brent might’ve already taken care of that. He sent his guys to check all the .22 rifles he could find on the premises.”

Duchess scoffed at the idea. “I hope you told him how ridiculous that is.”

“I did. But he still wanted to check them out, so he probably will run background checks on them.”

She let out a solid, long breath in pent-up frustration. “I’d go to bat for any of our guys any day, any time.”

“Same here. So I should probably talk to them tonight.”

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