Page 13 of A Mile of Ocean

“Do take care of that. Please. But maybe it could wait until morning.”

“I think it should be now. I think they deserve to know how we feel.”

A shiver ran through Duchess as she let out a low moan. “Fine. Do what you think is best. I’m going to bed.”

She rose out of the chair and strode to the doorway before stopping. “Don’t be surprised when Woody takes it the hardest. And maybe Cecil. But Barrett was always closer to Woody for the thirty years he’s been here. Although Barrett took Cecil under his wing twenty years ago after he lost his brother in Iraq.”

Trent jumped when the grandfather clock in the foyer began chiming. It rang eleven times. “Maybe you’re right. I didn’t realize it was so late. I should wait until morning. Woody and Cecil go to bed early. And the rest are likely fast asleep or somewhere out on the range.”

“Good thing we get up at the crack of dawn. You can tell them at breakfast. You have seven hours to go over your pep talk. They’ll need one.”

She shoved the leather-bound book into Trent’s chest. “Barrett must’ve written his thoughts down in a dozen of these over the years. They’re here on those shelves. If you ever needed to find a connection to your father that transcended his death, it’s in Barrett’s own words about how losing his son affected him. Read the journals, Trent. Start with this one. Try finishing it before the funeral. You aren’t seven years old this time around. You know the ropes and everything there is to know about running this ranch. But you need to get a better picture of your grandfather if you’re giving the eulogy.”

“The eulogy?”

“That’s right.” She patted the book. “This will tell you how to overcome a loss so deep you think it might cripple you forever.”

“Yes, ma’am. I never meant to make light of it.”

“We’ll talk more tomorrow. Goodnight for now.”

He watched her hobble down the hallway to the downstairs primary bedroom, realizing it would be almost impossible to get any sleep tonight.

He checked all the doors in the main house and made sure everything was locked up tight before getting into his truck and heading to his place. But when he rounded the bend to his cottage, he spotted a strange vehicle parked in front of it, a silver compact SUV.

“So much for police presence,” Trent murmured, going on alert. “How did they get past a cop car?”

But just when he was ready to kick some butt, the car door swung open, and Savannah Quinn stepped out onto the gravel, wearing a flowing skirt and sweater. “I’m sorry to show up like this. But I heard what happened when I ran into Murphy’s Market to pick up milk and cereal. Your grandfather’s stroke was all anyone could talk about. I’ve been sitting here waiting for an hour and a half. I wondered if I should’ve gone to the hospitalfirst. But that seemed too forward. Then I figured you had to come home sometime, so I waited.”

Stunned to see her, he opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Savannah didn’t seem to notice. She continued talking a mile a minute as if nervous. “I went to the main house first and waited there in the circle. But then a ranch hand came by and showed me where you lived. He didn’t even know your grandfather had been taken to the hospital or that he’d suffered a stroke until I told him.”

“Did you catch his name?”

“Blake Hudson. Blake showed me where you lived, saying he had to go to the bunkhouse for supper. So here I am. How is Mr. Callum doing?”

“Blake’s been in the northern part of the ranch with the cattle for the last three days. About Granddad, um, he didn’t suffer a stroke. He was shot in the head, probably from some distance away, by someone with a rifle. No one knew until we got to the hospital, not even my grandmother, and she was right there with him when it happened.”

“Shot in the head? How bad is it? Will he recover?”

“He never made it out of surgery.”

“Oh, no, Trent, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. Honest. All they said at the store was that he had a stroke.”

“That’s what we thought, too. Until Linus, the paramedic, told us he had a bullet wound to the head. That’s when we figured that surgery might be an uphill battle. Why don’t you come in?”

“Oh, I couldn’t. You probably have a dozen things to do. And it’s so late. You need your rest.”

“I’m not sleeping tonight.” He held up the journal. “Duchess told me I should read this before the funeral, so that’s probably what I’ll do. Come on in. I’ll make a fire, and we can warm up.With the rain, it’s turned chilly. I could use a shot of brandy. How about you?”

Savannah hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Sure, just for a little while.”

She entered the house and glanced around the cozy living room, taking in the bungalow’s rustic charm. The walls were lined with family photographs and mementos.

Trent busied himself by setting up the fire, and his movements were efficient and practiced. Savannah watched him, noting the strain in his shoulders and the weariness in his eyes. “You’ve been through so much,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

He looked up, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face before he masked it with a stoic expression. “It’s been a tough night, but we’ll get through it. We always do.”

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