Kitabı oku: «Coast Guard Courtship»

Dedicated to the memory of Mathew Mason.

You are missed.

And to Cindy—Thanks for sharing

that Eastern Shore summer with me so long ago.

I love you.

Acknowledgments

I’ve taken a few liberties with the Accomack County school calendar— allowing Max to get out for summer early— something for which all Accomack County teachers can thank me for later.

Thanks to all my Onley friends who, after all these years, still continue to welcome me back into the peaceful harbor of your beautiful Eastern Shore world.

Many thanks to retired United States Coast Guard Captain Jim Umberger and Chief Petty Officer NyxoLyno “Nick” Cangemi for answering this civilian’s seemingly endless questions about rank, rating and protocol. You guys are the best. Any errors are my own.

Thanks also to men and women of the United States Coast Guard for your dedication and sacrifice. Blessings to you who serve on CG vessels and at CG stations. Thank you for your service.

Miss Jean and Mr. Billy, thanks for sharing your heart, home and family with me again and again over these many years. You have been a tremendous blessing in my life.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Dear Reader

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Bone weary after sitting up half the night with Max, Amelia closed her eyes with a sigh. The gentle blue-green waters of the tidal creek lapped against the sides of her small fishing boat. Rocked her in the soothing cradle of the waves she’d known since birth.

She savored the silence broken only by the skritching of the sand crabs on the nearby barrier island. A breeze wafted past her nose, smelling of sea salt and brine. She’d hurried this cold April morning for the chance to anchor in the crystal cove overlooking her favorite spot among the ruins of the deserted coastal village.

Amelia loved her family, her life, her home. And especially her motherless nephew, Max. But sometimes she craved the isolation of this forgotten shore. Here in the rhythm of the tide, where God most often rejuvenated her soul, she could be just Amelia.

She’d stolen this opportunity to photograph the migratory birds in their yearly stopover on the barrier island. Images she’d transfer to her sketch pad while her charter boat clients fished during the upcoming flounder season.

Amelia had spent most of her life fishing and swimming in these waters. But Max hadn’t. It’d be July before the water truly warmed. And her five-year-old nephew wasn’t robust enough for even the shallow drifts of the channel.

Gripping the camera strapped about her neck, she scanned the marsh for signs of life. She peered through the cordgrass across the channel that separated the wildlife refuge from her home on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. The air hung thick with early-morning fog snaking above the dark waters of the wetlands.

Amelia’s hand caught hold of the railing of the Now I Sea as a gust of the ever-present wind buffeted her against the side of the boat. Beyond the dunes on the other side of the island, ocean waves churned. Churned like her thoughts these days about what the doctor’s report would say. About whether she and Max had another summer ahead of them to comb the beach for sea glass.

Or if time had run out.

A gaggle of birds darted upward, cawing to each other. She jerked. Her eyes swept over the rotting stumps of the island dock and the long-abandoned husks of boats moldering on the beach. She gazed across the remaining stone foundations on the sandy rise. Like the village, she’d suffered so many losses.

Please, God, not Max. Whatever You want from me, I’ll do. Just please don’t take Max, too.

Her Wellingtons squelched on the fiberglass deck as she padded over to the controls. She gripped the helm and, turning the ignition, brought the engine to life. Above the chugging of the motor, she pointed the bow once more toward her home in Kiptohanock. To where chores awaited, where Dad needed reminding to take his medicine, where Honey needed to be straightened out about returning to college next fall. And since Amelia’s fiancé, Jordan, had died, back to the bleakness of her own possibilities.

She cast one final glance over her shoulder as the barrier island receded. One fine summer day she and Max would return here. Fourth of July, maybe. They’d have a picnic. Hunt for shells. And she’d paint the landscape to her heart’s content while Max ran up and down the dunes. Happy, healthy. Whole.

One fine day... God willing. She lifted her chin and headed home.

* * *

Borne aloft on the prevailing winds, seagulls whirled in graceful figure eights above the cab of his truck. Braeden Scott kneaded the wheel, glancing out the window over the railing of the bridge, where the Chesapeake Bay sparkled like glittering diamonds in the sunshine. He gazed upward at one lone bird whose shadow hovered above his windshield.

“Just so long as you don’t—”

Splat.

Great. Story of his life.

“And welcome to the Eastern Shore of Virginia to you, too, my friend.” He grimaced at the whitish excrement dotting his windshield.

His Ford F-250 bumped and jolted over the last hump of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, which spanned the watery distance between Virginia Beach and the Delmarva peninsula composed of parts of Virginia, Maryland and Delaware. A string of islands, shoals and spits dotted the ocean side. An archipelago, he’d been told, of uninhabited isles.

At one point in a narrow stretch along Highway 13 heading north, he sighted the bay to his left and the Atlantic on his right. Leaving Northampton County and the signs for Coast Guard Station Cape Charles behind, he crossed into Accomack County. A few miles later, he veered off the main artery at Nassawadox toward Seaside Road, per Seth Duer’s instructions.

Passing fields, barns and farmhouses, he crossed the small bridge at Quinby. He skirted the hamlet of Wachapreague, hugging the shoreline, and headed toward the coastal village of Kiptohanock. He’d report for duty tomorrow to the officer in charge at the small boat station.

He drove around the village square occupied by a cupola-topped gazebo. Not much to the fishing village. A post office. A white-steepled clapboard church. Victorian homes meandered off side lanes lined with beginning-to-leaf-out trees.

So this was Kiptohanock...

Braeden steered the nose of his truck into an empty parking slot designed for vehicles towing boats. He threw open the cab door and got out. Hands on his hips, he surveyed the marina with its aging pier, the bait store, the Sandpiper Café and the boat repair shop where he’d meet Seth and get the key to his rental. Coast Guard Station Kiptohanock hunkered just across the parking lot, with rapid-response boats tied and at the ready on an adjacent dock.

Not exactly like his last digs in Station Miami. Or even Kodiak before that.

Braeden slammed the cab door shut to silence its dinging. He consoled himself with the promise that this smaller, isolated CG station was a chance to grow his leadership skills and continue the stellar trajectory his career had been on since he’d enlisted in the United States Coast Guard a dozen years ago. A matter of killing time here before rotating out to bigger assignments.

He filled his lungs with the bracing sea air. Not so bad. Not the most exciting place he’d ever quartered, but as long as he could hear the crash of the waves, he’d do fine. And there was the added bonus of finding a furnished cabin for rent by Seth Duer, who offered free docking for his boat since the station didn’t offer housing for unmarried personnel.

Braeden’s first love, the sea, remained the only love in his life that hadn’t let him down. Give Braeden his boat, the rhythm of the sea and, as one poet had phrased it, “a star to steer by,” and he was good. Better than good. Women were trouble he didn’t need in his life.

Pushing off from his truck, Braeden caught sight of an older man in jeans and a plaid shirt tinkering with a boat engine in one of the garage bays of the repair shop.

Braeden strode forward, hand outstretched. “Mr. Duer?”

The man straightened. His bristly gray brows constricted before easing as recognition dawned. His thick mustache curved upward and he thrust his hand, hard with calluses, at Braeden. “You must be Braeden Scott.” Seth Duer laughed, a gravelly smoker sound. “I mean Boatswain’s Mate First Class Petty Officer Braeden Scott.”

Braeden smiled and shrugged. “Since you’re not a Coastie and I’m not in uniform, I think we can let that bit of protocol lapse.” His stomach rumbled and he reddened. “Sorry. It’s been a long time since breakfast.”

“Thought that might be the case.” Seth nudged his chin toward a white paper bag lying next to a tool case. “One of my daughters fixed you a little snack from the Sandpiper. You haven’t lived till you’ve had the Sandpiper’s long-john doughnuts.”

“One of your daughters?”

Seth grimaced. “One of my many daughters.”

Braeden lifted his eyebrow.

Seth clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe after you get settled into the cabin, you and I can have a quick lunch at the café and you can meet my baby girl. But first...I’d like to introduce you to a few of Kiptohanock’s citizens.”

They ambled past the diner toward the Kiptohanock wharf, where motorboats and small fishing vessels docked alongside the pier. Weather-beaten men paused in the midst of cleaning decks or replenishing bait buckets. Conversations halted as Braeden passed. Pink-cheeked women poked their heads out of the bait shop and joined the menfolk. In a small town like this, most everyone already knew he’d come to serve as the executive petty officer to the OIC at Station Kiptohanock.

And for those who didn’t know who Braeden was, Seth Duer appeared determined to rectify the oversight. His paw clamped on to Braeden’s shoulder, he introduced Braeden to each of the crusty sea dogs. A gesture Braeden appreciated.

Though their services were valued, the Guardsmen oftentimes remained outsiders in these close-knit fishing communities until given the proverbial seal of approval by a prominent local. Seth had obviously taken it upon himself to do the honors.

Might come in handy and keep tempers in check, if he ever had occasion to issue citations to any of these watermen for safety violations on their vessels. Surveying the Kiptohanock citizens, Braeden was taken aback at the many variations on a theme of red hair among the men and women both, ranging from cinnamon-coated gingers and carrot tops to full-blown titians.

Shaking his hand, the women issued invitations to the potluck after church on Sunday. But as far as God and church went, Braeden refused to commit himself. Although, he thought, giving a swift glance around the Kiptohanock square, church might be all there was to do in these parts...

Braeden sighed.

One Kiptohanock matron propped her hands on her substantial hips. “Seth Duer, your other girl is going to blow a gasket when she finds out about this here Coastie.”

Seth shuffled his feet.

Braeden frowned. “Sir? What’s she—?”

“Women.” Seth cast a furtive look out to sea. “Don’t try to understand ’em, son. May I call you son?”

Braeden nodded, dazed. He cleared his throat, wondering exactly how many daughters Seth Duer possessed. Or, rather, how many possessed him?

Either way, it promised to be an interesting living arrangement for the duration.

“Don’t try to understand ’em.” Seth shook his head. “All you can do is love ’em.” But he slapped Braeden on the back.

Braeden winced.

Message received loud and clear. Mess with Seth Duer’s daughters, mess with Seth Duer.

“Can’t tell you how glad Max and I are to have another guy on the property. We’ve been in dire need of more testosterone there for years.” Seth pulled Braeden off the pier and back toward the repair shop.

Seth fished a brass key out of the front pocket of his faded jeans. “Here, Mr. Scott.”

With some trepidation, Braeden took the key from Seth’s hand. “Call me Braeden, please, Mr. Duer.”

Seth smiled. “There’s clean linens in the cabin. Don’t forget breakfast and dinner are included at the main house. And the girls would appreciate a phone call if you won’t make it for dinner.”

“Yessir. I’d better get unpacked and my boat docked. I’d like to check out the lay of the land, so to speak, and meet the crew at the station, too.”

“Still got those directions I emailed you? Don’t forget this, either.” Seth handed Braeden the white paper bag. “This ought to tide you over till that lunch we talked about.”

He pronounced tide like “toide.”

The corners of Braeden’s mouth lifted, liking the lilting cadence of the local speech. He opened the bag filled with fried dough rolled in cinnamon and sugar. His nose twitched appreciatively at the aroma. He licked his lips and waved the bag. “Thanks for this.”

Shore assignment. Breakfast and dinner every day sounded promising. Been years since he’d profited from home-cooked meals on a regular basis.

“You’re welcome, XPO Braeden Scott.” Seth gave him a two-fingered salute. “But most of all, welcome to our corner of paradise.”

Braeden raised his brows as he parted from Seth and strolled toward his truck.

Paradise? Kiptohanock?

The “toide” was still out on that one.

* * *

The engine purred as she headed up the tidal creek toward home. As she rounded the neck, Amelia spotted the sailboat docked in her usual slip at the pier. Easing in the Now I Sea, she secured the moorings and clambered out onto the weathered gray planks of the dock. She took in the sleek hull of the vessel, its immaculate paint job and deck appearance.

Expensive...

The home port painted on the bow read Miami, Florida, and the boat was christened—she blinked once to make sure she hadn’t read the name wrong—The Trouble with Redheads.

“Humph.” She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear.

Who in the world?

Dad would be at the shop, Honey at the diner and Max at kindergarten. Although after last night she’d assumed—incorrectly, given Max’s indignant protests at six o’clock this morning—that he’d be skipping school today.

Nowadays, people didn’t usually arrive by boat, but via the road. So who...?

She grabbed hold of a long grappling hook and wended her way toward the house. Passing her Jeep, she stalked the perimeter of her home. And home to seven generations of Duers, Virginia watermen one and all.

During the past century, Northern steel magnates roughed it at the Duers’ fishermen’s lodge while her ancestors oystered and served as hunting guides in the winter. Crabbed and ran charters in the summer. But those days, and the steamers from Wachapreague to New York City, had long ago passed.

She rounded the corner of the two-story wraparound Victorian. Shade trees studded the front yard. She followed the property line rimmed by a white wooden fence into the trees. Light spilled from the old boat shed. A squatter? Vandals? Thieves?

Amelia’s lips tightened.

Her drawings were in there. The one place where nobody in her crazy family bothered her. Her refuge during the long winter months when her problems stacked as high as crab pots and the water proved too choppy to venture from shore. Her father had always encouraged her art, but seeing it made him feel bad she’d quit school to take care of Mom, then Max and now him after his heart attack last fall.

So Amelia had confined her drawing to the boat and stashed the sketches in the abandoned boat shed. She’d spent hours laboring over each angled nuance, scale and perspective of the wildlife and people that populated her Eastern Shore world. But with taking care of Max, who was always fighting colds due to his compromised immune system, and getting ready for the upcoming charter season, she’d not had the time to indulge in her art over the past month.

Amelia set her jaw.

Those drawings belonged to her. Not great art, but they were all she had left—the drawings and Max. And she’d be keelhauled before she’d allow someone to steal what little remained of her youthful hopes and dreams.

Gripping the hooked stick, she approached the cabin. Oyster shells crunching beneath her boots, she sidled to the small porch and stretched beyond the bottom step to the second tread to avoid its telltale creak. She curled her fingers around the door handle, the metal cold against her palm. Rotating the knob, she pushed it open and held her breath.

Nothing.

Poking her head inside first and observing no sign of life, she followed with the rest of her body. The sound of running water from what had once been a kitchen drew her toward the back of the three-room structure. She pressed her spine flat against the interior wall. A faucet valve squeaked, and the sound of running water ceased.

One of the ladder-back chairs scraped away from the table she’d claimed as her art bench. Paper crackled. She closed her eyes, both hands clutching the stick, and prayed for courage.

Taking a deep breath, she lunged hook first around the door frame in an ancestor-worthy yell last heard at Gettysburg.

A man—a tall, handsome man, early thirties, whose broad shoulders tapered to the waist of his Coast Guard uniform—jolted to his feet.

The chair crashed to the floor. A long john hung from his gaping mouth. His eyes, as brown as Hershey’s Kisses, were the size of sand dollars.

She jabbed the hook in his direction. “Wh-who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I’m—” He choked, the doughnut lodging in his throat. His eyes bulged. He bent over the table, gasping for air. His face turned an interesting shade of puce.

Amelia dropped the stick, letting it clatter to the floor. Stepping forward, she whacked him across the massive planes of his back.

He went into an apoplexy of hacking.

Without a second’s thought, she wrapped her arms around his middle, locked her hands together at his midsection. With an upthrust, she squeezed once, then again. The doughnut sailed out of his mouth and landed with a thud against the wall.

Sputtering, he collapsed against the table. Glaring, he twisted away, sidestepping her, and in one smooth motion snatched at the stick between their feet.

Her breath hitching, she realized her mistake and dived for it at the same moment his hands grasped hold. Her hand tingled from the inadvertent contact with his, but she tugged, refusing to let go. He held on, his chest heaving.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Let go.”

She gritted her teeth. “You let go first.”

“Fine.” He held both hands, palm up. “I don’t know what your problem is, lady, or who you think I am, but I have a rental agreement that says I have the right to be here on a month-to-month basis. And that includes breakfast and dinner.” He gestured at the table.

She stared at the key on the table, a key Dad usually kept hanging on a pegboard in the mudroom of the house. Through the window, she glimpsed a black F-250. “What’s going on? Who are you?”

He pointed to the name embroidered on his Coastie-blue uniform. “Scott. Braeden Scott. Seth Duer...”

She chewed at her lip. This had her sister Honey written all over it, too. What had Honey and Dad been up to while she’d been coping with Max’s treatments and keeping the business afloat?

For the first time, she became aware of the pungent aroma of fresh paint. A bouquet of daffodils graced the countertop. She fought the urge to roll her eyes.

Yep, Beatrice “Honey” Duer had been here. The Eastern Shore’s own Martha Stewart wannabe.

He groaned. “Don’t tell me you’re the other Duer sister?”

Amelia winced.

Story of her life.

Amelia smoothed her hand down the side of her faded jeans and frowned at the encrusted fish guts. “I’m Amelia.” She squared her shoulders. “And yes, I am the other Duer sister.”

His eyes raked over Amelia from her marsh mud–splattered boots to the top of her head. Flushing, she skimmed stray tendrils of hair from her face and tightened her ponytail.

Once, just once, she wished she could pull off pretty like Lindi, or ultrafeminine like Honey. Anything less boyish and more womanly.

All she ever managed was “good ole buddy grungy crabber.” She licked her dry lips, wishing she possessed some of Honey’s lip gloss. Her eyes dropped to the floor.

Great first impression, Duer. Especially with someone so...collected? Gorgeous? Masculine?

She glanced up to find the Coastie’s gaze fixed on her hair.

Her heart hammered.