Page 4 of A Mile of Ocean (Pelican Pointe #19)

E xpecting a stroke diagnosis at the hospital, Trent was stunned to learn his grandfather had been shot. While he waited for Gideon Nighthawk to perform surgery to try and remove the bullet and stop the bleeding in the brain, he looked around the waiting room at the people who had accompanied him to the ER. Duchess was still trying to process the information, so much so that she couldn’t answer. All she could do was cradle her head in her hands and moan.

“I don’t understand,” Trent muttered. “Who would have done this? And why?”

Dolly put her arms around Duchess, rocking her in a sisterly embrace. Dolly looked fierce and determined. Her snow-white hair was cropped short with spikes on top and dyed feathery pink. “Wait till I get my hands on the lowlife that did this.”

“You and me both,” Tate stated, wiping away tears. Always detail-oriented, she seemed intent on getting the facts straight about the shooting. “How far does a .22 caliber bullet travel anyway?”

“Up to a mile and a half,” Trent stated, anger building. “But the shooter would only need three hundred yards to be effective.”

“That’s three football fields,” Tate figured, attempting to work out the angle in her head. “Could it have been an accident? Someone who wandered onto our land by mistake, shooting at something else? Someone hunting in the woods near Turtle Ridge, maybe?”

Duchess lifted her head out of her hands to stare at her granddaughter. “Don’t you understand that I didn’t even hear a gunshot at all? Not the sound of a bullet whizzing by or anything else even close to a rifle shot. How could this happen and me not know he’d taken a bullet to the head?”

“That’s what we intend to find out,” Brent Cody said from ten feet away. With Eastlyn Parker standing beside him, he continued, “My office will need to find out what type bullet it was first to make sure it was a .22 caliber. That’s why Eastlyn’s here, waiting to bag the bullet as soon as Barrett’s out of surgery. Linus says the entry point was small. He sent me a photo of the wound. Even though it looks like a .22, we’ll need confirmation. Then we’ll need a statement explaining where you all were at the time of the shot and try to pinpoint where it originated from and from which direction.”

“Might as well be now,” Duchess grumbled. “Barrett was sitting on Zorro. I was sitting on Confetti Queen. We were facing west, looking out over the ridge at the setting sun. The two horses were right beside each other, not two feet apart. I saw him fall, tip over in the saddle, and fall to the left side of Zorro. I watched him hit the ground. I thought he’d suffered a stroke or something. It never occurred to me that he’d been shot.”

“You never heard gunfire?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. I heard nothing except that Barrett hit the ground with a thud. I jumped off my horse and went over to where he was. I kept asking him what was wrong. He didn’t say a word because he couldn’t speak. I remember texting Tate right away to tell her what had happened. I told her to call 911. I even tried dialing it myself, but my hands shook so hard I couldn’t. I dropped my phone. It’s still out there somewhere in the grass. When I glanced over at Barrett again, for several long seconds, he looked like he was struggling to breathe, so that’s when I started chest compressions.”

Tate handed off her phone to Brent. “Here. Read the text for yourself. It came in at eight-fifteen. When I left my house I ran over to Trent’s place, it must’ve taken another ten minutes. It wasn’t completely dark when the paramedics showed up. So, we must have reached Turtle Ridge around eight-forty, eight-forty-five. Trent was already there helping Gran.”

Brent took Tate’s phone and studied the text, noting the timeline seemed to make sense. “Do you have anyone angry about anything that I should know about? Has Barrett argued with anyone? Has he upset anyone lately?”

“No,” Duchess replied sharply. “Nothing unusual has happened. The last time he argued with anyone was about all the stupid changes in major league baseball. That was last spring with Brad Ratliff at the car lot. Or maybe it was with Tucker Ferguson at the hardware store. Neither one of those men would kill Barrett because he thinks the pitch clock is just plain stupid.”

Trent chuckled. “Granddad doesn’t think the game needs speeding up. He enjoyed watching his A’s just the way old-time baseball was played, even if it took four or five hours to end the game. They’re his favorite team. He had an opinion about limiting the mound visits. But that pitch clock really drove him up the wall.”

Brent smiled. “I can’t say I disagree with that. Okay. If you think of anything that I should know, text me. Tomorrow morning, I’ll send my people out to take measurements at first light. In the meantime, don’t go back to the scene and disturb anything tonight. Got that?”

“Got it,” Trent said. “But what if the bastard who did this comes back?”

“Then don’t let your guard down. For what it’s worth, I don’t think this was an accidental shot.”

“I don’t think so either,” Trent noted. “They were right on target.”

Brent slapped Trent on the back and bobbed his head toward the double doors. “Step outside with me for a second, will you?”

“Sure. What’s up?” Trent asked as he followed Brent out onto the sidewalk.

“I’m assigning Trish Vosberg to watch things tonight at the ranch. You should see a patrol car in the area when you get home. She’ll be stationed there all night. Call if you see anyone hanging around who shouldn’t be there. Right now, Theo Woodsong and Colt Del Rio are out there walking the scene with flashlights, trying to make sense of the shot, the angle, and the shooter’s location. They’ll report back to me if they find anything. Tomorrow, I’ll take a fresh look myself.”

“Who’ll be overseeing the case?”

“I’ll be in charge. But the legwork will likely be up to my entire team. They’ll all work together to find out who did this.”

“Thanks. There, for a minute in the waiting room, I was afraid you thought my grandmother did it.”

“It’s too early to rule anyone out. But from the looks of the entry point, it was from some distance away. That’s why the entry point was so small in diameter.”

“How far away?”

“Half a mile. That’s why I think you should be on alert. Whoever did this might come back.”

“It sounds like you’re looking for a marksman with deadly aim. But snipers don’t usually use a .22 for that kind of job.”

“Exactly. Hitmen might use a .22 handgun up close to the side of the head. But snipers, I’d think they’d use something with a scope and heavier ammo. But as I said, I’m keeping an open mind. It’s too early to rule anyone or anything out at this stage. But I do wonder.”

“About what?”

“How many .22 rifles do you have at the ranch?”

“Everybody carries a .22 rifle, Brent. All the ranch hands carry one in case they come across a snake or any other type of predator. Everybody has one. All of us carry a .22.”

“That’s what I thought. I’ll call Colt and Theo to check each one while they’re on-site to see if one’s been fired.”

“You don’t think it was one of our own, do you? That’s ridiculous. There’s not one of those men I wouldn’t trust with my life. Why would they want Granddad dead?”

“It’s a standard elimination process, Trent. Did you do background checks on all of them when they were hired?”

Trent rubbed the back of his neck and began to pace. “Probably not. I know Granddad hired Woody thirty years ago, before I was even born. It’s the same with Cecil, who has been there almost as long as Woody. Blake grew up around here. You’ve known him since he was a kid. He’s been coming to the ranch ever since. It's the same with Toby Mattison, Brock Childers, and Monty Wesson. They’re all local. Not one of those guys has a reason to want Barrett Callum dead, not one.”

“That you know about,” Brent stated. “Look, this is my job. You wouldn’t want me to overlook anyone. And right now, we’re looking at attempted murder. Just know that the person who did this might be closer than you think. You might want to beef up security.”

Trent let that sink in as he returned to the ER, where he spotted Gideon Nighthawk, still dressed in his surgical gear, heading toward his family. His serious, light blue eyes told Trent something was very wrong. The doctor removed his surgeon’s cap to reveal a mop of dark hair turning grayish at the temples. The look on his face said it all.

“I’m so sorry,” Gideon began. “Barrett passed away during surgery. There was no way to stop the internal bleeding. Not only that, but he also suffered massive damage to his brain tissue. His CT scan showed the brain had ceased to function.”

Trent heard the words but couldn’t fathom the loss. Tate put her arms around Trent while he wrapped his around his grandmother. Dolly tried to wrap all of them in a hug. The four stood like that, pillars of grief, hurting in every fiber of their being. But if his heart felt like it was breaking, how did he expect his grandmother to hold up to the shock of losing her husband after nearly sixty years of marriage? He had no words of comfort for that. He felt numb. All he could do now was hold the people in his life closer.

Eastlyn tugged Dr. Nighthawk to the side and whispered, “I hate to intrude, but I’m here to bag the bullet.”

“A fragment is all that’s left,” Gideon said, his voice low, removing a small plastic bag from his pocket. “Picture the bullet intact, hitting its target, then bouncing around in the brain and working its way through soft tissue, penetrating everything in its path. It basically disintegrated.”

Eastlyn took the baggie and studied the small fragment. “This started out as a .22?”

“From what I could tell, yes, the ammo was definitely a .22 long rifle, sixty grain. You can let me know down the road if forensics agrees with that assessment. I’m not sure why people think a .22 bullet won’t damage much, but they couldn’t be more wrong.”

“Maybe that’s why the shooter used it, maximum damage at, say, a hundred yards away.”

“That’s something you should think about re-creating,” Gideon said. “The shooter was remarkably skilled and accurate. The bullet entered the bottom of the cerebrum and the top of the cerebellum and nicked the brainstem. We’re talking about a lot of damage involving problem-solving, speech, emotions, learning, you name it. He never had a chance at recovery.”

“Hmm. Interesting. It sounds like the shot couldn’t have been placed better for maximum damage,” Eastlyn muttered. “I’ll suggest a re-enactment. Thanks, Gideon.”

“I wish I could’ve given them a better outcome,” he said, bobbing his head toward the grieving family. “I hope you catch the guy who did this.”

“We won’t stop until we do.”

An hour later, like zombies, the four of them walked out of the hospital into the parking lot to Trent’s workhorse of a crew cab truck, feeling dead inside.

The sky was an overcast haze of fog and mist that did nothing to help the anguish. As Trent warmed up the truck and turned on the windshield wipers, slapping rhythmically against the glass, he watched Dolly and Tate get comfortable in the backseat while his grandmother rode in front with him.

His grandmother had stopped crying somewhere between signing the mountain of hospital paperwork and letting reality sink in. But Tate kept sobbing intermittently. Dolly sat stone-faced, clutching a handkerchief.

“I keep thinking this is a bad dream, and I’ll wake up from this nightmare,” Tate cried as she put her head in Dolly’s lap.

Trent glanced in the rearview mirror at his sister and then at his grandmother, who leaned her head up against the cold glass window. Their faces were etched with sorrow. The weight of loss hung heavily in the truck, an almost tangible presence that seemed to suffocate the air around them.

“How are we supposed to move on from this?” Tate asked, her voice barely above a whisper as the truck idled.

Duchess, her voice strained and hoarse, replied, “We take things one day at a time. We have to—for Barrett’s sake. He’d want that ranch to keep running no matter what hardships we face. We’re Callums. We don’t quit. It shouldn’t all fall on Trent’s shoulders, either. You hear that, Tate? Nothing changes. We get up every day and do the work we’ve been doing for years.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Trent said. “Does that sound like a plan to you, Tate?”

“Of course. It’s just that I feel like I’m reliving the same nightmare that happened when we were seven. Another hole in my heart.”

“Don’t you worry about a thing,” Dolly said. “I’ll be there for you just as I was when you two were kids.”

Trent said nothing as he pulled out of the parking lot. The rain began to fall in earnest, slamming against the windshield in a steady downpour. The rhythmic sound of the wipers became a somber metronome, marking each passing moment with a mournful tick.

As they drove through the rain-soaked streets, the familiar landmarks of the town blurred past them—the pub had an overflowing Friday night crowd of patrons, people stood in line at the ice cream shop, and the pier had people eating from a picnic basket. So many memories had been forged while swimming on that same beach. The Pointe—where they had celebrated countless birthdays since he was a boy—was lit up with strings of lights. Customers dined on the terrace overlooking the ocean, enjoying their seafood platters like nothing bad had happened.

People were out and about, proving life went on despite each place holding a fragment of their past, now tinged with the sorrow of their present.

The drive back to the ranch seemed to take forever, each mile stretching into an eternity. Silence enveloped them, broken only by the soft hum of the engine and the occasional sob from Tate. The truck seemed to move through a world apart, a liminal space where time stood still, and the weight of their loss was the only constant.

As they neared the ranch, the rain began to lighten, the droplets becoming a gentle drizzle. The familiar sight of the rolling fields and the distant silhouette of the barn brought a bittersweet comfort. It was home, but it would never be the same.

Trent steered the truck past the main gate and spotted the police cruiser sitting across the road. He waved at the cop and continued down the long driveway, the tires crunching on the gravel. The house loomed ahead, a testament to Barrett Callum’s fortitude, a man who had lived, loved, and worked this land. The porch light flickered, radiating a warm glow in the darkness.

His grandmother’s voice broke the silence, trembling yet resolute. “We’ll get through this together,” she repeated, her eyes fixed on the house. “We do this for Barrett. For each other. For those who’ll come later.”

Tate burst into tears again and jumped out of the truck, running up the steps.

“I’ll see to her,” Dolly promised, hopping out of the backseat and slamming the door behind her.

All Trent could do was grip the steering wheel, tightening his hold. He knew the road ahead would be long and arduous, but they had each other. And that, in the end, was what mattered most.

He walked his grandmother to the door. Once inside, the familiar scent of the ranch greeted them—a blend of hay, leather, and the earthy aroma of the land. It was a scent that spoke of home, of roots deeply planted in the soil of their family history. But now, it also carried the weight of absence, the void left by Barrett’s passing.

Each room seemed to echo with memories: the dining room, where Barrett had told his stories; the living room, where they had gathered for holidays, unwrapping presents; and his study, where his laughter had once filled the air. Now, those echoes were tinged with loss; the spaces he once occupied were now hauntingly empty.

The two of them moved through the house like shadows. Each lost in their grief yet bound by an unspoken understanding. While Dolly busied herself in the kitchen, preparing a pot of tea, the familiar rhythm was a small comfort amidst the chaos. Tate retreated to one of the rooms upstairs that had once been hers as a child, the door closing softly behind her.

Duchess found herself drawn to Barrett’s study. She flipped on the lights, revealing the walls lined with books and mementos of her husband’s life.

Left alone with his grandmother, Trent asked quietly, “Can I get you anything besides tea? Do you want me to stay here tonight?”

But Duchess didn’t answer. Instead, he watched as she headed straight to his grandfather’s massive mahogany desk and opened a drawer, her fingers tracing the worn edges of a leather-bound journal. She flipped through the pages and was greeted by Barrett’s scrawled handwriting, the pages filled with years of his thoughts and reflections. “He wanted you to have this. You need to read it. I want you to absorb what’s in there. If you plan to run this ranch, you need some insight into everything that happened over his lifetime.”

“I haven’t had time to deal with his death, let alone read his journal.”

“Make time,” Duchess insisted.

Feeling the energy between them changing, Trent studied her face. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, dropping into the office chair. “Obviously, that’s a lie, but there’s nothing you can do for me tonight. Nobody can make this go away. If I need to talk, Tate’s right upstairs. And I have Dolly, who can talk to a fence post and always manages to make me forget my troubles. You go home. Get some sleep. Or try to, at least. Tomorrow will likely be brutal for all of us.”

“The morning after,” Trent mumbled. “I should let the ranch hands know. Brent might’ve already taken care of that. He sent his guys to check all the .22 rifles he could find on the premises.”

Duchess scoffed at the idea. “I hope you told him how ridiculous that is.”

“I did. But he still wanted to check them out, so he probably will run background checks on them.”

She let out a solid, long breath in pent-up frustration. “I’d go to bat for any of our guys any day, any time.”

“Same here. So I should probably talk to them tonight.”

“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 hospital first. 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.”

Savannah settled into an armchair, her eyes drawn to the journal Trent had placed on the side table. “What’s in the journal?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I have no idea. It belonged to Granddad. Duchess said I should read it to learn more about my grandfather losing his own son, my dad. Maybe it’ll help make sense of everything. I don’t know. My brain is mush.”

She opened the book, flipping through a few pages. “How fascinating. And she gave it to you tonight, of all nights.”

“That pretty much was my reaction. I haven’t even processed what happened today, let alone go back to the time I lost my parents.”

They fell into a companionable silence, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the room. Despite the heavy conversation and tragic circumstances, Savannah felt a sense of comfort settle over her about being here, in this moment, with Trent.

“I’ll get us that brandy I promised,” Trent said, moving over to cabinet with several different kinds of liquor.

He poured two glasses of brandy, handing one to Savannah, who accepted it with a grateful smile. They clinked their glasses together silently, each lost in their own thoughts for a moment.

She sipped the warm liquid, feeling it spread a gentle heat through her limbs. “Will it fall to you to run the ranch alone?” she asked quietly, her eyes on Trent.

A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Make no mistake, my grandmother is still in charge. She and my grandfather built this place from the ground up. Every piece of wood, every nail—it’s all them. Everything you see, every cow, every horse, they handpicked to be here. I don’t see that changing any time soon.”

Savannah nodded, feeling the weightiness of his words. “An inspired legacy.”

Trent took a deep breath, his gaze distant. “It is. And it’s a lot to live up to. But when my time comes to take over, I’ll do my best. Same with Tate. Although she isn’t as excited about the prospect, she is as capable as I am of running this place.”

“Would the rest of the employees be as willing to work for a woman as they were your grandfather?”

“Every one of them respects Duchess Callum. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be here for long.”

“I’m surprised at that.”

Trent cracked another grin. “Granddad wouldn’t have put up with anyone dissing the Duchess.”

“Why do they call her that? I can’t tell if it’s a compliment or a dig.”

“Back in Wyoming, she was the only daughter of a rancher that doted on her. The locals thought she was spoiled rotten and took to calling her Duchess. The nickname stuck throughout. Granddad told me that when I was six years old. I never forgot it.”

“So it is kind of a dig in a way?”

“Yeah. I suppose it is. Although I never met my grandmother’s side of the family. All she said about them was that they came from pioneer stock and struck gold in 1867. Come to think of it, I never actually met my granddad’s side of the family either.”

Savannah sat back in the chair. “I can’t believe he’s gone. I just had lunch with him and your grandmother today. I only knew him briefly—less than six months—but he seemed approachable. He wanted my students to learn as much about horses as possible. Tell me something about him I might not know.”

Trent’s face softened, a gentle light coming into his eyes. “Well, let’s see, he once rode a wild Mustang bareback just to prove a point. That horse was a remarkable sight, all muscle and fire. Granddad said it was about trust, about respect. He did it, and that horse never gave him one bit of trouble after that.”

Savannah laughed softly. “I can almost picture it. He seemed like the type who wouldn’t back down from a challenge.”

“Oh, he was a character. But he was kind too. He had a way with people and animals. He’d slowed down some these past few months. When it began to happen, some days I still expected to see him out there, checking on the cattle or mending a fence all by himself. I remember one time, during a bad storm, he went out to rescue a calf and returned with a wild pony that had gotten separated from its mother. That happened when I was twelve.”

They sat silently for a while, the fire crackling and the shadows dancing around the room. Savannah felt a strange sense of calm settle over her, a feeling she hadn’t experienced in a long time. Something about being here, in this house with Trent, felt right.

After a while, she stood up, smoothing down her skirt. “I should go. It’s late, and you need your sleep.”

Trent walked her to her car, his hand lingering on the door handle. “Thanks for dropping by, Savannah. It meant a lot.”

She smiled, a warmth spreading through her chest. She patted his jawline with her hand. “Anytime, Trent. Take care. Don’t worry about talking to the class.”

“No, I want to do it for him. The funeral will likely be on Monday or Tuesday. I could make time on Wednesday if that’s okay with you.”

“It’s a date.”

He ran his fingers gently down her cheek. “Not even close. For a first date, we’ll do something special, something memorable, like having dinner under the stars.”

“It’s a good thing I’m an outdoorsy kind of girl. I look forward to it. Goodnight, Trent.”

“Goodnight, Savannah,” he whispered as he took her chin and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “A sample of more to come.”

Maybe the crisp night air or the heat between them had her hesitating to leave him. “That’s tempting enough to stay, but it’s too soon.”

“I know.”

As she drove away, the rain stopped, the clouds rolled eastward, and moonlight and stars illuminated the driveway down to the gate. He watched her turn onto the road and couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight had marked the beginning of something profound, something that neither of them could fully understand yet.

He could almost picture his grandfather sending him a knowing wink. Without realizing it, he smiled and looked skyward. “Yeah, I thought you’d approve of that.”