Against the Storm. Kat Martin

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СКАЧАТЬ on his boat in Galveston Bay.

       Maggie was surprised she had agreed to the trip. But as Trace had said, the security people would be working in the town house all day, and she really needed to take some more pictures. She wanted to finish the coffee-table book and if she got lucky, she could get a few more shots for her show at the Twin Oaks Gallery in a couple weeks.

       After Trace left in the wee hours of the morning, Maggie had returned upstairs and managed to get a couple hours of sleep. But it wasn’t nearly enough. As she dressed in a pair of cropped navy blue pants, a red-striped top and sandals, she yawned, feeling groggy and out of sorts. Coffee helped but not that much. At least the weather was good. Still cool, but no longer cold, the air not too humid.

       Trace returned at ten, his Cherokee loaded with gear. “You ready?” he asked when she opened the door.

       “Just about.” She looked down at the black-and-white dog standing next to him on her doorstep.

       “That’s Rowdy,” he said. “Rowdy, this is Maggie.”

       Her eyes widened when the animal barked.

       “Hi, Rowdy,” she said, because he seemed to demand a greeting. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

       He barked again.

       She bit back a laugh. “I just need to load my camera gear.” She turned to collect the Nikon D3S sitting in its case in the entry. It was equipped with a fantastic Tamron 28-300 lens she had purchased a few weeks back. The new equipment had set her back nearly seven thousand dollars, but in her line of work, it was an essential investment.

       Trace walked past her, gently elbowing her aside when she reached for the bag, and hoisted the strap over one of his wide shoulders.

       “I’m used to carrying my own equipment,” she said.

       “I’m sure you are.” But he kept on walking, hauling the stuff out to his Jeep and loading it into the backseat.

       “I hope you aren’t charging me extra for that,” she grumbled as she carried her yellow canvas swim bag out to the car.

       He grinned, a flash of white in a suntanned face so handsome it made her breath catch. An amazing face, she thought, with those hard, sculpted features and intense, whiskey-brown eyes, so warm and direct they sent a little quiver into her stomach.

       “No extra charge,” he said, sliding her tripod onto the seat. “Not today.”

       She watched the flex of those incredible biceps she had noticed at the Texas Café, and told herself there was nothing wrong with being physically attracted to a man. After all, she was a young, fully mature woman, though she rarely 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 СКАЧАТЬ