Page 3 of A Mile of Ocean

Noble made a face. Lines crinkled the corner of his mouth. “Really? I hate that stuff cold. I could fix eggs. I make a real good breakfast with pork sausage and biscuits.”

“You don’t have to fix me breakfast. I’m used to going without.”

“Nonsense,” Noble said as he watched how his dogs sniffed the newcomer and how they trotted after him. “You’re too skinny. A couple of months working for me, and I’ll have you bulked up and fit as a fiddle.”

Barrett followed Noble into the farmhouse with the dogs trailing behind, wondering what he had signed up for this time.

Chapter One

Present day

Rio Verde Ranch

Pelican Pointe, California

Tucked in the hillside overlooking Pelican Pointe, the Rio Verde Ranch had stood between the ocean and the mountains overlooking the coastal seaside since 1971. Over the years, it had grown to a sprawling two thousand acres, full of picturesque scenery, offering stunning views of sunsets and rustic charm, a place where the air always seemed fresher and crisper. Maybe it was the ocean breezes carried by the salty tang of the sea that blended with the earthy scent of the mountains to the east.

Whether it was rustic or charming, to Trent Callum, life on the ranch was a combination of demanding work and peaceful quiet. Owning and operating a ranch in this day and age was a miracle in itself. Dawn usually broke, signaling the start of a new day filled with a list of chores a mile long that never seemed to end. There was always some job that needed doing—mucking out the horse stalls, lugging feed from one enclosure to another, mending fences, caring for sick animals, training and grooming the healthy ones. It went on seven days a week. There were bills to pay and ledgers to keep in the black.Time spent away from ranch life was never a given.

Sitting atop his golden palomino named Phoenix, Trent looked out over the rolling pastureland strung across the landscape and dotted with horses corralled in the paddocks. Somewhere north, a herd of cattle grazed on new spring grass. Ranch hands moved about with purpose, tending to the livestock and ensuring the well-being of the animals.

In the distance, Trent heard laughter from the mechanic’s shop, a sure sign of a community that worked together, maintaining the same goal and creating a sense of harmony among the residents who lived here full-time.

The ranch’s focal point would always be the main house, built in 1972 from knotty, hand-hewn barn wood and local limestoneset among the backdrop of rolling hills. The property had two additional cabins, one added in the late 1980s, and another built in the 1990s. The ranch hands lived in an upgraded bunkhouse with modern amenities like WiFi and satellite TV. The state-of-the-art horse stables rivaled any in bluegrass horse country with a tack and feeding room, cedar-lined stalls, and a wash bay. Walkways connected the haybarn to the mechanic’s and blacksmith’s shops, leading to an office and ultimately arriving at a woodshed used for storage.

It wouldn’t be a proper California treasure without the pair of redwoods planted on either side of the main gate. The trees had grown to fifty feet in height. The land had its own source of water running through the property, dubbed by the locals as Sweetwater Creek, so named for its sweet, superb taste.

Life on a ranch was not without challenges, but the rewards were immeasurable. It was a life that taught resilience, respect for nature, and the value of hard work. For those who called it home, the ranch was more than just a place; it was a way of life, a testament to the enduring spirit of those who lived and worked the previous decades.

The evening was the only time anyone could fully relax from the challenging work schedule. It coincided with Trent’s favorite part of the day when the sun sank below the horizon, and the ranch quieted down to the sounds of nature taking over. It was the only time of day when things seemed to slow down, allowing everyone to catch their breath and appreciate life’s simple pleasures.

In the evenings spent inside his own four walls, he could enjoy the gentle rustling of leaves, the distant call of an owl, or the rhythmic chirping of crickets that would often lull him to sleep.

He’d made sure his own cabin digs—much smaller than the sprawling lodge-type house his grandfather had designed and built—were a warm, inviting comfort zone with wooden beams and a stone fireplace that crackled with the warmth of a fire on cooler nights. The two-bedroom bungalow suited him perfectly, providing everything he needed. Mostly, it offered solitude, something hard to find during the long days spent around ranch hands full of questions and animals demanding his attention.

Family dinners with his grandparents on Sunday afternoons took place in the spacious dining room of the main house. Attendance was mandatory, with no exceptions. Those gatherings were a cherished tradition where stories were shared and future plans were carefully outlined by their patriarch, Barrett Callum, still going strong at eighty-seven.

Trent spotted a deer darting across the trail twenty yards ahead. Spooked by the sudden movement, Phoenix reared up, neighing loudly until Trent laid a hand on his neck to calm the stallion. The horse snorted and shook his head before eventually settling at Trent’s touch.

He heard hoofbeats approaching from the south and looked up to see his twin sister, Tate, barreling toward him at breakneckspeed, her dark golden hair cascading down her back in one long, thick braid that whipped around her head.

“Daydreaming again, I see,” Tate charged as she pulled her horse, Mermaid, to a stop in front of his. “Don’t you ever look at your phone when you’re out here with your head in the clouds? Other people on the planet, Trent, not just you. Earth to Trent.”

“I’m right here,” Trent replied quietly, irritated that she had disturbed his solitude. “Why are you so upset? Your screeching is hurting Phoenix’s ears.”

“I haven’t even started screeching yet,” Tate stated, staring at her older brother, who was older by a full eight minutes. She studied his sandy mop of hair, not unlike hers, tucked under his well-worn, burnt brown Stetson, and couldn’t help but crack a grin. She loved giving her studious, serious brother a hard time. Always with his nose stuck in a paperback or hardcover, Trent had shelves full of books about ranchers, renegades, and settlers. He was the history buff, the guy who spent his evenings reading instead of watching television, and he knew more about the area than most of the local professors. He could list how the natives lived two hundred years ago or what they had been growing on the same land and topography. The wannabe farmer had been to college at UC Davis, where he earned himself a degree in soil science, something a farmer might study. But somehow, his grandfather had insisted that he stay on the ranch to continue the legacy of raising Quarter Horses and cattle. Barrett Callum believed livestock was a far more lucrative investment than farming.

Growing impatient with her stubborn brother, she and Mermaid circled him. “Did you forget that the 4-H Club is meeting here today to show off their skills before the school year ends? They’ve been practicing everything they know about caring for the foals for nine months. They even held a quiz nightabout identifying the markings and knowing the differences between a roan and a buckskin.”

“Handling the 4-H group is your department,” Trent pointed out.

“Selective memory. You know as well as I do that it came straight from Duchess last summer before school started. She persuaded Granddad to let them experience horses firsthand, to teach the kids something about grooming, putting on halters, and walking them around the paddock. She wanted to get the kids involved in riding, rodeoing, jumping, showmanship, barrel racing, or anything to do with falling in love with the horses.”

Duchess was their grandmother, born Deanne de Haviland and raised in Wyoming cattle and horse country.

Trent still wasn’t convinced he needed to participate. “They’re sixth graders. How many will actually want to care for a horse when they’re our age?”

“They’re seventh graders, not sixth,” Tate corrected, growing even more aggravated. “Honestly, Trent, I don’t believe you. These kids have worked their butts off all year to get this far, and now you’re blowing them off.”

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