Page 3 of A Mile of Ocean (Pelican Pointe #19)

S he didn’t have much time to dwell on her newly minted crush before they were rounded up for lunch served off the terrace. While Mrs. Callum ushered them under a pergola where a table had been set with colorful melamine plates and a delicious-looking buffet, Trent had disappeared into the vast landscape.

One of the girls tugged at Savannah’s sleeve, asking about his whereabouts. “Miss Quinn, where did the cowboy go? Did he leave to take care of one of the horses?”

“I’m not sure,” Savannah said, glancing at Mr. Callum for an answer.

“Trent had to rescue a calf that wandered off on its own,” Barrett explained, taking a seat at the head of the table, still puffing on his pipe.

“Barrett, do something about the smoke,” Duchess decreed, waving her hand back and forth, a not-so-gentle reminder he should put out his pipe at the table.

“Yes, ma’am,” Barrett mimicked with a wink, setting his pipe next to his plate.

Duchess gestured for the kids to help themselves to the food —an array of sandwiches, two different kinds of mac and cheese, and assorted fruit— while she explained another side of ranching. “The calf that went missing relies on his mother’s milk because he’s still a baby. A prolonged separation will put the calf in a dangerous situation, leading to dehydration. In other words, he’s got to eat. Don’t worry, though. Trent will find him and get him back to his mother. I promise.”

“Because he’s been doing this since he was a kid,” a wise-sounding Joe Bradley added. “He’s been ranching since he was my age.”

“Indeed he has,” Duchess assured the group after filling her plate and sitting at the table. “And if you want to be like Trent, you should learn to ride. You can do a whole list of things if you know how to sit in a saddle. You learn problem-solving and how to make snap decisions. Builds confidence, too. When you have all three, you can run a ranch like Trent does.”

The boy nodded thoughtfully. “I’d love to ride, but where would I keep a horse? My dad barely let me get a dog.”

“It just so happens our Tate has decided to open a riding school. Anyone who loves horses could take lessons this summer. If they wanted to, that is.”

“Is it expensive?” Joe asked. “I’d have to pay for it out of my allowance. My parents will think it’s a silly way for me to spend the summer.”

“It’s not expensive because we don’t charge for the lessons,” Tate said, entering the tented pavilion and grabbing a plate. “It’s our way of getting young people interested in riding. We also have horses that need the exercise. You’d be doing us a favor by learning to ride.”

Tate looked at Savannah. “Didn’t you tell these kids that you also know a thing or two about riding? She grew up in Fallbrook around horses.”

The teacher’s face split into a grin. “It never came up.”

“It has now. Maybe this summer, you could help me teach these little brats how to ride,” Tate offered with a wink. “They seem pretty interested in learning.”

“We’re not brats,” Daisy Wyman chimed up. “At least I’m not. I always do my homework and hand it in on time. If anybody’s a brat, it’s Sam Geller.”

Sam immediately countered with a retaliatory accusation of his own.

“Welcome to my world, where insults fly back and forth,” Savannah said.

Amused at the banter, Duchess showed a rare smile. “What makes you think it gets better as they age? It sounds like I’m having lunch with a room full of grandkids. Trent and Tate still bicker when it suits them. I keep telling them they’re too old for such childish antics that one day they’ll have to grow up and stop fussing at each other.”

Before digging into her sandwich, Tate nodded. “It’s mostly Trent who does the bickering. That man could argue with a fence post.”

It was Savannah’s turn to smile, remembering the squabbles with her own brother Owen. “It’s natural for siblings to argue.” She waved a hand toward her students. “These guys have no excuse except their competitive nature in the classroom. They compete to win in everything from a math test to a spelling bee.”

“That competitive spirit works with learning to ride,” Tate pointed out to the kids. “You’ll need permission from your parents before lessons can begin. I’ll give Ms. Quinn the legal stuff before you leave here today. You return the documents to her, and she’ll get them to me for our files.”

During the rest of the meal, Savannah could feel the excitement generated by the kids. She’d never seen them so enthusiastic about anything. The end of school was always a time for restlessness as they looked forward to summer without homework. But this felt different.

After the group helped clean up the table, their visit to Rio Verde was filled with more questions and the infectious energy of curious minds.

Savannah continued to look for Trent, scanning the landscape for any sign of him. But when it was time to leave, he still hadn’t appeared.

The children lined up to board the bus, thanking Mr. and Mrs. Callum for letting them visit. Savannah was the last to board. After climbing back onto the school bus, she kept glancing around the paddocks, looking for Trent one last time. She slid onto a seat by the back window, continuing to search the surrounding area.

In the distance, she saw him standing by the fence, cradling a squirming calf in his arms. She could see now that his tough exterior masked a caring and empathetic soul, someone dedicated to his family and those around him.

A longing leaped in her heart as the school bus rattled down the long driveway and past the main entrance. Something inside that she thought was long dead had reawakened. And she wasn’t nearly ready to ignore the instant attraction she felt.

By mid-afternoon, Savannah managed to stay focused on getting her 4-H group back on school grounds in time for their last two afternoon classes. Though extracurricular field trips were always an opportunity to keep them engaged in novel ways, there was always a debate between staying in the classroom versus getting firsthand learning experience.

Savannah believed that seeing real-world environments helped shape their appreciation for other things. By far, she noticed the children were exceptionally involved in caring for the horses every time they went to the ranch. A huge plus in the firsthand department.

It didn’t escape her notice that Trent Callum had to be persuaded to interact with the kids. Maybe that’s how all strikingly good-looking ranchers acted around intruders and outsiders. In her mind, that’s how he seemed to view the group. He seemed genuinely overprotective of the colts and fillies, overseeing their feeding and handling to such a degree that she almost envied the attention he lavished upon them. But she couldn’t deny the positive impact it had on her students. Trent’s dedication to the livestock seemed more than business. He didn’t just go through the motions. His diligence seemed like a lesson about commitment and care.

As the school bus pulled to a stop in front of Ocean Street Academy, Savannah sat daydreaming at the back. She pictured Trent standing by the fence, his eyes following their departure. There was something undeniably compelling about him, a mix of rugged independence and profound responsibility. It was a magnetism that drew not just her but the children, too. Whether he knew it or not, they admired him. His reluctance to share knowledge seemed born out of introspection rather than shyness.

Once they exited the bus, they filed back to class with Savannah in the lead, guiding her students down the hallway. They were still buzzing with excitement, talking non-stop about all the foals they had seen. She couldn't help but smile, caught up in their enthusiasm.

“All right, everyone, let’s settle down,” she said, clapping her hands for attention. “How about we write down everything we learned today and what we hope to learn next year as we continue the program?”

“Next fall is months away,” Daisy Wyman said. “By that time, all the horses will be a lot older. They won’t be babies anymore.”

“But we could ride them then,” Sam Geller pointed out. “I want to learn to ride. I’ll probably need to talk my parents into lessons. They were never keen on 4-H to begin with.”

For once, the class seemed to be in agreement. They all wanted to learn to ride.

“Don’t hesitate to get me involved if you need an ally. That goes for all of you,” she explained. “I’ll hand out the permission slips for you to take home. For now, write down what you hope to happen next year,” Savannah urged. “Over the next week, we should prepare for next semester. Let’s write down what we hope our 4-H projects will include come September.”

“I hope we get to raise lambs,” one student said.

“I want to raise a baby goat,” another added. “But I’d love to spend my summer around the horses.”

The kids eagerly took out their notebooks, and soon, the room was filled with the sound of pens scratching on paper. Savannah moved around the room, reading over their shoulders and offering words of encouragement.

She thought about her earlier conversation with Trent. His hesitant commitment to speaking to the class was still fresh in her mind. She hoped he would come through for the kids, if not for her. She realized ranching was more than just a job; it was a way of life, and his perspective could inspire her students in ways textbooks never could.

When the last bell rang, Savannah watched her students file out, still talking animatedly about their day. She felt a sense of accomplishment. Today had been a good day, where learning went beyond the four walls of a classroom.

With a sigh of contentment, she gathered her things, preparing to leave. A thought crossed her mind—she could make another trip to the ranch to drop off the permission slips. She’d make a point to see Trent. There was something about the place and the man who ran it that called to her.

She shook her head, chastising herself for silly, almost schoolgirl thoughts. Trent Callum was, after all, just another part of the weekly field trip. Just another lesson in the vast curriculum she aimed to teach her students.

Instead of having fanciful thoughts about a guy, she should try to find a regular summer job. Teaching kids to ride would be the fun part. But it wouldn’t pay the bills.

Trent had never purposely avoided a woman before like he had Savannah. But something about her made him want to keep his distance. Maybe it was her enthusiasm and optimism that had been worn thin in him by the relentless demands of ranch life. In his experience, women usually loved the idea of a cowboy until they set foot on a ranch and realized things were messy. They had to be realistic enough to stick around the smelly job of running a ranch twenty-four-seven. Once they realized it wasn’t like the movies or what they saw on TV, they couldn’t run fast enough or hard enough for the nearest exit.

Running a ranch involved getting dirty. And most women he’d known didn’t like to break a nail, much less deal with animals all day.

But he couldn’t deny how Savannah’s presence seemed to stir emotions he had long buried. Whatever the reason, he knew he couldn’t avoid her forever, especially since Tate had opened her big mouth and asked her to help with riding lessons. Sure, he respected her dedication to her students and her effort to make learning an adventure. The kids deserved this experience, and he had a responsibility to make it memorable. With a resigned sigh, he decided to give that talk at the school and let them know what they were signing up for. It was more than learning to ride. He wouldn’t pull any punches but would explain ranch life in detail. It was the least he could do.

As he went about his chores, his thoughts kept drifting back to Savannah. He admired her spirit and her willingness to get her hands dirty, so to speak, for the sake of her students. It was a quality few possessed. Women like his grandmother and Tate were rare. They had both been raised to do the job, day in and day out. After all, Duchess and Tate mucked out their own horse stalls every single day without complaint. It seemed second nature to them, something you did when you loved caring for the horses so much that it became part of who you were. He just hoped Savannah and the kids knew what they were signing up for. It wasn’t just about learning to ride. Spending your summer mucking out horse manure wasn’t for everyone. And they had to learn the ins and outs of caring for the horses first. A part of him hoped he could match their enthusiasm with his own contribution, teaching them about the hard fact of ranch life —dedication to the land and livestock—often came at a price . There were challenges to managing such a large operation. He and Tate decided a long time ago to share the responsibilities fifty-fifty.

He’d had relationships, but none had developed past the initial stages of attraction and heat. Those never lasted for long because the ranch and animals always came first.

Out on the range, Trent’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. He had always prided himself on being practical, grounded, and fair-minded—qualities essential for managing people and overseeing the overall welfare of the employees and livestock. But Savannah stirred something within him, something that made him question whether he could shift priorities.

He shook his head. All this because they shared a brief conversation, nothing more than polite pleasantries, yet he had felt an inexplicable connection. Why else did he catch himself smiling at the memory of her laughter, light and carefree, a stark contrast to the weight of his daily responsibilities?

He reminded himself that life was far too complicated to feel something so deeply about someone he’d just met. It didn’t make sense.

That night, as he sat on his porch staring out into the mile of ocean below the hillside, watching the sunset, he thought about the impact he could have on those kids’ lives. He remembered the first time he fell in love with ranching—how the wide-open spaces and the rhythm of the land had given him a sense of purpose. It was just before his parents died.

Maybe, just maybe, he could help them see the beauty and the hard work that came with this way of life. And perhaps, in doing so, he might rediscover some of that lost enthusiasm within himself.

Deep in his thoughts, he heard Tate’s voice cut through the fog. She was out of breath from running across the yard. “Trent, Trent, why didn’t you answer your cell phone? Come quick. It’s Granddad. He’s fallen off his horse.”

He jumped to his feet and bolted down the steps. “No way he fell off Zorro. Did you call 911?”

“Paramedics are on their way. But he’s not moving, Trent. Duchess is with him. She thinks he’s unconscious. She’s afraid he had a stroke.”

“Where is he?”

“In the south pasture. Turtle Ridge. They went riding to watch the sun go down. Duchess texted me that he just keeled over.”

The two ran toward the barn to saddle the horses.

“You go meet the ambulance at the front gate,” Trent directed. “I’ll head to the south pasture.”

“Let’s hope Linus Canfield is the one who shows up. He’s the best paramedic around,” Tate said as she put her foot in the stirrup and swung her other leg over the saddle. She took off at a gallop.

Trent was right behind her but turned southward and raced toward his grandparents’ favorite ridge, where they often spent time talking or watching the sunset after dinner.

As Trent galloped across the fields, the sinking sun made for a tricky ride. But Phoenix knew the route and somehow realized the urgency.

The ridge soon came into view. In the waning light, his eyes immediately locked onto the small, unsettling shape on the ground. His grandmother knelt beside it, her hands pressing rhythmically on Granddad’s chest. The sight of his grandmother trying to give him CPR sent a rush of panic into his brain.

“Hang on, Granddad, hang on,” Trent murmured to himself, urging Phoenix to run faster. Once he reached the clearing, he slid off the horse in one swift motion, barely waiting for the animal to come to a full stop.

“I’m here, Duchess,” he called out, rushing to kneel beside her. “Let me take over.”

“I think he’s gone,” she sobbed, moving aside to let Trent try. “I can’t get a pulse.”

Trent picked up a limp, pale hand that matched the skin color on his grandfather’s face. “The paramedics are on the way.”

He was still performing CPR fifteen minutes later when the ambulance bumped along the rutted road and stopped near the ridge.

Linus Canfield jumped out of the front seat with his medical kit and rushed over to where Barrett Callum lay motionless. “How long have you been doing CPR?”

“Since he first went down twenty minutes or so ago,” Duchess replied, wringing her hands. “He hasn’t been conscious since.”

“And he fell from his horse?” Linus repeated, glancing over at Tate, who mentioned a fall on the 911 call.

“I thought that’s what happened,” Tate conveyed. “Falling off Zorro isn’t like him, though. Granddad’s been riding that stallion ever since I can remember.”

Duchess let out a long exhale. “He didn’t fall. Well, he did, but more like he fell on his side and rolled to the ground. We were sitting on our horses, staring at the ocean and watching the sunset like we’ve done a thousand times before. One minute, he was sitting in the saddle. The next, he tipped over and hit the ground. I saw him keel over and go down. Half an hour earlier, we were having dinner; everything seemed fine. He was talking like normal. It happened so fast that I might’ve led Tate to believe he’d fallen off his horse. Could it have been a stroke, Linus?”

“Maybe,” Linus muttered while focusing on the patient. He quickly checked the pupils and then looked for a head injury, feeling around the head. But there was no blood anywhere that he could see. He took his vitals, noting that his blood pressure was dropping rapidly, almost to nothing. Because of the CPR , he picked up a faint heartbeat.

If it was a stroke, Linus knew each minute a portion of the brain went without blood flow was crucial to surviving. Assessing the severity of his condition, he ticked off the vital signs again, relaying the data to the ER staff back at Charlotte Dowling Medical Center. “Last known well time was approximately thirty-five minutes ago.”

Each bit of information he delivered back to the hospital was essential for a better outcome once the patient arrived for treatment.

“Let’s get moving,” Linus ordered, still communicating with the hospital through his headset. “Possible stroke victim. I’ve started an IV and will administer oxygen en route. We’re stabilizing him now for transport. Run time is ten to fifteen minutes out.”

He turned to Duchess. “Dowling is a Level I trauma center. Gideon Nighthawk is the best there is. He’ll be in good hands.”

“Will he need surgery?”

“Probably. All I know is it’s not his heart. He shows all the signs of a massive stroke. Whatever’s wrong is happening internally.”

“We’ll follow them all the way,” Trent told his grandmother as Barrett Callum was loaded into the back of the ambulance.

Still in contact with the ER, Linus climbed aboard the back with his patient. It wasn’t until he sat next to him on the gurney and turned his head slightly that he noticed the real problem . In the center of the back of his head, he saw a small, circular entry wound, likely from a small caliber bullet. There was no exit, which meant the bullet had lodged somewhere in his brain.

While hooking up the oxygen tube around his nose to help him breathe, Linus updated the ER staff on what to expect upon arrival: “Correction. Not a stroke. We’re not dealing with a stroke victim. On closer examination, we have a GSWB —c enter back of the head, small caliber, perhaps a .22 caliber, no exit wound, no blood visible. All the bleeding must be internal. Swelling of the brain is likely. He’s been unconscious for forty-five minutes, possibly longer.”

Linus squeezed the man’s shoulder and whispered into his ear, “Hang in there, Mr. Callum. Now that we know the problem, we’ll fix you up, and you’ll be good as new in no time.”

But Linus knew he’d need a miracle because ninety-one percent of gunshot wounds to the head were almost always fatal. As they raced down the roadway, he hoped Barrett Callum would be one of the lucky nine percent who survived.