Coast Guard Sweetheart (4 page)

The emptiness remained no matter what he did. California girls had not proven—like Honey's favorite song declared—to be the best in the world for him. He'd stopped hanging out with the guys when off watch. Because nothing stopped the ache in his chest when he thought of the doe-eyed girl he'd left behind on the Eastern Shore of Virginia.

Nothing and no one—until that last tragic search and rescue off the coast of San Diego. At the end of his strength—mental, physical and spiritual—he'd reached in a last desperate attempt for the God the Duers served. And in the reaching—he'd been found.

And in turn found peace. Sufficient to wash away the sadness and the fears. More than enough for any situation he faced.

It had been the picture of the white-steepled church hugging the shoreline of coastal Kiptohanock that came to his mind amidst the uncertainty and fear of that mission gone wrong. The steeple—rising like a beacon of hope above the tree line as the boats came into harbor—which he remembered when pitted against the elements in a life and death struggle. The image kept him tethered to life in those horrible hours in the Pacific when he struggled to survive.

The steeple—a lifeline of hope and mercy. A lifeline that led afterward to a relationship with the Creator of the vast and deep.

A relationship Sawyer looked forward to nurturing. There was so much this former foster kid needed to learn. Unlike the Duers, his backside had never darkened a church pew until recently.

He was eager before he shipped out again to find out more about this God Braeden and the Duers served at the small, country church in Kiptohanock. Braeden had encouraged him to meet with Reverend Parks. But in the secret places of his heart, Sawyer worried like a dog with a bone whether God could ever really love someone like him.

Sawyer shook his head to clear the troublesome thoughts as he followed Seaside Road, which paralleled the main Eastern Shore artery of Highway 13 on one side and the archipelago of shoals, spits and islands that dotted the ocean side. He turned into the long dapple-shaded Duer drive.

Thrusting open the door of his truck, he took a quick breath for courage. His sneakers crunched across the oyster-shelled path leading to the wraparound porch. Where he found the very pregnant Amelia ensconced on a white wicker chaise lounge chair, sipping a tall cool glass of sweet tea.

His mouth watered. Another thing this Oklahoma boy missed about the Eastern Shore and the South. That and Amelia Scott's sister.

Amelia deposited her glass with a plunk onto the small table at her elbow.

His eyes narrowed.

Their last encounter—with Amelia declaring his utter unfitness to be a part of her baby sister's life—had not gone well. And there was the harpoon incident the first time she met her future husband whom she mistook for an intruder. A case of mistaken identity, which three happily married years later, Braeden still liked to joke about.

Amelia gestured toward the pitcher. “Want some tea?”

Sawyer moistened his lower lip with his tongue, but he shook his head. “No, ma'am. Thank you, though.”

He stayed on the bottom step, ready to flee should Amelia decide to chuck the contents at him. Couldn't be too careful with these Duer girls.

She scrunched her face, wrinkling the freckles sprinkling the bridge of her nose. “You make me feel so old when you call me ma'am. But I can't fault your manners. Someone taught you well.”

His gaze swept across the black urns filled with fire-engine red geraniums positioned on either side of each planked step. That would've been the last foster mom who'd encouraged him to give rodeo a try.

“What did you come here for, Sawyer?”

His eyes darted upward. “I came for Honey.”

She laughed.

He flushed. “I—I mean I came to talk to her. To apologize before I head out in a few days.”

Amelia skewered him with a look.

He shuffled his feet.

“I think you said exactly what you meant the first time.” She reached for her glass. “And don't be in such a rush to leave us again.”

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts. “Is she in the house? Could I talk to her? Will she talk to me?”

“It's low tide.” Amelia brought the tea glass to her lips. “She and Max went clamming.”

His heart sank. “Oh.”

“But no reason you can't take the extra kayak and head out into the marsh to find them. With Max along, she won't have gone far.”

He raised his eyebrow into a question mark. “With Max along, is there any point in me trying to talk to her?”

Amelia's lips curved into a smile. “With Max along, it may save you from getting clam raked. She'll keep it civil in front of him.” Amelia glanced toward the sky. “I hope.”

She motioned behind the house to where the lawn sloped to the Duer dock. “Go on. Time's a-wasting. Three years a-wasting, if you get my drift.”

“I've never been clamming. I don't know where to look for them.”

“Keep paddling until you find the dirtiest, muckiest patch of marsh mud and there they'll be.”

He nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Scott. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for upsetting you that spring, too.” He forced himself to look into Amelia's blue-green eyes.

The compassion—and forgiveness—he beheld there made his chest tighten.

“You also saved my life that spring, Sawyer. Pulled me out of the Kiptohanock harbor while Braeden saved Max from his own impulsiveness. And it's Amelia. Or 'Melia to friends like you.”

His eyes widened. “After what happened... I'm surprised you'd want me as a friend. Or allow me to get within a nautical mile of Honey.”

Amelia cocked her head. “I'm glad you're back. A new, better man, Braeden tells me. And I know Honey will be glad you're back, too. Once she gets over being furious with you.”

He planted his feet even with his hips. “Don't know I'll be here long enough for that to happen. She's plenty mad.”

“She's also plenty in love with you, XPO Kole.”

He fought the moisture in his eyes. “I—I can't wish for that, 'Melia. Can't allow myself to hope. I never did deserve Honey. Still don't.”

“It's not about being good enough, Sawyer.”

He hunched his shoulders.

Amelia sighed. “I hope you'll join us at church this Sunday before you leave. I wish Honey would, too. But she won't. Hasn't come in a long time.”

Something else to lay at his revolving door of never-ending guilt.

God help him, Sawyer had so much for which to make amends.

He turned to go.

“And Sawyer?”

He paused.

“Godspeed on this journey God has for you, my friend. Godspeed.”

Chapter Four

H
oney peered through the cord grass across the shallow drifts of the channel that separated the barrier island wildlife refuge from her home.

A gentle low tide lapped against the end of the canoe she and Max had beached on a high spot of muck and mud. Migratory birds on their yearly autumnal stopover cawed above her head. The blue-green waters waxed and waned according to the tide and the pull of the moon. Reflecting the ebb and flow of her life, too.

Uninhabited islands protected the peninsula from the fierce Atlantic currents and storms. And beyond the dunes where once a fishing village and lighthouse thrived, ocean waves churned. As did her emotions since Sawyer Kole strolled into her life again.

The soothing in and out rhythm of the tide mirrored the sum total of their relationship. Only not so soothing. More like choppy, unpredictable and treacherous.

Suddenly, Max gave a shout.

Jolting, her heart flatlined. She'd taken her eyes off him for one moment, but that's all it took. Knee-deep in the murky water and her feet encased in layers of marsh mud, she spun a one-eighty almost toppling over when she lost her balance.

But five yards away, Max—too springy to be constrained by mere mud—bounced on the balls of his feet. He cupped his small hands around his mouth. “Aunt Honey! Look!” He gestured toward a kayak rounding the curve of the not-too-distant shoreline.

The channel sparkled like glittering diamonds in the late afternoon sun. And she'd recognize that blond towhead anywhere. After all, hadn't it nightly haunted her dreams?

Max waved like a signalman on an aircraft carrier. “Ahoy, Coastie!”

Sawyer pointed the nose of the kayak toward the mud bank. Sloshing forward through the ankle-deep mud, Max surged forward to meet him.

Honey remained rooted in place. Unable—as in life—to either move forward or backward. Trapped in the mire that was Before Sawyer Kole, and the bleakness of her life After Sawyer Kole.

She shaded her hand over her eyes as Sawyer leaped sure-footed over the side of the kayak where Mighty Max rushed to help Sawyer drag the kayak to higher ground.

She let out an exasperated sigh. “What are you doing here?”

Like the shy, awkward boy Max had never been, Sawyer jammed his hands into his pockets. “I came looking for you.”

“That ship sailed a long time ago, Kole.”

He dropped his gaze.

“Why are you really here?”

“I wanted to talk. Ask for your forgive—”

“Save it for someone who cares, Kole. I'm working on forgiveness. Don't push it. Or me.”

Her nephew propped his fists on his hips, Super Max-style. “Aunt Honey... Be nice.”

She winced, recalling Max's earlier assessment of her at the diner. Earlier and accurate—at least every time Sawyer Kole got too close.

Giving her a vexed look, Max angled toward Sawyer. “You ever been clamming?”

“No.” Sawyer flicked a glance her way. “Don't think we ever got around to—”

“We never got around to a lot of stuff, Kole.” Her mouth twisted. “Your choice, remember?”

Max scrabbled inside the canoe. “Got any more of those marsh moccasins, Aunt Honey?”

At Sawyer's quizzical look, Max lifted his suede-clad foot above the waterline. “Aunt Honey makes these. Keeps your feet from getting cut on the clam shells.”

Honey curled her lip. “You never know what lurks in the muck. Stub a toe. Slice open a foot. And no, Max. This Coastie only wears cowboy boots, best I recall.”

Sawyer blew out a breath. “Honey... I'm sorry. You'll never know how sorry. I only—”

“Don't call me Honey...” She growled.

He raked a hand across his hair, leaving the sun-bleached buzz cut standing on its ends. “Sometimes you make me want to take a long walk off a short pier.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yeah, blame the victim.”

“I never meant for things to turn out the way they did. Though in the long run—”

“How
did
you mean for things to turn out then, Kole? Better in the long run for you, huh?”

“That's not what I meant.” He heaved a breath. “If maybe we could take a drive and—”

She gave him a nice view of her back. “I'm not going anyplace with you.”

Max snorted. “Stop being a big baby, Aunt Honey. Come on, Sawyer, I'll teach you how a proper waterman goes clamming.”

She glided her feet through the mud, the balls of her feet searching for the rounded shell.

“Just like Aunt Honey's doing, Sawyer. Slide... And dig with your toes.”

Honey couldn't resist a look over her shoulder.

“Slide...” Hands behind his back, Max coasted forward in a stride not unlike an Olympic speed skater. “Slide... Slide. You try it, Sawyer.”

Max stumbled and then righted himself. “Granddad says I got an eagle eye for finding clams. You gotta look for keyhole shapes in the mud. It's the sign of clams underneath feeding.”

Crouching, he plunged his hand beneath the outgoing tide. Scrounging through the mud, seconds later Max raised his arm, a shell clutched in his hand. “Aunt Honey's clam chowder, here we come.”

Honey sighed. “You don't have to become one with the mud, Max. We have a spade and rake in the canoe, you know.”

“Muddier is better.” Max scooted a few inches farther. “Got another one, Aunt Honey.” He grinned. “And another one. I hit the mother lode.”

Sawyer cut his eyes at her.

Against her will, a smile tugged at her mouth. “He went gold panning on a recent trip to visit Braeden's Alaska hometown.”

“Bring the bucket, Sawyer. Get the rake, Aunt Honey.”

She laughed. And at the sound, Sawyer's eyes crinkled, the corners fanning out.

Ignoring the heart palpitations his eyes ignited, she slogged toward the neon yellow bait bucket resting next to Sawyer's bare feet and the canoe.

Sawyer motioned toward the words on her T-shirt. “It's a Shore thang that only you, Beatrice Honey Duer, could look beautiful while clamming in a tidal estuary.”

He thought she was...? She came to an abrupt stop and lost her balance. Her arms flailing—Sawyer's eyes went big, Max shouted—she landed butt first in the muck. Sinking to her elbows.

Sawyer let out a rumbling belly laugh.

Honey glared at him. “Don't you dare laugh, you landlubbing cowboy.” She blew a strand of hair out of her face. “Max! Get over here.”

Max hustled over, sending a tsunami of marsh water over her head. She sputtered and coughed. Extricating her hand from the mud, she swiped at a rivulet of water cascading down her nose.

Sawyer smirked.

“What?” Her gaze ping-ponged from a chortling Max to the Coastie.

“You wiped mud all over your face, Aunt Honey.”

Honey poked out her lip.

Sawyer crossed his arms over the broad muscular chest she couldn't help noticing and rocked on his heels. “I hear women pay big money for a mud bath like this. And you got yours for free, Eastern Shore-style.”

Honey muttered something under her breath about she'd show him Eastern Shore-style. Max flung out a hand. Her tug threw Max off his feet.

“You're too heavy, Aunt Honey.” He shot a mischievous glance Sawyer's way. “Too many Long Johns, I reckon.”

“Max!” she yelled.

Her nephew snickered. “Too many Long Johns. Get it, Sawyer?”

Sawyer unsuccessfully attempted to keep the mirth off his face.

“Help me, Max. I can't get up.”

Max let go of her. “She's fallen and she can't get up.” He made exaggerated bug on its back motions.

Sawyer extended his hand. “I'll help you, Honey.” He flashed her a snarky smile. “I mean, Bee-ahh-triss.”

Fluttering her eyelashes at him, she wrapped both her hands around his.

And at his sudden, wary look, she yanked Sawyer forward into the marsh. Fighting to right himself without landing face first, he landed with a plop beside her. Mud particles flew in every direction, including her Shore Thang shirt.

Okay... Maybe not the best idea.

Especially when, taking his cue from the grown-ups, Max belly flopped between them. Brackish water blasted over both Honey and Sawyer.

“Max!”

“Dude!”

Cupping his hand, Sawyer funneled a wave of water in Max's direction. Grinning, Max splashed back.

“Stop it, Max.” She struggled to pry herself from the muck. “And Sawyer, stop egging him on. Will the two of you look at what you've done to me?” Honey plucked a long strand of sea grass out of her hair.

Max clasped his arms around Sawyer's neck. “We ought to do this more often, Aunt Honey.”

She grunted.

With the boy dangling off his back, Sawyer staggered to his feet. “I agree, Beatrice. Why don't you?”

Always particular about her appearance, she wrinkled her nose at the reeking odor of marsh mud at low tide. “Because we're going to have to hose off the canoe, not to mention us, when we get to the dock.”

“Yahoo!” Max fist-pumped the air. “No bath tonight.”

“That's not what I said, Max.”

At the sandbar, Max slithered off Sawyer's back like an eel.

Sawyer flicked a daub of mud off the boy's cheek. “Try to de-sludge yourself as much as you can, Max, before getting into the canoe, okay?”

And once again venturing into the water, Sawyer offered his hand to her. “You pull off gorgeous even if you are covered in slime.”

“Trusting soul, aren't you? Who's to say I won't pull you in again?”

“Who's to say I'm not hoping you'll do exactly that?”

The Oklahoma drawl of his sent a tingle down her spine. Cheeks burning, she grasped hold of his hand.

Both feet planted, he pulled. And with a squelching, sucking sound, he extracted her from the muddy tomb.

He stepped back a pace, giving her breathing room. “Thanks for trusting me.”

She scowled. “Forgiveness is one thing. Trusting is another. Trust has to be earned one day at a time.”

“I'd like the chance to earn back your trust. We were friends... Before.”

Before. Always before. She was so sick of Before.

“Thought you were shipping out next week after Labor Day. Your eight-second, bronco-busting attention span kicking into gear again? Takes more than a hand up to earn trust, Coastie.”

“Well, you know what they say?” His lazy cowboy grin buckled her knees. “Got to get right back on the horse that threw you.”

“Did you just compare me to a horse, Kole?”

“Mule-headed is more like it.” He retreated toward the kayak when she reached for a glob of mud. “How about I follow you to the lodge?”

“How about you keep paddling toward England?”

“Aboot.” He pursed his lips, imitating the lilting local cadence. Sawyer gave her a wicked grin. “You know how I love it when you Shore-talk me, baby.”

With as much dignity as she could muster, she pushed the canoe off the mud and held it for Max to climb aboard. “Don't call me baby. I'm nobody's baby. Not Dad's. Not Amelia's. And definitely never yours. Steady, Max,” she instructed as she joined him in the canoe.

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.