Page 18 of A Mile of Ocean

Theo cleared his throat among the chaos. “Should you be eating anything that someone else prepared if someone wants you dead?”

“He has a point,” Trish advised. “Maybe you should toss most of this stuff.”

His grandmother’s eyes widened. “Waste food? This person isn’t trying to poison us but shoot us where we stand. But I do get your point. We’ll review each dish and make sure we know who left it. We’ll even call and ask them if they prepared it themselves. How’s that? Will that work?”

“Just don’t take anything for granted,” Theo responded. “Everything on this table is tempting, especially the homemade lasagna.”

“Jordan Harris dropped that casserole off at two-thirty this afternoon straight from the oven,” Dolly said. “I took it from her myself, tagged it, and brought it right over to Trent’s house for supper.”

“Good to know,” Trent acknowledged. “I’ll put it in the oven. Between this casserole and Brogan’s, we should be able to feed quite a few. You guys staying for dinner?” he asked Theo.

“I wish we could. But Colt and Eastlyn are tracking footprints our shooter left in the woods. Due to the rain last night, we have a chance to get an excellent shoe impression. You guys have a nice evening. Trent, I’ll drop by after you eat and give you an update on what we find.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.” He turned to his grandmother and whispered, “I think it’s time to consider hiring a security detail.”

“Fine by me. But how in the world do they plan to patrol two thousand acres of land and still keep everybody safe? It’s not like we can afford to hire an army.”

Chapter Five

That discussion continued well into the night until Trent explained it might be their best option. If the shooter came in from the east, they could station several sharpshooters around the perimeter to stand guard during the evening hours, when the gunman was prone to strike. He didn’t want to mention that knowing when the killer would strike next was anyone’s guess and not accurate at all. Even Brent admitted that the shooter had likely crossed over into Callum land and waited for several hours until Barrett and Duchess came into view before firing.

Either way, they had to be better prepared.

With that in mind, on Sunday morning, Trent woke before dawn, the sky still veiled in darkness. Feeling the stress of the day pressing down on him already, he picked up the phone and called the security firm Lucien Sutter had recommended.

It was the first step, a decision that made him feel like he had done something that could protect his family and friends and make them feel safer on the job.

The conversation with the security firm had been surprisingly straightforward. Trent outlined the sprawling nature of the ranch and the specific threats they faced. Lucien’s contact was professional and assured, promising to send a team that could conduct an immediate assessment. It wasn’t a complete solution, but it was a start.

As Trent hung up the phone, he felt a mix of relief and apprehension. He knew that the presence of security wouldn’t erase the underlying threat, but it was a step toward regaining some control—or maybe perceived control. The thought of armed guards patrolling the land was unsettling yet necessary.

From his bedroom, he glanced out the window at the first light of dawn breaking through the horizon and prepared himself for another day. He grabbed a box of Life cereal from the pantry and poured milk, wondering how to explain ranch life to a city dweller. The ranch was a world apart, a rugged kingdom where every man and beast played a part in the intricate dance between survival and success.

After devouring his breakfast, he made his way to the barn, where the familiar sounds of the horses greeted him. They were a comforting reminder of the life that continued despite the grief that clung to his heart like a shadow.

The sun began to rise, creating a golden hue across the fields. Soon, he found himself engrossed in his tasks, each movement deliberately attempting to drown out the sorrow that threatened to overwhelm him. The chores were endless, a ceaseless cycle of feeding, cleaning, and tending to each horse individually that relied on him.

Yet, for all the physical labor, the mental burden weighed the heaviest. He wasn’t surprised when Tate joined him and began to haul hay into the stalls.

“How’d you sleep last night?” she asked Trent.

“Got in a couple of hours. What about you?”

“Same. Duchess told me she gave you Granddad’s journal.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “You don’t need more things added to your to-do list right now, do you? I don’t think it’s a good idea to dive into that kind of stuff right now.”

“I don’t mind. The journal is kind of an eye-opener in terms of describing how he felt after mom and dad died.”

Tate nodded, her expression softening. “He always had a way with words, didn’t he? Granddad. Have you read much of it yet?”

“Almost finished. It’s... heavy stuff.” Trent’s voice was tinged with a mix of admiration and sorrow.

“Well, take your time with it. No need to slam your way to the finish line through nothing but bad memories. You don’t need to read the entire thing to give his eulogy.” She patted his shoulder before heading to the next stall. “Duchess expects too much of you. She always has. Don’t let her get inside your head.”

Trent watched her—same golden hair, same profile, same stubborn chin as his—a small smile tugging at his lips despite the heaviness in his heart. Fiercely loyal, he knew he could rely on Tate no matter the situation. He returned to his work, the familiar routine grounding him as he navigated the storm of emotions.

Tate’s words lingered in his mind. She was right—he didn’t need to rush through the journal. Each entry was a piece of his grandfather’s legacy, a glimpse into the heart and soul of the man who had raised him. It was a gift, not a burden, and Trent resolved to honor it accordingly.

As the morning wore on, the sun climbed higher, raising the temperature in the barn. Sensing his mood, the horses seemed unusually calm, their presence comforting. Trent moved through the chore he could perform in his sleep, his hands steady even as his mind wandered to memories of his father.

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