Page 42 of A Mile of Ocean

Dolly opened the door and rushed outside, holding a washcloth and a first aid kit. “The paramedics are on their way. How bad is it?”

“Looks like the bullet grazed his upper arm,” Trent said, gently putting him down on the concrete. He pressed the cloth to the wound, his face etched with worry. “Hang in there, Brock. Help is coming.”

“I can’t move my arm,” Brock noted.

Blake hurried up the steps, looking frantic. “What the hell are we up against?”

“A guy with an assault rifle,” Monty corrected.

Tate rushed over to take Brock’s pulse, willing her own strength into that bony frame. “We’ll get you patched up, Brock. I promise. Don’t you worry, you’ll be good as new.”

The chaotic scene seemed to slow down, every sound muted except for Brock’s labored breathing. Trent’s focus sharpened when the rest of the team surrounded the porch, some clearly confused by the turn of events.

“I don’t understand why this keeps happening,” Tate said, as if speaking for all of them, while squeezing Brock’s hand for reassurance. “Who keeps doing this?”

Trent had no answers. “Maybe Hawk and Drum will catch him tonight, and this will end.”

The paramedics arrived again for the third time, taking over with skilled hands. Trent stepped back, wiping his brow and watching intently as they stabilized Brock for transport.

“He’ll be okay,” Linus assured him. “He’ll have a sizeable scar, but otherwise, he’ll be up and around in no time.”

“Are you certain? Does he need blood? We can each come into town in shifts to give blood.”

“I don’t think it’s necessary, but then a hospital never turns away blood donations,” Linus relayed. “He’s very lucky. An inch or two down, and it would’ve blown his arm off.”

But Trent didn’t feel any of them were lucky. The heavy weight of responsibility he felt in his chest nagged at him as he watched them load Brock into the ambulance.

“I’m going with him to the hospital,” Tate proclaimed. “I’ll call someone to pick me up after I talk to the doctor.”

Trent nodded. “Good idea. Text me an update.”

“Will do,” she said, hopping into the back of the ambulance alongside Linus.

Nearby, Hawk and Drum emerged from the woods, their expressions grim. “We lost him,” Hawk reported, his frustration evident.

“How is that possible?” Trent retorted, removing his Stetson to run a hand through his hair. “He must know the area. That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“That’s my guess,” Hawk replied. “But he won’t get far. We know his vehicle.”

“It’s not enough,” Trent answered, though his mind was half on Brock as the siren wailed in the distance. He stood taller and took a deep breath. “We need to lock this place down,” he said to everyone within earshot, his eyes wide with concern.

“You can try,” Duchess said from across the courtyard, her voice raspy from lack of sleep. “Two thousand acres is a lot of ground to lock down. But do what you have to do. We’re a mandown. I don’t care what you or Tate have to say about it. Pair me up with someone because I’m tired of sitting around the house watching you guys try to capture this lowlife hooligan.”

Trent didn’t even feel like arguing with her because the night was far from over. Instead, he glanced around at the faces of his crew, knowing they were all bone-tired and weary of the situation. But in his mind, they were in this together. They had to be. They needed each other now more than ever.

Chapter Twelve

Word spread throughout town during the night that Rio Verde Ranch needed help. They were under siege. Lucien Sutter and Brogan Cole showed up, bringing Birk and Beckett Callahan—two former Navy Seals—to offer whatever help they could provide.

With school out, Savannah didn’t have the luxury of sitting around enjoying summer vacation. She stood in the stables alongside the others, willing to do her part. But the teacher had met with stubborn resistance from Trent.

“You’re a man down. It will take Brock a week to regain the use of his arm, maybe longer,” she argued. “And even then, he won’t be a hundred percent. You need an extra pair of hands now. Admit it. Even your grandmother and Tate agree with me. And for your information, I can ride as well as anyone else here.”

“But can you shoot?” Trent countered. “You realize you’d be putting your life on the line. I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking me. I’m volunteering to pitch in like every neighbor you see standing here. I’ve lost a brother to a psycho, which means I refuse to sit around and do nothing this time when it comes to stopping a killer.”

“Savannah and I both ride quite well,” Brogan pointed out, trying to help Savannah’s cause. “Although I’m not good with guns, Beckett, Birk, and Lucien compensate for that. I can undoubtedly relieve Trish and Eastlyn at the monitor if it comesto that. There must be something we can do to help fortify the ranch. We women are not helpless.”

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