Page 17 of A Mile of Ocean

Trent found himself taking the diary to the old oak grove behind his house, where he used to sit and ponder the future. Always a serious-minded student of his environment, he enjoyed the rustling leaves and the smell of earth as he sought solace in the memories of better days. It was there, sitting among the patch of trees, that he noticed the pages, smudged with dirt and tears, must have been his granddad’s constant companion during that first year without Travis.

He recalled Barrett Callum’s unwavering determination, a trait that had been passed down to him. The Callum legacy was one of resilience, and Trent knew that he had to somehow find the strength to uphold it. The ranch was more than just land and livestock; it was a testament to his family’s enduring spirit.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, he lost the light that enabled him to read. He stowed the journal in his backpack and made his way back to the cottage, walking across the field with only the shadows for company. He’d never felt so alone.

The evening air was cool and crisp, a welcome change from the day’s heat. He approached the deck and the back door and was about to go inside when a shot rang out, a bullet whizzing past his right ear. Instinctively, he ducked and dodged anotherbullet. He took out his cell phone to dial 911. “This is Trent Callum. Shots fired at Rio Verde Ranch for the second night in a row.”

Before he could say another word, Trish Vosberg, carrying her Glock-30, appeared at the corner of his house.

“Stay down,” she hissed at Trent. Communicating into her headset, she stated, “I need backup. Now! Rio Verde. Shots fired. The suspect is in the woods about seventy yards to the east of Trent’s backyard.”

The sound of Trish’s voice, commanding and strong, brought Trent back to the present. He watched as she moved with precision, scanning the perimeter for any signs of the shooter. Her presence was both comfort and a reminder of the danger that lurked close by.

Minutes felt like hours as Trent stayed low behind the cover of his deck, his heart racing. “Maybe the shooter decided to take off after firing two shots that missed instead of finishing the job,” Trent suggested.

“Let me decide that,” Trish barked. “I’m not leaving you like a sitting duck until backup arrives.”

“No need to chase him. I think he’s gone,” Trent muttered.

“Are you willing to bet your life on that?” Trish asked.

“You have a point.”

His peaceful night, which had been quiet except for the occasional call of a loon or a hawk, was now a full-blown crime scene.

Each second stretched into an eternity as Trent’s mind raced with questions and fears. Who could be behind these attacks? And why were they targeting the people on the ranch?

Finally, he heard the sound of sirens piercing the night, signaling the arrival of backup. Red and blue lights flashed across the yard as Brent’s team fanned out, searching the woodsfor any trace of the assailant. Trish remained at Trent’s side, her gaze never wavering from the dark tree line.

“We’ll find them,” she assured him, her voice low but resolute. “You did the right thing calling for help. Most men would have reached for their .45.”

“I didn’t think I’d need it. I left it in the house. I’m grateful for the quick response.”

“No problem. Next time, I should’ve been stationed in those woods and waited until he got closer. You’ve made a powerful enemy somewhere,” Trish noted.

“I’m beginning to understand just how powerful and angry they are.”

The danger seemed to have passed, but the tension still hung in the air. It would be a long time before he felt truly safe again, especially since the police had surrounded his little house.

The backyard quickly filled up with ranch hands and family members. While giving his statement to Theo, he looked over to see his grandmother and Tate rushing to his rescue. He was glad to see both women had decided to leave their beds, even if Tate sounded a bit hysterical.

“What the hell is happening?” Tate cried out, grabbing onto his jacket. “We’re not safe in here anymore. Are you okay? You could’ve been killed.”

Trent kissed the top of her head. “I’m fine. Settle down. It’s okay. Everything’s under control.”

“It’s not,” Tate bellowed. “You know it’s not. Someone shooting at us is not an everyday occurrence.”

Blake ran up to where they stood and tried to comfort her. “I’ll stand guard if you want me to, right outside your door.”

Tate touched his face. “Oh, Blake, I’m not sure that will help at all, but thanks for offering. Maybe we need to hire our own security.”

“Let’s go inside the house and discuss it,” Trent said, ushering his grandmother and sister in through the back door.

The cottage smelled of the comforting aroma of home-cooked food because Dolly had dropped off several meals prepared by friends and neighbors. It was a reminder that the community stood together even in times of sorrow.

His grandmother noticed a dish she recognized. “This looks delicious. I’d know Carla Vargas’s tamale casserole anywhere. We’ll warm this up for supper.”

“The person’s name who dropped it off is listed on the bottom so I could keep things straight,” Dolly said, reading the card taped to the underside. “But you’re wrong about who made it. This one belongs to Brogan Cole. She says she got the recipe from Carla, though. I guess that counts.”

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