Against the Storm. Kat Martin
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gave in to those sorts of urges.
“Oh, I almost forgot the sandwiches.”
He smiled. “Sandwiches, huh? I like the way you think. I’m hungry already.”
Maggie ran back inside and grabbed the small cooler she had filled with ham-and-cheese sandwiches on fresh rye bread, and a couple Diet Cokes. Mr. He-man probably drank the real thing, but today, diet would have to do.
Trace and Rowdy walked to the rear of the Jeep. “Load up,” he said, and the dog hopped onto the tailgate, went inside and lay down on his bed. Trace left the rear window rolled partway down to let in fresh air, and the little dog seemed pleased.
“Rowdy looks very much at home back there,” Maggie said as she climbed up in the passenger seat. “Do you always take him with you?”
“Most of the time. Rowdy loves to sail almost as much as I do.”
“Smart dog.”
“He’s a border collie. They’re bred to herd cattle and sheep, one of the smartest breeds.”
“Where did you get him?”
“Gabe Raines—the guy who took the photos in my office? His brother owns a ranch in Wyoming. Rowdy was a pup from one of the litters up there.”
Trace closed her door, then went around to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel. He wasn’t wearing his cowboy hat today, just a white ball cap with an anchor on the front, plus jeans and a yellow knit shirt. No boots, either, just a pair of white canvas deck shoes that were clean but had seen plenty of wear.
The lack of sleep didn’t seem to faze him. He looked every bit as good as he had the night before.
Not liking the train of her thoughts, Maggie sat up a little straighter. “I’d like to get a dog someday,” she said, just to make conversation. “I had a cocker spaniel when I was a kid, but my mom took it with her when she went back to Florida. I keep thinking someday I’ll get one, but right now I’m too busy.”
Trace cast her a glance. “You said you were four when your mom and dad divorced. It must have been tough on you.”
She felt the old familiar ache in her chest. “It was hard. My mother went on with her life and we barely stayed in touch. My dad did his best, but he had to make a living. He owned a small trucking company so he was gone from home a lot.”
“Mine, too. My mom died when I was born. My dad was in the army, so my grandparents pretty much raised me.”
“Out on the ranch,” she said, remembering what he had told her.
“That’s right.”
When he didn’t add more, she let the subject drop. Didn’t sound as if either of them had had a fantastic childhood.
The Jeep rolled along the shady streets. From her town house, they drove through the University District onto the 59 Freeway, then took the 45 south toward the ocean. Kemah was one of a string of seaside communities that fronted Galveston Bay.
At the edge of the water, small weekend retreats that had been there for years sat next to sprawling, newly constructed mansions. Fine white sand surrounded them, lush vegetation and lots of palm and live oak trees.
Trace kept his boat—a sleek, white, low-hulled thirty-eight-footer—at the Kemah Marina, she discovered.
“What kind of boat is it?” Maggie asked. He climbed aboard, then reached down to take her hand and guide her up the steps and onto the deck. “Hunter Legend. Been a great boat to own.”
It was immaculately clean inside, she saw as he gave her a quick tour, and nicely fitted out with blue canvas cushions and lots of teakwood kept highly polished. A dining area and a galley; two cabins and a head.
“So what do you think?”
“She’s beautiful.” Ranger’s Lady was the name painted on the stern. “Name fits, too. Lone Ranger, right? That’s the way I thought of you that day in the Texas Café.”
Trace chuckled. “Not that kind of Ranger. U.S. Army. Kind of a tradition in our family.”
“You were a Ranger?”
He nodded. “My dad, too. That was the reason he was gone so much.”
“Where were you stationed?”
“South America, mostly. We were there but we weren’t, if you know what I mean.”
“I think I can figure it out.” She cast him a glance. “I bet you’ve always been somewhat of a maverick.”
Trace grinned. “Somewhat.”
She looked away, not liking the flutter that grin caused in her stomach. “Mind if I take some shots?”
He glanced around. He had been doing that all day. Second nature, she imagined, for an investigator. And she was, after all, paying him to find a stalker.
“Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll get ready to cast off while you wander a little. Just don’t go too far.”
“No problem.”
Trace went to work, and she watched his easy, economical movements. No wasted effort, just do the job and get it done. There was a certain grace there, too. She wondered what he’d look like on the back of a horse, and thought he would probably look as if he’d been born there.
Leaving him to his work, she climbed onto the dock and took some photos of the yachts in the marina. She wandered a bit, snapping a shot here and there: an old lady in a huge straw hat walking her little rust-colored Pekinese; two old men playing cards at a table next to the water; a little kid licking the biggest yellow-and-white rock candy sucker she had ever seen.
She returned to the Ranger’s Lady, snapping photos along the way. When she reached the boat, she realized Trace must have been watching her the entire time she was gone. He was only doing his job, she reminded herself, nothing more. Which for reasons she couldn’t explain, she found mildly annoying.
He helped her aboard, then went back to examining one of the lines that hoisted the sail.
He had stripped off his cotton knit shirt and jeans, leaving him bare chested in a pair of navy blue swim trunks. With his back to her, she couldn’t help checking him out. His skin was a smooth golden-brown and rippling with muscle. His legs were long and corded. There wasn’t an ounce of fat anywhere to be seen.
She couldn’t resist a couple of shots of such a gorgeous man at work on his boat, but at the rhythmical click of the shutter, Trace turned. Broad, solidly muscled shoulders, a chest banded with sinew and lightly furred with dark hair, and a six-pack stomach…
She felt that funny lift again, only a little embarrassed to be caught staring. “I guess you really were a Ranger.”
He just shrugged. “There were times being in condition meant the difference between life and death.”
“You’re not a Ranger now,” she reminded him.
“Old habits die hard.” He lowered a pair of wraparound sunglasses over those whiskey-brown eyes. “You ready?”
She looked at him standing there with his legs splayed, his gaze on the horizon, and had the oddest feeling he was as much a Ranger now as he ever had been. The breeze gusted just then, rattling the ship’s rigging. The Gulf stretched in front of them, blue and beckoning.
“You bet I’m ready.”
Trace tossed off the lines and Maggie settled herself on one of the blue canvas cushions. Rowdy took a place beside her. His ears perked up as the boat began to move, anticipation clear on his little doggy face. Trace manned the wheel and the boat eased away from the dock.
“You’ll have to earn your keep, you know.” He flicked her a glance. “I’ll need you to bring up the fenders and tend the