Against the Storm1 Read Free

shady trees and an old-fashioned, covered front porch. When his dad died, Trace had inherited the house along with the business, a company his father had started when he first got out of the army.
    Seth Rawlins had been a Ranger, a tough son of a bitch. Following in his footsteps, Trace had also enlisted and become a Ranger, figuring on a career in the military. Then six years ago, his dad had been killed in acar accident and Trace had come home to take over the business as he knew his father would have wished.
    He slowed his dark green Jeep Grand Cherokee, pulled into the parking area in front of his office and turned off the engine. Recently, he had purchased the two-story brick structure—or rather, he and the bank owned it together until he paid off the mortgage. Which, since his profits were up and he was making double payments, he hoped wouldn’t take too long.
    In the years since he’d taken over his father’s business, he had doubled the size of the company and opened a branch in Dallas. As a kid, with his dad gone much of the time, he had been raised on his grandfather’s ranch, a place where hard work was expected of a man. Trace still owned the ranch, but it was leased out to a cattle company now. He only went out there once in a while, to check on the old house and the acreage he’d retained around it, but he always enjoyed the time he spent in the country.
    He wiped his feet on the mat in front of the office door and stepped inside. The walls were painted dark green and the place was furnished simply, with oak desks for his staff and oak furniture in the waiting area. Framed photos of cattle grazing in the pastures on the ranch hung on the walls.
    He looked over to the reception area. “Hey, Annie, what’s up?”
    Seated behind her desk, his office manager, Annie Mayberry, glanced up from typing on her computer.
    “You got a couple of calls, nothing too exciting.”
    Annie was in her sixties, with frizzy gray hair dyed blond, and a rounded figure from the doughnuts she loved to eat in the morning.
    “Maybe you could give me a hint,” Trace drawled.
    She pulled off her reading glasses. “You got a call from Evan Schofield. He says Bobby Jordane is threatening to sue you for assault. Evan says not to worry about it. Bobby couldn’t stand for anyone to find out he got his—I’m quoting here—‘ass whipped’ the way he did.”
    Trace chuckled, but Annie’s penciled eyebrows went up. “So you got in a fight with Bobby Jordane?” Disapproval rang in her voice. “I thought you’d outgrown that kind of thing.” Annie had worked for his father before Trace had taken over. She had mothered Seth Rawlins, who had lost his wife when Trace was born, then mothered Trace, since he didn’t have one.
    “It wasn’t exactly a fight. More like a discussion with fists. Mostly mine.” Absently, he rubbed his bruised knuckles.
    “You know you’re getting way too old for that rough stuff.”
    “I’ll keep that in mind.” She was a small woman, but feisty. She didn’t take guff from anyone, including him, and that was exactly the way he wanted it. “What else have you got?”
    “The Special Olympics called looking for a donation. I phoned the bookkeeper, told her to send them a check.”
    “Good. What else?”
    “Marvin’s Boat Repair called. Joe says he’s finished working on your engine. Ranger’s Lady’ s running like a top.”
    Trace nodded. “I think I’ll go down to Kemah for the weekend.” As often as he could manage, Trace made the forty-mile trip to where he docked his thirty-eight-foot sailboat. He loved being out on the water. There were times he wondered if being a SEAL wouldn’t have beena better fit than being a Ranger. But then he wouldn’t have met Dev Raines and Johnnie Riggs, two of his closest friends, and guys like Jake Cantrell.
    “Jake called,” Annie said as if she read his thoughts, which she seemed to have a knack for doing. “He’s taking a job down in Mexico for