Coast Guard Sweetheart

Max grabbed hold of both sides as the canoe rocked until she evenly distributed their weight.

“What aboot your clam bucket, Beatrice?”

She thought aboot—about—cracking the paddle over his cocky Coastie head until she remembered the eight-year-old eyewitness and her responsibility to be the grownup. “For the love of fried flounder, just hand me the bucket, Kole.”

“Your wish is my command.” He waded in and positioned the plastic bucket between her feet and Max.

“That’ll be the day.”

After shoving off in the kayak, Sawyer pulled alongside their canoe.

“Even strokes, Max.” She congratulated herself on the tremendous willpower she exerted in averting her eyes from the play of muscle along Sawyer’s bicep. “Paddle on the right, Max. I’ll take the left.”

And then Sawyer started singing an old Irish sea shanty her dad used to sing to her when she was a little girl. A song called “Holy Ground.”

“Fare thee well, my lovely Dinah,

a thousand times adieu.

We are bound away from the Holy Ground

and the girls we love so true.

We’ll sail the salt seas over

and we’ll return once more,

And still I live in hope to see

the Holy Ground once more.

You’re the girl that I adore,

And still I live in hope to see

the Holy Ground once more.”

It annoyed Honey to no end that by the chorus Max matched his stroke to Sawyer’s rollicking cadence. Yet at the sound of his mellow baritone, she worked hard to keep from smiling.

“Oh now the storm is raging

and we are far from shore;

The poor old ship she’s sinking fast

and the riggings they are tore.

The night is dark and dreary,

we can scarcely see the moon,

But still I live in hope to see

the Holy Ground once more.

You’re the girl that I adore,

And still I live in hope to see

the Holy Ground once more.”

He had a right nice voice. Not that she’d ever tell him that. Would only enlarge that already swelled ego of his. She reminded herself of the fleeting nature of cowboy Coastie charms.

But in no time flat, they arrived at the Duer dock. Sawyer scrambled out of the kayak and hoisted Max onto dry land. Beaching the canoe onto the shore, Sawyer offered his hand again. “Beatrice.”

Honey was already wishing she’d never told him to call her that. But she placed her hand in his, unsure if she’d receive a dunking or not. However, he set her feet onto solid ground and released her hand immediately. But not before she noted how his hand trembled at her touch.

And something knotted a long, long time, started to uncoil within Honey.

Clambering onto the dock, he cranked the faucet and freed the hose wound around a piling. “Max, your turn first.”

Max shivered in his cut off jeans and Chincoteague Pony Roundup shirt. He shimmied when the cold spray of water hit his head. Sawyer kept the nozzle trained on Max’s short crop of hair until the curls resumed their natural carrot-topped hue. Bobbing on his tippy toes, Max closed his eyes as Sawyer spray washed his face, neck and clothes.

A brown puddle formed at Max’s feet. “Look at the dirt coming off me, Aunt Honey. Cool.”

She grimaced. “And thanks to you both, I’ve got mud caked in places I don’t want to think about.”

Aboot... She flushed as Sawyer rolled his tongue in his cheek.

“I’d leave that go if I were you, Kole. Max, get the bucket out of the canoe and then you’re in charge of cleaning the canoe and the paddles.”

A gust of wind buffeted Braeden’s sailboat, the Seas the Day, tied at the slip on the other side of the dock. Shuddering in his wet clothes, Max grabbed the clam bucket. “I’ll take these to the kitchen and be right back.”

“You better,” she called after Max, disappearing up the path to the house. “Granddad will have your head if you don’t make sure the equipment is clean.”

Sawyer held up the nozzle. “Your turn to come clean, Beatrice.”

Honey gave him her best put-a-Coastie-in-his-place look. “I don’t need your help.”

Sawyer smiled. “Thing is, I’m learning everyone needs help from time to time.”

Honey turned the hose on herself. “Not from you, I don’t.” She shut her eyes and allowed the water to trickle over her head, neck, shirt and shorts. She opened her eyes to find Sawyer studying her with an unwavering focus.

“What?” she grunted.

“You missed a spot—several huge chunks in fact—in your hair.”

Honey tilted her head over the side of the pier, her hair dangling over the tidal creek. She ran the hose water and her hand through her shoulder-length hair. “Am I good now?”

“From where I stand, you always look good. But no, you’ve still got mud in that hard to reach place on the crown of your head. Here.” He reached for the hose. “Let me.”

She eyed him for a second before surrendering the hose. He gave her a crooked smile meant to reassure. Instead, it curled her toes and jump-started her pulse.

“Lean your head...” Sawyer directed the stream of water and finger-combed the mud out of the strands of her hair. “Good. Stay like that. There...”

At his touch, she squeezed her eyes shut and reminded herself to breathe. In and out. Like Sawyer appeared in her life. Here today—

“Okay. I think I got it.”

Eyes wide open and with tingles frolicking like dancing dolphins across her skin, she realized he hadn’t stepped away. But he dropped his hand with the hose to his thigh. And his free hand?

It still lingered, woven into the locks of her hair.

Only inches away, his eyes had gone a smoky blue. She took a quick breath. He cradled the nape of her neck and drew her closer.

In the circle of his arms, she soaked in his warmth. He tilted his head. Her lips parted.

“Honey!”

She jerked. Sawyer stepped back.

Amelia waved from the screened porch. “Honey! Sawyer!”

“She shouldn’t be on her feet. Doctor’s orders.”

But Amelia came down the steps and let the screen door bang shut behind her. Sawyer turned off the faucet and recoiled the hose.

“What’s wrong?” Honey surged forward, clasping Amelia’s sleeve. “Did the contractions return? Do we need to take you to the hospital?”

Amelia shook her head. “No. I’m fine. But Braeden called. Thought Sawyer might be here.” A smile lifted her cheeks. “Turns out he was right.”

Sawyer’s posture altered, becoming all business. “Is there a problem at the station?”

Amelia moistened her lips. “Braeden’s calling for the off-watch Station Kiptohanock crew to report to headquarters. The forecast’s changed. The tropical depression skipped tropical storm status and mushroomed into Hurricane Zelda.”

“What’s its current status?” Sawyer frowned. “And where is it projected to make landfall?”

Amelia took a deep breath. “It’s Category 4 and gaining speed. Braeden’s meeting now with Accomack County Emergency Management officials to coordinate strategies. Landfall is estimated to occur somewhere between Hatteras and Ocean City.”

Worry prickled Honey. “Putting the Shore right in the middle of its path.”

“Like a bull’s-eye.” Sawyer’s mouth tightened. “Increasing our chances for major storm damage.”

“What about the Decoy Festival this weekend? Has it been cancelled?”

“The storm’s headed our way, but not till later this week. So for now, the festival’s still a go.” Amelia swallowed. “But it’s going to get bad. Maybe mandatory evacuations if it truly veers in our direction.”

Honey sniffed. “Real Shoremen don’t leave because the wind changes direction. We stand our ground.”

“It’s a bad wind that never changes.” Amelia gave Honey a pointed look. “And I’m not just talking about a hurricane.”

Sawyer’s brow furrowed into a V. “If the Coast Guard tells you to go, you better go.” He surveyed his mud-splattered clothing. “Good thing I keep a spare uniform in my vehicle.”

Come to think of it, she’d have known Sawyer was back in town if she’d spotted that flashy blue convertible of his.

Honey flicked him a look. “You better hose off first, Coastie, or you’ll ruin your fancy car.”

“Sold it. Got me a truck like I had in Oklahoma.”

Avoiding her gaze, he headed toward the dock once more. “I better get moving. Cool off while I’m at it, too.”

Him and her both.

But a truck? Sawyer Kole had a truck?

She wondered why he’d made the change. Wondered what the change signified about him. Maybe more in keeping with his true cowboy nature?

From the house, Max bellowed for Mimi. Amelia trudged uphill, leaving Honey staring after Sawyer’s broad-shouldered back.

Because most of all, Honey wondered why in the name of flying Long Johns she still cared.

Chapter Five

Labor Day weekend was always busy for the small boat station, even without a hurricane bearing down on the Eastern Shore.

Sawyer had spent the past twenty-four hours on patrol, boarding and citing a plethora of recreational boats on this last official weekend of summer. Citations included reckless endangerment due to excessive speed in the harbor and/or alcohol, which didn’t mix with driving a boat any more than it did with driving a vehicle. Too many vessels also lacked mandatory safety equipment—like life jackets—on board.

Midday Saturday word came of a collision out in the channel beyond the Kiptohanock marina. Sawyer and his crew launched the twenty-four-foot Special Purpose Shallow Water craft and arrived on the scene ten minutes after the call. They found two mangled Jet Skis dead in the water.

A charter captain Sawyer recognized from the Sandpiper had witnessed the accident and called it in. The captain and several other good Samaritans who’d stopped to offer assistance dog-paddled in the water near the wreckage tending to the injured. Sawyer came alongside with the rescue boat.

“One Jet Ski carried a single rider.” The captain kept a firm grip on an unconscious man in his early twenties floating on his back. “The other ski contained two. A male and female.”

The crew pulled the more injured man from the water immediately. Reaves went to work on the unresponsive jet skier. Sawyer and Wiggins secured the remaining two college-aged kids on board. The female clutched her arm like a broken bird wing to her chest.

“Make sure EMS is waiting on the dock,” Sawyer instructed. “Reaves?”

On her knees bending over the first victim, she shook her head. “He’s breathing. I put a neck brace on him, but I suspect some degree of head injury. We need to get him to shore like yesterday.”

“Roger that.” With all souls accounted for and safely aboard, Sawyer hit the throttle and chugged the boat toward Kiptohanock.

The waves were choppy, though the incoming storm was still well out to sea somewhere off the Carolina coast. Like him, the crew felt the tension, their nerve endings thrumming at the palpable change in the air. Urgency mounted in Sawyer’s chest to get the injured to shore while not jarring any more than necessary the unconscious man, who might also have spinal injuries.

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