Page 2 of A Mile of Ocean (Pelican Pointe #19)
Present day
Rio Verde Ranch
Pelican Pointe, California
T ucked 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 limestone set 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 breakneck speed, 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 night about 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.”
“I’m not. I’m realistic enough to know they aren’t out here because they love horses. They came out here every week to get out of class.”
“You’re such a cynic. Their teacher says otherwise. Not only is she hot, but she also knows her stuff.”
His brow suddenly arched in interest. “How hot?”
“Hot by Trent standards. She’s a newcomer, started teaching in January. She’s the only one who volunteered to take on the program when no one else wanted to sponsor the 4-H group this semester. Otherwise, it would’ve ended practically before it began. Go talk to her and reassure her that the program will continue, that the kids will have our support next fall when they enter eighth grade.”
“Why can’t you do it? I need to check the pump at the northernmost well.”
“This isn’t the northernmost well. You’re just daydreaming again. Besides, I’ll take care of that. What she wants right now is to thank all of us personally. At this very moment, our grandparents are talking her ear off. You know how that will go. They’re all for encouraging the younger kids to take an interest in horses and cattle. They want them to put down their phones and get off the internet. And when Duchess wants something, Granddad backs her up one hundred percent.”
It was his grandparents’ most frequent speech —the younger generation spent too much time on their phones or in front of a computer screen . They needed more fresh air. Realizing he had no choice in the matter, he decided it wouldn’t hurt to spend a few minutes talking to the teacher. And it would make his grandmother happy.
But he wouldn’t give in quite so easily. Trent scowled at his sister. “You’re enjoying making me do this, aren’t you?”
“Immensely. What gave it away? Now, go out there and make the Rio Verde proud. Community spirit and all that.”
“You mean go make Duchess proud,” Trent said.
“Same thing. That will likely get you a homemade apple pie tonight. You know you’re her favorite. You have her wrapped around your little finger.”
“Get real. You’re her favorite, actually both of their favorites.” Trent shook his head, done with the bickering. He clucked his tongue to give Phoenix a little bump on the sides to get him moving. The two trotted off down the trail toward the paddocks, where they kept the foals.
In the distance, he spotted his self-sufficient grandparents leaning on the railing and gesturing toward the group of preteens. His grandmother still wore her long, brown hair in a ponytail, slightly tinged with gray strands. Although she was ten years younger than his grandfather, she could still rope a horse if the situation required it. At seventy-seven, Duchess could ride with the best of the ranch hands. She was the backbone of the ranch, possessing a stubborn streak a mile wide, and was not easily intimidated. While his grandmother could still keep long hours, Trent noticed that his granddad had slowed down quite a bit, especially over the last six months.
He continued listening to Barrett Callum, the ever-present pipe dangling from his mouth, go on about the horses. His steady banter meant he hadn’t lost his propensity for gab. The man could talk your ear off about his two favorite subjects — horses and cattle —while smoke circled his head from the pipe that hung from his mouth . And today, it seemed his captive audience was the teacher.
The closer Trent got, the more he realized she didn’t look like any teacher he’d ever had. She looked like an exotic Irish fairy devoid of the mythical wings, the stuff of Hollywood lore and legends. Standing no taller than five-three, she had red hair, an angelic face like a porcelain doll, and a cluster of freckles across the bridge of her nose. The wind whipped her long, copper-colored hair, flying about her head like a fiery halo. She had the grayest eyes, the color of silvery sage that grew wild on the hillside.
He dismounted Phoenix with practiced ease and walked toward the group, his grandfather still chatting about the newest foals like a proud father in the nursery waiting room. As he approached, his grandfather’s voice drifted over the breeze, extolling the virtues of his black stallion, Zorro, hitting all the high points about raising Quarter Horses.
His grandmother sent him a wink, but not before the teacher paused in response to one of Barrett’s comments, her gaze meeting Trent’s, both with a curious intensity.
Savannah noted his dark blond hair and bronzed skin, which spoke to an outdoorsy life, not one sitting behind a desk. Something about his steel blue eyes set him apart from the typical cowboy. “This must be your grandson I’ve heard so much about.”
“Trenton Callum,” Barrett said. “Meet Savannah Quinn. She teaches seventh grade at Ocean Street Academy. With any luck, these kids here today could be the future of ranching tomorrow.”
“Ms. Quinn,” Trent began, tipping his hat in greeting before stretching out his hand in welcome. “I’ve heard good things about your 4-H project.”
She took his hand firmly, her smile warm and welcoming. “It’s a pleasure to meet you finally, Mr. Callum. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me. You should know the children are always excited about coming out here.”
“Please call me Trent,” he replied, glancing at the group of enthusiastic kids nearby. Each child appeared in awe of their month-old colt named Trinity, a stunning buckskin Andalusian.
“I’ve been sharing the letters the kids wrote your grandparents about how much it means to them to get to know the horses. They’ve written down how much they enjoy coming out here every week. They get positively stoked about getting to visit the ranch.”
Duchess smiled at her grandson, picking up the subject and explaining it in detail. “Since the California Agricultural Department put a ban on raising livestock because of the bird flu epidemic, they haven’t been able to raise goats or lambs on their own. Coming here was the saving grace they needed to salvage the 4-H program.”
“Thanks to your grandmother,” Savannah added. “The school district is deeply grateful, as am I. And you can see the enthusiasm of my students with your own eyes. They love getting to meet your horses.”
“I’m glad we could be a part of it,” Trent said tactfully. “If you need anything else, just let one of us know. We’re happy to help the kids.”
Savannah smiled. “I’ve asked Tate several times and was just telling your grandparents how great it would be if one of you would be willing to show up at school and talk to the class. Tate keeps insisting you’re the one to do that. It would be great if you could tell them everything you know about raising Quarter Horses and cattle in person.”
Trent caught the amused look on his grandfather’s face, the twinkle in Barrett’s eyes.
“Plenty of material to talk about,” Barrett added in support of the idea. “Your grandmother has often suggested that very thing. These kids are motivated to return to the 4-H program again next year. I think it’s fine when this age gets interested in ranching, particularly horses. We have plenty of videos of Zorro and Confetti Queen taking first place in jumping when they were yearlings. You could show them that.”
Savannah arched a brow. “Confetti Queen?”
“That reddish brown horse with the white markings and royal bloodlines belongs to Duchess,” Trent explained, pointing to a beautiful three-year-old filly. “We raised her from birth after her mother died.”
“Well, then it’s settled. The first opportunity you have, my class would love to hear what you have to say about each one of the horses, show and tell,” Savannah urged. “I’d love to see the kids pool their money and raise a horse again at some point, together as a class project. It could happen, right?”
“Let’s hope that happens before they reach high school,” Duchess sniped. “We’d love to be a part of that.”
Savannah chuckled. “Maybe you could start today by giving them a heads-up about the new foal, Trinity, and providing some background about him. It’s a beautiful horse. Perhaps you could tell them why you raise that specific breed. Your grandparents tell me you breed Quarter Horses for various things but never to race.”
“We don’t sell to people who want to race them,” Duchess stated matter-of-factly. “Rodeo riding or barrel racing, sure. But most of our clients buy them for work around cattle ranches or equestrian schools where they teach dressage and jumping. The goal is to turn them into show horses. We even have some universities back east that buy from us for their equestrian teams.”
“Sounds fascinating. You could pick any number of topics because the kids seem genuinely cool with everything out here.”
“I’ll check my schedule. Isn’t school about out for summer vacation, though?”
“Yes. We have a week left before the end of the term, so the window is closing rapidly.”
“I understand they’ve been feeding and walking all the fillies and colts born this spring. It’s good for the horses when they interact early with their handlers. As long as the kids know what they’re doing and don’t spook the foals.”
Duchess cleared her throat. “They haven’t spooked anything so far. I invited Savannah and the kids to stay for lunch today. That reminds me. I need to go tell Dolly that we’re having an extra dozen people out on the terrace. That should make for an interesting part of my morning.”
“I’ll just stay here and entertain Ms. Quinn,” Trent offered. “We’ll probably be able to hear Dolly’s reaction from right here from where we’re standing.”
The teacher moved closer to the railing. “Call me Savannah. None of that Ms. Quinn stuff. It sounds so awkward and formal.”
With a wink at his grandson, Barrett slapped him on the back and headed toward the house with his wife. “We’ll see you both at lunchtime. And don’t forget we have a standing chess match tomorrow at four sharp.”
Trent smiled, tipped his hat to his granddad, and turned to their guest. “Dolly is our temperamental housekeeper and cook who practically raised Tate and me after our parents died in a car accident when we were seven.”
“How heartbreaking. I know something about loss. It’s one reason I moved here from San Diego. I wanted to spend more time trying to find out what happened to my brother. He was last seen not far from here. Turns out, he’d been murdered at a winery outside Santa Cruz and buried on their property for eighteen months. I didn’t even completely move in before someone here in Pelican Pointe solved the case for me.”
“I’m sorry about your brother. Would you have moved here otherwise?”
“Oh, I think so. Before buying my house, I discovered they had a slot open for a teacher in seventh grade. Qualified candidates were nowhere to be found. Either they didn’t want to live in Pelican Pointe or teach this age group. Either way, it worked out for me.”
“And I take it no one wanted to sponsor the 4-H Club either?”
“Exactly. Have you always lived here?”
“Tate and I have. But my dad was born back in Wyoming. Green River. My grandfather met my grandmother there in 1965 while working on another ranch. They got married the next year and had my dad before moving to California.”
A wistful look crossed his face as he thought about his parents, something he usually avoided talking about. “They named him Travis. Anyway, they eventually packed up and moved to California shortly after the rancher they worked for died. The next year, they started the Rio Verde with less than a hundred acres. My dad grew up here and met my mom in town. Her name was Linley, Linley Wilder. They were married for almost five years before having twins.”
“Twins? Do they run in the family?”
“Good question. I don’t know. I never bothered to ask. My grandfather has always been reluctant to talk about his life before marrying my grandmother. For all I know, he could’ve been born in New Jersey.”
“Trenton?” Savannah cracked. “Trenton Callum.”
He grinned. “Could be. That’s enough about me. What about you? Are you from Savannah, Georgia?”
“I wish. My mother loved the town and the name. I got stuck with it.”
“Pretty name. So, is San Diego your hometown?”
“Not really. I used to think of it that way. At least until Owen went missing. My parents settled down in San Diego after my dad retired from the Navy. My brother and I started school in Fallbrook, with me in ninth grade and him in eleventh. It was a difficult time for him, a new kid, trying to fit into a new school.”
“You were new, too.”
“True. But I wasn’t the gay son of a Navy commander. Owen was. I’m afraid he and my father didn’t get along very well after my dad found out Owen was gay. Dad didn’t find out from me. Owen and I were close, barely sixteen months apart. High school was tough on him. After graduating, my brother headed north to San Francisco for college. After getting his degree, he became a social worker. He helped people in a lot of difficult situations. But even that didn’t seem to work out for him. Eventually, he started writing for a wine magazine. That’s why he ended up at the winery, writing a review that got him killed.”
“He got killed because of a review. Talk about harsh. Online stuff can get ugly. Wait a second. I heard something about that. I thought it was just town gossip.”
“Nope. It turns out Owen stopped at the wrong winery, one that belonged to a former cop turned serial killer.”
“Scary stuff. Maybe that’s why I avoid wineries. Something about stopping at one of those snobby tasting rooms puts me off.”
Savannah smiled. “For some reason, I don’t see you drinking wine.”
“Is it the cowboy hat or the boots? We drink wine here with dinner. We just don’t make the rounds at fancy vineyards.”
“It wasn’t an insult. I’m not much of a wine drinker. After all, it got my brother killed.”
“What about that?”
“The good daughter did everything she could to find him when he went missing. But it was as if he’d disappeared into thin air. The cops tried to convince me he’d walked away from his life. But Owen wasn’t like that. He’d finally found someone he loved. They’d even bought a house together.”
“It must’ve been a difficult eighteen months not knowing what happened before they solved his murder.”
“It was agony. My dad finally came to realize how much he cared about his son. But it was too late. I know he feels guilty.”
“What about your mom?”
“She says she knew Owen was gay long before high school. Mom loved her son. It didn’t matter to her.”
“Do they still live in San Diego?”
“My parents? Absolutely. For the first time, after staying local for so many years and going to San Diego State, I struck out on my own. Coming here was the best thing I ever did.”
“Are you still considered the good daughter?”
“Most of the time. The only difference is that now I don’t care. Is it that way with your parents? Sorry. Your grandparents, I mean.”
“Well, believe it or not, I love my job. I love waking up on the ranch every day. But there was a part of me that wanted to be a farmer. Do you know that organic farm north of town?”
“Sure. I’ve seen it.”
“I had in mind to run something similar. Buy a piece of land and start farming. But this ranch is horse country; cattle are here to stay. Livestock ruins the land for farming. I’ve accepted not being able to grow anything besides a year-round garden patch that supplies the herbs Dolly needs for cooking and lots of flowers. She loves flowers of all kinds. And she loves having fresh vegetables right outside the back door.”
Savannah could tell Dolly was more than a housekeeper to Trent. The way he talked about her was more like a mother figure. But she said nothing about it and tried to keep the conversation going. “So, you’re a gardener? How fascinating. You’re just full of surprises. That’s why I bought the house on Beacon Lane. My front yard is full of flowers already. And the backyard comes with raised beds to grow vegetables. I already put seeds in the ground two months ago. So, I’m hoping to have potatoes, carrots, three kinds of lettuce, and two varieties of beans this summer.”
“That’s a good start. Unfortunately, I do my gardening in my spare time, mostly on weekends. I have a dozen books on the subject if you need them.”
“Thanks. I figure I’ll learn as I go. I’ve checked out several books on the subject at the library. But they aren’t very practical advice. And I always find the bugs eating something.”
“Ah. You might want to make sure you’re attracting beneficial insects like dragonflies and ladybugs —don’t forget the spiders— by planting the right shrubs and flowers as a companionable border to your vegetables. It’s also known as balanced gardening. Never underestimate how nature’s been getting rid of pests for hundreds of years without using chemicals.”
Savannah stared at this cowboy, who seemed to have a much deeper persona than his pretty boy image. “You love to garden,” she heard herself mutter.
“Well, yeah. Everybody has to eat, right? If you grow your own food, it makes sense on so many levels.”
One of the kids interrupted their conversation with a question for Trent about one of the foals. And when he pivoted to answer the girl, Savannah knew she’d already taken the fall. Captured by his soft-spoken approach and quiet words of encouragement, she found the sexual attraction evident. But she craved something else —a well-read man who saw beyond the surface. Trent seemed to be that man, and it both thrilled and terrified her.
Her heart raced as she watched Trent in his element, handling the foal with gentle, experienced hands. Savannah couldn’t help but wonder what other surprises the cowboy had up his sleeve. She found herself drawn to his quiet strength and how he seemed to understand the world around him.
Before she knew it, the children had gathered around them, eagerly listening to Trent’s explanations about the foal and its needs. Trent’s patience and knowledge captivated the children and Savannah alike.
“Do you ever think about leaving ranch life?” Savannah asked quietly as the children dispersed.
Trent shook his head. “Not really. This is where I belong. The land, the animals, they’re in my blood. It’s a hard life, but it’s a good one.”
Savannah smiled, feeling a connection she hadn’t expected. “I think I understand that. There’s something satisfying about working with animals. You’re where you should be.”
“And are you where you should be?” he asked.
She smiled, all the while thinking, I am now.