He’d have to crawl under it sometime and give that tailpipe a few more wraps of duct tape. He glanced at the clock radio on his fly-tying bench. Nearly six-thirty. She’d met the New Jersey folks at five in the morning. Another typical thirteen-plus-hour day for the fly-fishing guide. Actually, he was a little surprised she hadn’t kept them out there for a second go at the turn of the tide, which had come around eight in the morning, and would, therefore, happen again about eight in the evening. Kate knew exactly where the cow stripers holed up at the bottom of the tide, and more often than not, the clients yelled “uncle” before she was ready to quit. He pushed himself up from his chair and went outside. Kate had backed her boat into its slot and was bent over the trailer hitch, cursing softly. “Let me take a whack at it,” said Calhoun. Kate straightened up, put her hands on her hips, and arched her back. “Damn thing keeps jamming on me.” Calhoun gave the crank a few more turns, thumped it with the heel of his hand, then lifted the trailer off the truck’s hitch.
