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 surroundedthem, 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
“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 surroundedthem, 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
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