“Wrong season for mackerel,” the oldest man in the group said, coming forward to peer critically at Cooper. “Allie says snapper are running thick in the bay. Remington, you said?”

“Yes, sir,” Cooper responded, a tad less sure of himself now. Of course, mackerel season was later in the summer. He knew that. He thrust out his hand. “I’m the new owner of Remington Charters. Johnny was my uncle.”

“Wait a minute,” the older man said, holding up one finger. “Are you the nephew who puked on my fish?”

Cooper winced inwardly. A very long-time client, apparently. No wonder Allie hadn’t wanted to disappoint him. “That was my cousin, Reece. I’m the one who cleaned the fish afterward.” He’d been the only one capable. Reece couldn’t stand to look at fish guts, and Max had been too young-and too easily distracted-to be trusted with a sharp knife.

“Well, okay then,” the man said, backing off. “I’m sorry for your loss. Johnny was a heckuva boat captain. I understood his gal was taking over.”

“We have some legal technicalities to work through,” Cooper said smoothly, “but for now she’s helping me out. Can I get anyone a beverage?”

“Allie already showed us to the coffee,” another of the men said. He had a thick Texas drawl, and Cooper already didn’t like the way he said Allie’s name or the sly smile that briefly crossed his face.

Allie shouldn’t be running this business by herself. Captaining a boat the size of the Dragonfly was no easy task. Uncle Johnny had said that often enough. Storms, rocks and reefs, other boats piloted by people who didn’t know what they were doing-hazards were everywhere, just waiting to waylay an inexperienced sailor. And then there were the predators-the two-legged variety. Allie’s reaction to him and his cousins during their first encounter meant that she was at least aware of the threat.

But did she have any way to deal with it? Did she really have a gun, or was that a bluff? Would she even know how to shoot a firearm?