A Seaside Romance

Coast Guard Officer Braeden Scott’s life is all about freedom and adventure. Being assigned to a tiny Virginia coastal village is the last thing he wants. But thanks to a feisty redhead, he’s soon discovering the charms of a small-town life. Amelia Duer is all about home and hearth. Taking care of others is her whole world. As Braeden spends more time with her and her nephew, his hopes for a family begin to resurface. Could Amelia prove to be the anchor this charming Coastie needs to stop wandering and create a home for good?

“What have you got against redheads?” Amelia asked him.

“Redheads are nothing but trouble.” Braeden cocked his head at the grappling hook in her hands.

She curled her lip. “By the way, you’re welcome.”

“For what?”

“For saving your life.”

His mouth dropped open. “You didn’t…”

She pointed at the doughnut lying against the baseboard that he had been choking on minutes before.

He tightened his lips. “Thanks for saving my life, Ms. Duer.”

“Don’t mention it.”

A bleak expression suddenly appearing in her eyes, she rubbed her temples as if she had a headache. “Dinner’s at six. I’ll see you then?”

“Eighteen-hundred. I’ll be there.”

“Don’t expect haute cuisine.” She cut her eyes at him, a challenge animating her face once more. “The redheaded Duers are plain and simple folks.”

As she exited the cabin, he watched her disappear through the cover of trees. So that was Amelia Duer.

Tough as a sea barnacle. She’d have made a great Guardsman. He admired her strength, her ability to take care of anything life threw her way.

But who took care of her?

LISA CARTER and her family make their home in North Carolina. In addition to her Love Inspired novels, she writes romantic suspense for Abingdon Press. When she isn’t writing, Lisa enjoys traveling to romantic locales, teaching writing workshops and researching her next exotic adventure. She has strong opinions on barbecue and ACC basketball. She loves to hear from readers. Connect with Lisa at lisacarterauthor.com.

Coast Guard

Courtship

Lisa Carter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.

—Romans 15:13

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.

Chapter Two

“What’s with this place?”

Braeden ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. “Should’ve known you’d be another redhead.”

Her eyebrows curved. “What did you say?”

Braeden folded his arms across his chest.

Amelia jabbed her thumb toward the dock. “I take it that sailboat out there is yours?”

Biting the inside of his cheek, he nodded.

“And just what have you got against redheads?”

“I think my boat speaks for itself.” He cocked his head at the grappling hook in her hands. “Redheads are nothing but trouble, plain and simple.”

She curled her lip. “By the way, you’re welcome.”

“For what?”

“For saving your life.”

His mouth dropped open. “You didn’t...”

She pointed at the doughnut lying against the baseboard.

He tightened his lips. “Thanks for saving my life, Ms. Duer.”

“Don’t mention it.”

She inspected him from the top of his head to his regulation black shoes. And something in her face told him she found him wanting. Heat crept up his neck.

He clenched his jaw. “Someday I’ll try to return the favor.”

“Don’t bother. I won’t be in need of your help. As you can see, I’ve got my own back. Me and God.”

He uncrossed his arms and took a step back.

What was with the God talk around here?

Braeden’s eyes traveled over Amelia Duer—her clothing, her boots, her face.

Her hair.

Not a slave to fashion, he guessed, with her ragged-at-the-knee blue jeans tucked into the navy blue Wellingtons. And that gosh-awful neon yellow slicker, which clashed with her wind-tossed strawberry blonde hair. As he’d wrestled her for the grappling hook, the scent of seawater, mud marsh and...something else...brought the Florida Keys to mind.

Tall for a woman, with an athletic build. Late twenties, maybe. A sprinkle of freckles—the bane of redheads, in his considerable and unfortunate experience—dotted the bridge of her nose. Temper and redheaded attitude—he shot another glance at the grappling hook—in abundance.

If this was God’s idea of a joke, it was a bad one from his point of view. Good thing he preferred petite, feminine women.

A phone warbled a tune about burning kisses.

Her eyes rounded, and she fished through the pockets of her rain slicker.

Blushing, she extricated her cell. But flustered, her fingers fumbled. She dropped the phone on a phrase about love that couldn’t be denied. The cell skidded across the table.

“Love, huh?” He smirked and shoved the phone in her direction. “Like Romeo and Juliet?”

She ignored him, seizing hold of the cell. “Honey and her pranks.” She stabbed the talk button as the Pointer Sisters belted, “Fire—”

“Hello? This is—” She swung away. “Is Max okay?”

Braeden frowned at the concern lacing her voice.

“I’ll be right there. Thanks for calling.” Pushing the off button, she headed for the door.

Braeden caught her arm. “Is everything okay? Can I help?”

Lines of weariness carved grooves around her lovely rosebud mouth. She shook her head, the red waves coming loose, falling in soft tendrils around her face. “I’ll take care of it. I need to pick up Max at school. He’s not feeling—” Her face constricted. “I shouldn’t have let him talk me into allowing him to go to school today.”

Max?

Feeling sucker punched, he removed his hand from her arm. She had a son? A husband, too?

Duh...children and husbands usually went together, Scott.

This redhead was someone else’s headache.

Which didn’t make him feel any better.

He snapped his fingers. “Key lime pie.” She smelled like—

“Excuse me?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

A bleak expression in her eyes, she rubbed her temples as if she had a headache. “Dinner’s at six. I’ll see you then?”

“Eighteen hundred. I’ll be there.”

“Don’t expect haute cuisine.” She cut her eyes at him, a challenge animating her face once more. “The redheaded Duers are plain and simple folks.”

As she exited the cabin, he followed her onto the porch, watching her disappear through the cover of trees. So that was Amelia Duer. Gutsy. Tough as a sea barnacle. She’d have made a great Guardsman. He stroked his chin, admiring her strength. Able to take care of anything life threw her way.

But who took care of her?

* * *

Rounding the square, Braeden caught sight of Seth Duer standing in front of the Sandpiper. The older man stared through the plate-glass window, shielding his eyes with his hand. Glancing at his watch, Braeden figured he had enough time to find out what was up with Amelia Duer before visiting Station Kiptohanock just across the street.

Parking, Braeden exited his truck. Gravel crunched. “Mr. Duer? Sir?”

Seth Duer jerked and whipped around. “Oh.” His shoulders relaxed. “Already been to the cabin and back, huh?”

Braeden pursed his lips. “Interesting little reception committee you’ve got there in your older daughter, Mr. Duer. You might’ve warned me.” He narrowed his eyes. “Or at least warned her to expect me.”

Seth’s eyes widened. “You met ’Melia?” He rubbed his hand over his jawline stubble. “Thought she’d be on the water till lunchtime.”

“What’s going on here, Mr. Duer?” Braeden rocked onto his heels. “Does our rental agreement still stand or not?”

“Course it does.” Seth attempted a weak laugh. “You introduced yourselves to each other, I take it, son?”

Braeden grimaced. “Oh, yeah. Name, rank and serial number, right after she threatened me with a harpoon.”

Seth’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Sorry about that. ’Melia is a mite protective. And feisty.”

“And potentially lethal to unwelcome visitors.”

Seth swung open the glass-fronted café door. “She’ll come around. She always does. Just got to give that one time.”

Not to mention a wide berth, Braeden resolved as he allowed Seth to usher him inside.

“Still early for lunch, but I probably owe you a cup of joe for your trouble this morning.”

After almost being skewered, Braeden reckoned Seth might owe him more than that. But he paused in the doorway, inhaling the hearty smells of eggs, fried potatoes and ham. Probably the good Smithfield, Virginia, ham he’d read about as he’d ambled up I-95. The continental thing people called breakfast at the roadside motel in Virginia Beach this morning seemed like hours ago.

He and Seth shuffled past green vinyl booths packed with some of the same men and women he’d met earlier at the marina.

“And here’s my baby girl.” Seth gestured toward a young blonde woman whose embroidered name on the retro 1950s waitress uniform identified her as Honey.

On second thought, maybe not so retro in Kiptohanock.

A young Guardsman leaned his elbows on the counter on either side of his coffee mug, smiling in Honey’s direction.

Beside Braeden, Seth Duer went rigid.

The Guardsman grinned at Honey Duer. “Always ready... That’s our motto...”

Seth growled. “Ready to chase every skirt in Kiptohanock, you mean.”

The Nordic-blond Coastie swung around on the stool. His eyes narrowed.

Seth hustled Braeden forward, blocking the Guardsman’s view of Honey. “This is Braeden, Honey. He’s already—”

The Guardsman elbowed Braeden aside. “Hey, I was here fir—”

Braeden went ramrod stiff and broadened his shoulders. “Boatswain’s Mate Third Class—” he scrutinized the surname on the fellow Coastie’s uniform “—Kole. Did you just shove your XPO?”

The boy’s eyes widened at the stripes on Braeden’s sleeve. “Br-Brae...” His voice cracked and his sunburned features turned a color akin to eggplant. “Executive Petty Officer Braeden Scott? I didn’t realize—”

Kole leaped to his feet and rammed the side of his hand into his forehead. “Boatswain’s Mate Third Class Petty Officer Sawyer Kole.” His blue eyes pinned a spot on the far wall above Braeden’s head.

Braeden acknowledged his salute with one of his own. “At ease, Kole.”

Kole spread-eagled his hips, both arms grasped behind his back.

“Just finished your two days on rotation, Kole?” Braeden studied his watch. “Or just getting ready to report to your watch this time of the morning?”

Kole—in his early twenties, Braeden wagered—swallowed. Hard. “Yes, Petty Officer Scott. On a long-john run for the OIC.”

“Then I suggest you discontinue making a public nuisance of yourself and get to Station Kiptohanock ASAP.” Braeden crossed his arms. “We’ll continue this conversation at the station later, and perhaps—” he blew a slow breath out from between his lips “—review CG standards for fraternization and respect for the local populace.”

Kole gave a short, emphatic nod.

“Was that an affirmative, Boatswain’s Mate? Do you read me?”

“Yes, Petty Officer Scott. Loud and clear. Permission to be dismissed?”

“Granted.”

Snatching his cap off the counter, Kole, with a sharp pivot, exited the diner with a whoosh of air and a jingle of the bell.

Braeden angled toward his new landlord. “I’m sorr—”

Honey lobbed a napkin at her father. “Did you have to embarrass Sawyer in front of his XPO, Daddy?” She picked up Kole’s abandoned fork.

Braeden stepped back.

“Now, Honey.” Seth threw up his hands. “After what your sisters went through, I’m not big on Coasties.”

Her brown eyes darkened. “Sawyer’s not like that, Daddy.”

Seth folded his arms over his chest. “They’re all like that, Honey.” He flung Braeden an apologetic look. “Begging your pardon, Braeden. No offense intended.”

“None taken, Mr. Duer.”

“Please, call me Seth.” Seth swiveled to his daughter. “Honey, you know how I feel about—”

Honey dabbed her large doe eyes with the edge of her pink ruffled apron. “You’re trying to ruin my life, aren’t you, Dad?”

Seth’s eyebrows arched. “Ruin your life? Honey...”

Guffaws bellowed from the booths.

“I’d leave it go if I were you fellows.” Seth heaved a sigh, not bothering to turn his head. “Or see how quick those motors of yours get fixed.” Which produced further hee-haws from Seth’s gray-haired peers at the corner booth.

Seth leaned over the counter. “Braeden ran into ’Melia at the cabin.”

Honey sucked in a quick breath. “How’d that go?”

Braeden scowled. “About as well as you’d expect at the end of a harpoon.”

Honey rolled her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Scott. I’d hoped we could ease in an introduction tonight between dinner and pie.”

“Braeden,” he huffed. “Since if anything happens to me, I assume you two will be the ones making my funeral arrangements.”

Honey shook her head. “Don’t you worry. Amelia will come around. May take some time, but she always gets on board eventually.”

Braeden sighed. “That’s what your father said.”

Honey grabbed a coffee mug. “I’ll give her a call.” She reached for a nearby coffeepot warming on a burner. “You’ve had an eventful morning. You need a jolt of java to tide you over.”

“No, thanks.” Braeden held up a hand. “I’m headed to the station. And your sister got a call from Max’s school. She’s headed there to pick him up.”

Seth’s hand clenched on the back on the chair Kole had vacated.

Honey’s lower lip trembled. “Was she upset?” She fingered her apron. “Of course she was upset. I mean, was she crying upset?”

Seth frowned. “’Melia doesn’t cry. Never has. Was Max okay?”

Braeden threw him a long look. “She said Max wasn’t feeling well.” His gaze swung to Honey. Something was going on here that he didn’t understand. “And no, she wasn’t crying.”

Seth nodded. “She’ll handle it, then. Got it under control. She’s not a crier.”

Honey bit her lip. “Might be better if she did.” Straightening her shoulders, Honey lifted the top of a glass cake stand filled with pastries. “If you won’t take some coffee, why don’t you help yourself to another long john, Braeden?”

The image of strawberry blonde waves of hair flashed across Braeden’s mind. The gutsy, harpoon-wielding married Duer sister, he reminded himself. As for doughnuts?

After the near-choking incident at the cabin...too soon.

Too soon for a lot of things.

Refusing, Braeden promised to be on time for dinner and hurried toward the station, where at this point, the sea appeared more predictable than life amid the Duer clan.

Chapter Three

At Station Kiptohanock, a female seaman apprentice vacated Dispatch and ushered him into the chief petty officer’s office. Braeden saluted.

Throwing down papers, the fiftysomething Thomas rose from his chair behind the utility desk and returned Braeden’s salute. “At ease, Scott.”

Braeden assumed the position, legs hip-width apart, hands clasped behind his back.

“Welcome to Station Kiptohanock.” Thomas offered his hand. “A day early for your watch rotation. I’m pleased to have you serving here as my executive petty officer.”

Braeden shook his hand. “Just wanted to stop by and say hello. Meet the duty personnel today.”

“Reviewed your record.” His new chief motioned toward a file folder. “Heard more about you through the chain of command.”

Braeden winced. “About Florida, Chief...”

Chief Thomas waved a hand. “Good things, XPO. Good things. We’re lucky to have you here at Small Boat Station Kiptohanock, where we’re tasked with search and rescue or maritime law enforcement of the recreational boating type, mainly.” He laughed. “I only hope an adrenaline junkie like yourself won’t be bored out of your wits.”

Braeden stiffened into attention once more. “I’m here to serve you, Chief, the Guard and the public.”

Thomas eyed him. “Relax, Scott. No criticism intended. Somebody at headquarters thinks highly of your skills...and your potential for command.”

Braeden scrutinized Thomas. “Permission to speak freely, Chief?”

“Granted.”

“Master Chief Davis was an old friend of my father’s. Both from the same Alaskan fishing village near Homer. After my father died, he’s made it his business to—” Braeden licked his lips, searching for the right word “—shepherd my career.”

A knock sounded.

Thomas shifted his gaze over Braeden’s shoulder. “Come.”

Kole poked his head around the door frame. At the sight of his future XPO, Kole’s face darkened. Braeden pushed back his shoulders. Thomas’s gaze darted between the two men.

“I take it you and our landlocked Oklahoma Coastie have already introduced yourselves.” Thomas rounded the desk and took a single sheet of paper from Kole. He scanned the document. “No mayday?”

Kole shook his head. “Wife reported them missing when her husband’s boat failed to arrive in Wilmington yesterday. She’s been unable to contact them by radio for several days due to the nor’easter last week.”

Braeden stepped forward. His nerve endings vibrated with the familiar rush of excitement. “Chief?”

Thomas glanced up. “A twenty-eight-foot white center-console vessel with a red stripe, the Abracadabra has done a vanishing act. Two men aboard sailed out of Cape May, New Jersey.”

Chief Thomas angled toward Kole. “Get the boat crew to increase their patrols.” He strode to a nautical map of the Eastern Shore tacked onto the office wall.

“Our range of operational territory in the Virginia Inside Passage extends from the tip of Assawoman Island south to the Great Machipongo Inlet.” Thomas tapped his finger at the Atlantic Ocean and drew an imaginary line.

Kole stood at attention. “The cutter Mako reports they spotted no sign of the Abracadabra or any debris field on their way to their home port in Cape May, Chief.”

Thomas tensed. “Has Sector Hampton Roads notified Air Station Elizabeth City, Boatswain’s Mate?”

Kole nodded. “Affirmative, Chief.”

Thomas pursed his lips. “Good. Time to call out the big guns. Dismissed, Kole.”

“Yes, Chief.” And Kole headed out toward the radio room.

The female Coastie watch stander—Darden, Braeden noted for future reference—returned to remind the chief of his appointment at the Kiptohanock marina for the annual blessing of the fleet.

“You should attend, Scott.” Thomas dismissed Darden.

Braeden pursed his lips. “Is that an order, Chief?”

Thomas favored him with a long, slow look. “No, not an order. A recommendation to get to know the locals you’ll be serving. I hear you’ll be staying at the Duer place.”

Braeden nodded.

“Good people. Friends of mine from church. I sent your details Seth’s way when I received your orders and your request for a place to dock your boat.”

“Th-thank you, sir.” Braeden flicked a glance in Thomas’s direction. The jury was still out in his mind on the Duers, one strawberry blonde in particular.

The OIC leaned against the corner of his desk. “Shore command isn’t all bad, Scott. With only a sixteen-member crew, you’ll be on the watch list, too. I usually work the seven-to-four watch. But we’ve all learned to do more with less.”

Braeden smiled. “It’s the Coastie way.”

He’d miss, though, the swell of the sea beneath the deck of the last cutter to which he’d been assigned. But Station Kiptohanock would be another step toward qualifying for officer candidate school.

Thomas nodded. “Something to be said for getting home to dinner with the wife and kids every night, though.”

Wife? Kids? Braeden kept his opinions to himself about relational entanglements.

Thomas snorted. “Besides, I hear command’s grooming you for bigger things. But there’s maybe something here they want you to learn first.”

“I promise I won’t let you or the Guard down, Chief.”

Thomas’s granite face cracked into a smile. “Fishing’s good here even off the station dock all year. Summers are busy. Winters slow. I expect the people who report to Station Kiptohanock to be able to handle responsibility and take care of themselves. You do that, Scott, and you and I will get along great. You copy that?”

Braeden straightened and went into a salute. “Copy that, Chief.”

* * *

Leaving Nandua Elementary and Highway 13, Amelia steered the Jeep toward Kiptohanock. She wished for a do-over in meeting a particular XPO. Or better yet, to avoid him altogether.

“What’s that?” Strapped in his booster seat, Max pointed toward the marina, where a group gathered on the wharf.

Sailboats, fishing vessels and catamarans bobbed in the waters off the Kiptohanock pier. Flags fluttered in the midmorning breeze. One small boat manned by Coasties harbored alongside. OIC Thomas stood near the podium, Reverend Parks at his side.

Amelia circled the town square and slowed to give Max a better look-see. “I forgot today’s when the Kiptohanock Coast Guard chief blesses the fleet—” she sniffed “—such as it is, for the start of the fishing and tourist season.”

Max wriggled underneath the booster’s harness. “I wanna see.”

She frowned at him in the rearview mirror. “Sit still, Max. You need to go home and rest. Anybody too sick to go to school—”

“I’m not sick,” he shouted. “Just tired.”

She recoiled at the decibel level. “Don’t yell at me, Max. I can hear you perfectly—”

“I don’t need to rest.” He tugged at the safety catch. “I wanna see the Coasties like my dad.”

His dad... The good-for-nothing lowlife who’d deserted her sister and baby nephew.

Amelia’s mouth hardened. “Stop twisting the seat belt, Max. We’re going home and that’s—”

Max yelled at the top of his lungs.

A sound not unlike the one she’d employed against a certain petty officer this morning. But Max’s temper tantrums were a new outgrowth of the experimental treatments he’d endured over the winter.

Or, as her dad insisted, they were his attempts to test the boundaries of Amelia’s parenting.

Although she supposed if she’d been subjected to as much pain as Max in his short life, she’d be mad, too.

Perhaps she already was, judging from the way she’d attacked an innocent Guardsman this morning. Sometimes she wanted to yell and scream and throw things like Max.

“When you yell like that—” she trained her eyes on the parking lot beside the diner “—I shut my ears.”

He stopped, a silence so profound and sudden it was as if he’d switched off a faucet.

“We could park at the diner.” She engaged the blinker, grateful for the reprieve to her nerve endings. “And watch from there.”

“I didn’t get to see the blessing last year, Mimi.”

She squinted at him in the mirror. “No, you didn’t.”

“Because we were in...” He fell silent.

Putting the Jeep in Park, she swiveled to face him.

His lip trembled. “...that Hopkins hospital place.”

She contemplated his impossibly blue eyes, so like her sister Lindi’s.

Amelia blew out a breath. “Okay, Max. We’ll—”

“Yahoo!” He fist pumped the air.

Grimacing, she suspected she’d been handled by a carrot-topped five-year-old. Slinging open her door and scrambling out, she stuck her key ring into her jeans. Amelia placed her hand on the passenger door handle as Braeden Scott reached for it, too.

* * *

“Here, let me—”

“I’ve got—”

Braeden retreated a pace. “Thought I’d help get you to the ceremony on time.”

She crossed her arms over her ribbed gray henley shirt. “I told you I don’t need your help.”

A little boy pounded on the door. He smashed his face against the glass, giving his lips and eyes the appearance of a puffer fish.

She sighed. “Max...”

Braeden laughed. “And I thought I’d introduce myself to another member of the Duer clan.”

“The crazy Duer clan.”

Her lips quirked. Soft pink lips, he also noticed.

“Be my guest.” She gestured. “Proceed at your own risk.”

Opening the door, he leaned in and unlatched the safety harness, freeing Max from its confines. With a whoosh, Max paratrooped to the ground.

She took firm control of his shoulders. “Calm down, Max.”

Her nephew squirmed, mutiny written across his face.

“This is the man I told you about, Max. He’s renting the cabin from Granddad and Aunt Honey.”

Braeden dropped on one knee to Max’s level. His tropical-blue trousers brushed the gravel. “Braeden Scott.” He extended his hand to the boy, man to man.

Max wrapped his fingers around his hand and grinned. “I’m Max Duer.”

The boy appeared small for his age. Skin and bones. Pale, with dark purple smudges etched under his eyes. Fragile...

Braeden lifted his gaze to Amelia. “Another redhead, I see.” She fisted her hands on her hips and glowered at him. Braeden gave her a winsome smile. “Why, I bet you couldn’t throw a rock in this place and not hit one.”

“My dad was a Coastie.” Max extended his index finger at Braeden’s insignia with the crossed anchors. “But not a boatswain’s mate like you. He was an electrician’s mate.”

Braeden ruffled Max’s short hair. “You know a lot about the Coast Guard for someone so young. Got our hairstyle, too.”

She pulled Max toward her. “It’s starting to grow again after—”

“I’m going to be a Coastie one day.” Max yanked free. “Like my dad.”

“Not just like your dad. He—” She bit her lip and fixed her eyes on the toes of her Wellingtons.

Something was going on Braeden didn’t understand. “Is your dad at sea?”

Max jutted his jaw. “He died. But I’m going to be just like him. Or maybe a rescue swimmer.”

Amelia plucked at Max’s arm. “Come on, Max. Aren’t you in a rush to see the blessing of the fleet?” She lugged him toward the crowded dock.

Braeden fell in beside her. “At my last duty assignment, I got to drive the response boat as a coxswain.” He peered out over the water, pensive. “Kind of miss the action and being a part of rescuing those in need. Now it looks as though I’ll be stuck with administrative work most of the time, one of the downsides to higher rank.”

Max stopped in his tracks. Amelia ran aground into him. Max’s big eyes shone. “Could you teach me how to be a rescue swimmer, Mr. Scott? Mimi sometimes lets me help her drive the boat as her coxswain. But I really want to learn to dive.”

She shook her head. “Max...”

“Call me Braeden, Max.” He shrugged. “Aren’t you too young to be thinking about that? You’ve got plenty of time.”

Amelia flinched as if he’d struck her. Her mouth quivered. “Max doesn’t even know how to swim yet.” She cupped the crown of his head.

Max threw off her hand. “’Cause you won’t let me learn.” His eyes blazed.

“We’ve talked about that. You’re not strong enough. Maybe next year...”

Max scowled.

She softened her tone. “Besides, the water’s too cold this time of year.”

“I’m not a baby,” Max growled.

Braeden furrowed his brows and tried to defuse the situation. “I’m sure your mother knows—”

Max stamped his foot. “She’s not my mother. My real mother’s dead, too.”

Hurt flickered across Amelia’s features.

Max’s nostrils flared. “She’s my aunt Mimi and she’s not the boss of me. I’m not a baby anymore.”

She snatched at his sleeve as heads rotated in their direction. “We’ll talk about this later at home.”

Max jerked out of her grasp and huddled next to Braeden. “I want to go to the ceremony with Braeden, not you, Mimi.” He didn’t bother to lower his voice.

Braeden raised his brows at Amelia, seeking her direction as to his next move. She gave a tiny shake of her head. Tears welled in her eyes. “Let’s not make a scene. Please, Max?”

An unfamiliar tenderness threatened to swamp Braeden’s carefully constructed indifference.

Max stared Amelia down.

Her shoulders slumped. “We’d better go closer so Max can see better.”

She slid Braeden an uncertain sidelong glance. “If you’re sure you don’t mind...or not too busy.”

Braeden’s pulse ratcheted a notch. “It’s okay. No problem.”

Amelia gazed at him with those big blue-green eyes of hers. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble on your first day.”

Braeden focused for a long moment on her eyes and processed the information he’d acquired via Max. Not his mother. Probably, therefore, judging by her lack of rings, not married.

He tamped down an irrational surge of joy.

Not that Braeden was in the market for a woman. Especially a redheaded one.

“Here, Max.” Grasping him by his upper arms, Braeden heaved the little boy atop his shoulders. Max entwined his legs around Braeden’s torso. “Best seat in the house, champ.”

Max grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.

Chief Thomas took his place behind the podium. “Today we gather to bless these boats. We ask a blessing for those who work on them, for those who fish from these waters providing food to our country. For those who utilize these waters for recreation and pleasure.”

His arm swept across the expanse toward the Coast Guard boat. “And to bless those who protect our nation and its citizens. I’m honored to be here today,” Thomas intoned, “representing the United States Coast Guard.” Thomas’s cap visor gleamed in the sunlight. “My prayer for each of you is for fair winds...”

“And following seas,” the crowd finished.

Braeden squared his shoulders.

A devout man, this OIC. Reminded Braeden of his father. And Master Chief Davis.

Braeden fidgeted. His arm brushed against Amelia’s shoulder and his heartbeat accelerated. Unsettled, he shoved his hands into his pockets.

He needed to put a cork in his unexpected attraction to the strawberry blonde. After all, he didn’t do relationships. And this woman came loaded with complications.

A fortysomething man—“Reverend Parks,” Amelia whispered—ambled to the podium. His voice boomed across the water.

“They’re praying,” Max whispered in a volume only slightly softer than a foghorn. “Everybody, bow your head.”

Braeden darted his eyes at Amelia. His lips twitched. She covered her mouth with her hand before lowering her lashes.

“We pray, O Lord, for every seafarer. Grant them Your strength and protection. Keep each safe as they face the perils of the sea.”

For the first time in a long while, Braeden closed his eyes in prayer.

The reverend continued, “God of unfathomable love, as boundless as the deep Your spirit hovered over at the dawn of time, hear our prayer. Protect them from the dangers of the wind and the rain. Bring each soul safely home to the true harbor of Your peace. And may the saving power of our Lord guide and protect them, for Christ’s sake. Amen.”

“Amen,” murmured Amelia, her hands clasped.

“Amen,” extolled the Kiptohanock residents.

Blond, gray, brunette—Braeden sighed—and redheads bowed in prayer together.

Safe harbor? Was there such a thing? Here in Kiptohanock?

“Amen,” he whispered.

His first prayer since his father’s sudden death. Braeden pondered what, exactly, God had in store for him in this tiny village on the shores of the Atlantic.

Chapter Four

The ceremony ended with the tolling of the old ship’s bell mounted on the edge of the wharf. The bell rang out over the water across the assorted vessels in the harbor. One toll for each Kiptohanock waterman lost at sea.

Amelia shuddered.

Too many lost over the years. Friends of her dad’s, former schoolmates. Sons, brothers, fathers, grandpas. As the sounds floated skyward beyond the white-steepled church, she positioned herself to avoid facing sweet Pauline Crockett. Amelia dug her nails into the palms of her hands, remembering their shared loss.

Braeden gave her a sharp look. “Your family makes its living from the water, too?”

“Dad taught us to respect it. To never turn our backs on it or take it for granted. He equipped us to fight for survival when pitted against it when we must. To be prepared for its changing face.”

Amelia gestured toward the vessels anchored in the marina. “But every year the fleet grows smaller and the living gets harder to wrest from its depths. The crabs are overfished. The oysters infected.”

She made a face. “And don’t get the watermen started on the government regulations. In today’s world, a true waterman must diversify. So I run the charter fishing trips since Dad got sick. He does part-time work for the boat repair shop.”

Braeden quirked an eyebrow. “And Honey runs her B and B.”

Her lips curled a fraction. “I suppose when you put it that way...” She patted Max’s knee, perched atop Braeden’s shoulders.

Broad shoulders. Able to carry heavy loads.

She shook her head at her fanciful thoughts. “Look, Max. The chief’s tossing the memorial wreath into the harbor.”

Max nodded. “For everybody lost at sea, like my dad.”

Not like his dad. But she’d never say that to Max. Let the child keep what illusions he possessed as long as he could.

Braeden lowered Max to the ground when the ceremony concluded. The crowd dispersed. She spotted her dad shooting the breeze with his buddies, many of them serving as auxiliary volunteer support to Station Kiptohanock. Amelia tensed as the Kole boy waved to Honey from the CG boat at anchor in the harbor.

Max tugged at Braeden’s hand. “Let’s watch the boats go by.”

Amelia caught Max’s arm. “Braeden probably has things to do.”

Max opened his palms. “Please, Mimi. Please.”

Braeden adjusted his cap. “I really don’t have anywhere to be until I report for watch tomorrow.”

Two pairs of imploring eyes—bright blue and chocolate brown—shifted her way.

Amelia’s high-minded resolve to avoid the XPO weakened. “Oh, all right. But only for a minute.”

They shouldered past the clumps of chatting people milling about on the pier. Getting an earful from a come-here—anyone from elsewhere other than the Eastern Shore—her dad backpedaled as Amelia approached. She pivoted toward Honey, who ducked her head and disappeared into the café.

Cowards. She’d give them an earful and a piece of her temper for hatching this plot to rent out the cabin. They’d left her out of the loop and made her look like a fool in front of the XPO.

Amelia sighed.

Okay, she’d accomplished that feat under her own steam.

Max occupied himself by saluting as the flotilla of recreational and commercial fishing vessels chugged away toward the open water.

Braeden looped his thumbs in his duty belt. “I take it you knew nothing about the cabin rental. I’m sorry I scared you.”

“I’m sorry I almost skewered you.” She surveyed the sparkling water. “Money’s been tight since Dad’s heart attack. Honey had to drop out of college and come home. And with Max...” She cleared her throat. “They probably believed they were helping the Duer bottom line.”

He leaned toward her, his gaze intent. “But this is going to add to your workload, isn’t it?” His probing awareness penetrated down to the depths of her heart.

She flushed.

When he looked at her like that...

She wished she’d taken Honey’s advice last week and had her hair styled. Big waste of money. For as often as not, she stuffed her hair inside a cap and let the sun and the wind have their way.

“You already run the family fishing business—”

“What’s left of it these days.”

“And operate a charter boat during tourist season by yourself?”

She nodded.

Braeden’s cheeks lifted, turning his eyes into half-moons. “I’m impressed. You’re a woman of many talents.”

Max plucked at her sleeve. “It’s not too cold, Mimi. Braeden and I could—”

“No, Max. It is too cold.” She wrapped her arms around herself, wishing she’d brought a jacket. The wind off the water was cool. She should’ve been more vigilant.

Out of habit, she darted a glance at the horizon. Red sky this morning. “Sailor take warning. Wind’s picking up.”

Braeden removed his cap and plopped it on Max’s head. “USCG,” he read aloud. “Station Kiptohanock. Would you take care of it for me until lunch, bud?”

Max grinned. “Sure, Braeden. I’ll take real good care of it.” He trotted toward the end of the dock.

Braeden sniffed the air. His nose twitched, resembling a bird dog’s. “Smells like chowder.”

She relaxed. “The volunteer fire department’s serving clam chowder and crab cakes to raise money for the Watermen Association.”

“Want to get Max a bowl?” He dropped his eyes to the weathered pier and shuffled his feet. “Maybe get some for yourself, too?” The back of his neck reddened. “Save me from eating my first Shore meal alone. My treat.”

A gust of wind carried his words. She imagined the gawking stares and resulting speculation around the lunch counter at the Sandpiper about the new XPO treating the old maid Duer sister to lunch.

Was this his attempt to make up for scaring the daylights out of her? She didn’t usually merit attention of the male persuasion.

Probably only being nice to the kid’s poor fishy aunt Mimi.

Shouting, Max made a futile grab as the wind snatched Braeden’s cap off his head. The cap sailed into the air before plummeting into the choppy waters of the harbor.

Her stomach knotted. “Max, not so close to the edge.”

“I’m not a baby, Mimi.” He scowled as the cap drifted farther out of reach. “I promised Braeden.”

His brows drawn together, Braeden took a step, hand outstretched. “It’s okay, champ. No worries. I can get another—”

Dodging his hand, Max took a running leap. “It’s not too cold. I’ll show you.”

She and Braeden realized his intent a second too late.

Fear stabbed her heart. “Max, don’t.”

Drawing up his knees in midair, Max landed like a cannonball in the blue-green waters. The top of his copper-colored hair disappeared beneath the waves.

She screamed. Heads jerked in her direction. Chief Thomas and the reverend came at a run.

Coughing, Max surged to the surface. His hands beat the water. His fingers strained for the cap. “Mimi!”

Sputtering on seawater, he disappeared from sight.

Without hesitation, Braeden dived into the water. With long, broad strokes, his arms ate up the distance separating him from Max. Kole tossed a life preserver off the side of the response boat.

Unable to stand by and do nothing, Amelia vaulted in to assist. As she sank, the shock of the freezing-cold water sucked the breath from her lungs. Her father cried out her name.

Oh, God, don’t let my father try to save me.

In his weakened condition, they’d both drown.

Weighted by her Wellingtons, she struggled to maintain buoyancy. She reached for the life ring, but the boots acted as an anchor and pulled her downward. Fighting a riptide, she flailed at the water. The light receded, sounds muffled and the darkness deepened.

A body splashed, hurtling downward, on her left. Foaming bubbles obscured her view, but strong arms encircled her and yanked her sunward. Rotating her on her back, someone hauled her toward the pier. Treading water, her rescuer placed her hands on the rungs of the dock ladder.

“M-max...” Her teeth chattered.

“XPO’s got him.” In jumping off the CG patrol boat, Sawyer Kole had lost his own cap. “Can you climb the ladder?”

His ash-blond hair lay flattened and slick against his skull. “We need to get out of the way.” Kole hoisted her leg into position on the rung.

Amelia swayed.

Hands reached from above. She gripped the rung above her head, gasping to regain her breath and replenish her spent store of strength. Between Kole, Thomas and her father, they managed to raise her dockside. Her knees buckled. She collapsed.

Amelia rolled onto her side. “Where’s Max?”

On his knees, Seth cushioned her in his arms. “Amelia, are you all right?” His face contorted at the effort to hold his raw emotions in check.

She pushed onto her elbows as Braeden’s head topped the ladder with Max clutched in a one-armed grip against his chest. Kole gathered Max as Braeden ascended the remaining rungs.

Kole deposited Max onto the warped dock boards.

Water streaming off his uniform, Braeden shouldered Kole aside to kneel beside Max. He immediately began a series of chest compressions alternating with puffs of breath.

Amelia scooted closer. Sharp splinters of wood pierced her jeans. “Max...” She stroked his lifeless cheek.

Honey rushed out of the diner. Seth hooked Honey around the waist. “Wake up, Max,” Honey pleaded.

A sob caught in Amelia’s throat. “Don’t leave me, Max.”

Please, God, no. Not him, too.

A gurgle.

Max’s body spasmed. Braeden propped his head sideways as a fountain of water issued from Max’s mouth.

She reached for him. “Max!”

The little boy’s body convulsed as he gagged, hacking seawater.

“Mimi...” he whimpered, stretching out his hand.

Relief washed over her. Thank You, God. Thank You. Silent tears cascaded down her cheeks.

Amelia’s arms itched to hold him closer, but unable to do more, she twined her fingers into his. Braeden elevated Max to a sitting position. Inching nearer, Max strained toward her.

“Don’t cry, Mimi. Don’t cry. I’m sorry. I won’t ever do that again.” Max cradled her face in his small, cold hands.

Amelia blanketed her arms around his shivering frame. “What would I have done if I’d lost you, Max?” she whispered into his hair.

“You won’t ever get shed of me, Mimi. I promise.” Max nestled into her warmth. “I’m as pesky as a sandbur and as hard to shake.”

Choking on a laugh, she raised her eyes to Braeden. “God brought you here today. Thank you, Mr. Scott.” Her jaw clenched. “Maybe your boat’s name is right. We do seem to be causing you a lot of trouble.”

An interesting look flashed across Braeden’s face. “No trouble.”

His eyes slid away and he dashed beads of water off his hair. He curled his fingers into a fist against his muscled thigh.

Seth extended his hand toward the dripping Sawyer Kole, still poised beside the ladder. “We owe you a debt of gratitude as well, young man.”

The twentysomething Coastie contemplated Seth for a second, as if unsure of his sincerity. Blinking, he shook Seth’s hand. “No problem. Always rea—” He cut his eyes over to Honey.

Amelia didn’t miss the look they exchanged.

Honey’s smile could’ve melted glacial ice caps.

And something went through Amelia. A sudden longing for something she’d not perceived lacking in her life before.

Thomas motioned toward the arriving EMTs. “We need to get him checked out at Riverside, Miss Duer.”

Max’s arms tightened around her. “No, Mimi,” he whispered. “Not there. Not again.”

She clutched Max against her chest. “I—I don’t know if he...if I...” She couldn’t stop her lips from trembling.

“Maybe getting the boy home would be best, Chief.” Compassion melted Braeden’s eyes. “I’ve got first-aid responder training, too. I can watch for any adverse signs, and if later we need to...”

Her heart eased. “I’ve had oyster stew in the Crock-Pot all morning.” She gave Braeden a quick appraisal. “Are you sure, Mr. Scott?”

“It’s Braeden.” His eyes locked on hers. “And I’m glad to help.” He extended a hand to help Amelia to her feet. “Besides, I believe a bowl of your oyster stew has my name on it.”

* * *

At the cabin, Braeden peeled off his operational-duty uniform and changed into the more casual jeans he favored off duty. Opening his laptop, he shot off a quick email inquiry to Chief Thomas.

In the time it took Braeden to put on a gray USCG sweatshirt, the computer pinged with a new message from Thomas. At the chief’s suggestion, Braeden put in a call to Reverend Parks, who then routed him to an auxiliary volunteer, retired to bayside Onancock. Accidentally sending his shoes skittering underneath the walnut armoire, Braeden discovered a brown portfolio case stashed in the far corner.

He positioned the case across the white chenille bedspread. Inside, he found a treasure trove of pen-and-ink sketches, a photograph clipped to the bottom left corner of each depiction. On the right corner, a signature was scrawled—“Mimi.”

Grunting, he sank into the wing-back chair next to the nightstand and held each picture toward the light. Birds mostly, including the once-endangered osprey. Sea turtles. A haunting picture of an abandoned seaside village delineated in charcoal.

His breath seized at the sight of a small canvas portrait of a younger Max—he’d recognize that pug nose anywhere. Max crouched near the water’s edge. The water lapped at the toes of his sneakers. His hand rested on the stern of a toy sailboat, as if in the act of launching the boat into deeper waters.

Braeden studied Amelia’s carefully rendered strokes, especially the pastel of Max. Each illustration provided a tiny glimpse into her soul.

He blew out a breath. The case resting in his lap, he gazed through the tree cover at the tiny band of water. “Definitely a woman of many talents.”

Who’d probably never intended for anyone to find these sketches. Maybe why she’d so fiercely attacked her intruder this morning.

* * *

Braeden arrived at the main house with the portfolio case in hand. He let himself in through the screened porch. The aroma of simmering stew floated through the air.

“Amelia?”

He edged through the door frame. Best not to surprise that one. She might come at him this time with—

Braeden grinned.

The mind boggled at the idea of Amelia Duer with sharp kitchen weapons. He strolled into the living room and stopped in front of a photograph on the mantel over the fireplace. The stairs creaked.

“Oh, hey.” Amelia descended from the second floor. “I finally persuaded Max to take a much-needed nap.”

He glanced up. And his mouth went dry.

This Duer sister cleaned up well.

Her hair, still wet from the shower, flowed around her face. He admired the fit of her jeans and the glow her three-quarter-sleeved lilac blouse cast on her freshly scrubbed face.

She ought to wear lilac more often.

Braeden handed the case to her.

Amelia’s face clouded. “You opened it?”

He waited for a redheaded explosion. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I was curious. I didn’t realize it belonged to you. They’re good.” He stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets. “I mean, you’re good. Are you self-taught or did you have training? Do you show at any galleries on the Shore?”

She pressed the case to her chest. “I’m not good enough for galleries.”

“I think you underestimate yourself.”

She shook her head. “A few art classes in high school, but I’m mostly self-taught. My mom gave me a few lessons, too, before...” Her gaze traveled to the picture on the mantel. “I’d been accepted into the Savannah School of Design—”

He whistled. “Impressive.”

“But then...” She moistened her lips. “That’s why it’s so important Honey finish her education.”

He pointed to the image of the lovely auburn-haired woman on the flat-bottomed scow the Virginia watermen favored for oystering and clamming in the shallow tidal waters. “Your mom?”

Amelia squirreled the case behind the piano. “That’s us ten years ago.” She ticked off the names. “Dad, Mom, Lindi—who is Max’s mother and the eldest Duer sister—the pretty one.”

She gestured to another sister forever captured in time, a replica of their auburn-haired mother. “Caroline—”

A college student, Braeden surmised from the Virginia Tech hoodie.

“The smart one.”

He frowned at Amelia.

“You’ve met Honey. She was in elementary school when Mom died of ovarian cancer.”

Braeden winced. A slow, painful death.

“Honey’s the baby, and there’s me.” She veered toward the kitchen. “I’ll dish out the stew.”

Braeden caught hold of her wrist. “Which are you?”

She tilted her head. “I showed you. Between Caroline and Honey.”

Braeden ran his thumb over her cheek.

Her blue-green eyes widened.

As deep and fathomless as the Great Machipongo Inlet.

Deep enough for a man to drown?

He lifted her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Which are you? The talented one? The strong one?”

She quivered and stepped out of his reach. “Just Amelia. I’m just me.”

The one who’d made a career of sacrificing everything for her family.

Something tore inside his chest. Braeden hunched his shoulders.

Amelia Duer. His exact emotional polar opposite. Since his dad’s death and his fiancée’s betrayal, he’d made a career out of not getting involved with anyone outside the line of duty.

Especially not with redheads like Carly.

Or Amelia Duer.

She called from the kitchen. “Coffee or sweet tea?”

“Tea, please.” He followed her into the cheery yellow-and-white-tiled kitchen. “I get enough coffee when I’m on watch to float a battleship. Can I help?”

She signaled toward a drawer. “Spoons.”

Amelia ladled the stew into blue crockery bowls, steam rising. “As far as the tea goes, since you hail from Alaska, I think it only fair to remind you that you’re in the South.” She placed the bowl on top of a yellow place mat.

“How’d you know I was born in Alaska?”

Amelia’s mouth opened in an O. Closing it with a snap, she gripped the handle of a glass pitcher.

She’d taken the time—amid getting Max into bed for a nap—to look him up.

He grinned as red—a lovely color on her—crept up her neck.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “It’s sweet.”

He dragged his attention from his contemplation of her pink-tinted lips to her sea-flecked eyes. “What is?”

She shoved the pitcher into his hands. “The tea. Real sweet, if you think you can stand it.”

Their fingers brushed. His heart jackhammered. She recoiled as if she’d been stung.

Braeden decided to crank up his flirting another notch. Just to see if her skin could approximate the color of her hair. For scientific purposes, of course.

He smacked his lips. “The sweeter the better.”

And laughed when her color went off the charts.

Chapter Five

Rinsing the soup bowls, Amelia gazed out the kitchen window across the lawn to the water. Shorebirds wheeled over the marshy creek. The barrier island refuge shimmered like a tiny dot on the horizon.

“You’ve got a nice view from your cabin, too, Braeden.”

He leaned against the counter. “Looks mighty good from where I’m standing.”

But he wasn’t looking out the window.

Her pulse palpitated like butterfly wings. Why did he keep staring at her that way? Men didn’t notice her. Unless to remind her to pull her weight on the boat. Men noticed Honey.

Was he making fun of her? Setting her up to be the butt of a joke?

She edged past him to give the table a good scrub.

He pursed his lips. “Ah.”

She cocked an eyebrow into a question mark.

He pointed to the soap dispenser. “Lime.”

Now she was sure he mocked her. “It gets the fish smell off.”

Honey smelled of flowers. She, on the other hand...

Blinking fast, she swiveled toward the table.

“Hey, I wasn’t...” He cleared his throat. “I was thinking—”

“That’s dangerous.”

“I made a call to the Chief.”

She continued scrubbing, keeping her back to him.

“To Reverend Parks, too.”

She tensed.

“He recommended a fellow parishioner in Onancock who owns a heated pool.”

Pivoting, she focused on him, the dishcloth hanging from her hand. “What are you talking about?”

He eyed the cloth as if it were a weapon. “Max.”

She narrowed her eyes into slits. “What about Max?”

“He’s surrounded by water, Amelia. It’s irrespons—”

Amelia sucked in a quick breath.

Braeden held his hands, palm up. “Wrong choice of words. But you know after what happened today, he’s got to get right back in the water or potentially be enslaved to a fear of it forever.”

She clamped her teeth together so tightly her molars ached. “What’s this got to do with you?”

“I want to teach him. On my off-watch days. Work on it this summer with him as a friend.”

Summer... So far off. Maybe unreachable for Max.

Fighting the fear, Amelia seized on the next best distraction—her anger.

“Be his friend?” She snorted. “Until you’re transferred to a more exciting assignment.”

“Stop smothering him. It’s clear he resents that.” His rugged profile hardened. “Two-or three-year assignments, Amelia, and then you move on. You grew up here. You know that’s the Guard way.”

Amelia flung the dishcloth toward the sink. The hand-launched missile missed his head by a few inches. A few carefully calculated inches.

“What I know is after Mom died, Lindi and Caroline both went offshore. Lindi took up with this Norfolk-based Coastie who she later discovered kept a woman in every port. By the time she found out, she was pregnant with Max.”

Braeden pushed the sleeves of his sweatshirt to his elbows. “Men who stray will stray whether they’re military or civilian.” His scowl deepened. “And as often as not, it’s the home front sweetheart who Dear Johns returning sailors, soldiers and Coasties.”

“That Coastie, whom Max posthumously adores, got stinking drunk one night on leave in San Diego, fell into the water and drowned his sorry self.” She crossed her arms. “So Lindi came home. But two weeks shy of her due date, a drunk driver crossed the median on Highway 13 and plowed into her car.”

“Amelia, I’m sorr—”

“Lindi died in my arms at Riverside Memorial after going into labor. With her last breath, she begged me to take care of Max.”

“So you quit school and your dad—”

“I never made it to school. Dad went into a dark place after Mom died. And then when Lindi...”

“You stayed and took care of Max, your dad and Honey. Putting aside your own dreams.”

Returning to the window, she shrugged. “That was the least of it. When Max turned three, he was diagnosed with leukemia.”

For a moment, she relived that awful time.

Max shuddered with fear at the mere sight of the building where he received his chemo. She shrank inside at the memory of his pitiful cries for his Mimi not to take him into that place. How he’d begged her to go home instead.

How she’d held him down when the nurse inserted the poison into his port—

Braeden’s breath hitched and Amelia realized she’d spoken out loud. To this near stranger she’d spilled the words she’d locked inside herself. Before she could react further, he strode across the room and took her into his arms.

Leaning into his firm chest, she gave in to another’s comfort for once. His essence filled her senses. Tropical breezes laden with sandalwood. A delicious combination of paradise and something all Braeden Scott.

Maybe a friend?

She lacked the energy or vision to contemplate more. Hadn’t she learned the hard way not to trust a Coastie—or anyone besides herself and God? Besides, men like Braeden didn’t look twice at a tomboy like her.

Embarrassed, she twisted away.

Two-or three-year assignment. Here today, gone as soon as she let her guard down.

She chewed at her lower lip, smearing the pink gloss she’d borrowed from Honey’s dresser.

“You’re right about me smothering him. I’m just his aunt Mimi, not his mother. And I’ve become the scapegoat for his pain...” She took a ragged breath.

Braeden cradled her face in his hands. At the feel of them—strong and warm—against her skin, her heart accelerated.

She searched his features. And found honor and integrity.

“The way I see it—” his voice gentled “—Mimi is the closest thing the boy can say next to Mama.”

* * *

Just as she had every night for the past week once they finished dinner, Amelia scudded back her chair.

“Got to check the gear for tomorrow’s charter.”

Braeden folded his napkin and half rose from his chair to waylay her. But too late. Amelia Duer launched from the dining room as if propelled by rocket fuel. The screen door slammed against the frame in her wake.

Honey sighed and began to clear the table.

Seth scuttled back his chair. “Care to cross wits with an old, washed-up waterman like myself, Braeden?”

Braeden reached for the now empty serving platter. “I should help Honey with the dishes.”

“First off, you’re not a washed-up waterman, Dad.” Honey fluttered her hand. “And never you mind about the dishes, Braeden. Amelia cooked and left the kitchen pretty straight. These will go right into the dishwasher.”

Max made car noises underneath the table.

Honey pulled out a chair. “Then Max and I have an appointment with the bathtub.”

Max responded by using her foot as a ramp for his Matchbox car.

“What do you say?” Seth settled into a cane-bottomed chair next to a piecrust table where a game of checkers awaited.

Braeden glanced between Max and Honey.

“Go ahead,” she encouraged, starting toward the kitchen. “But proceed at your own risk. This so-called washed-up waterman is actually known locally as a checkers shark.”

Braeden eased into the chair opposite Seth. Zooming noises continued to emanate from the dining room.

Rubbing his hands together, Seth adjusted the pieces. “You take the red ones. I’ll be black.” The older man chuckled. “Best way to take the measure of a man. Squaring off in a game of skill and cunning.”

Braeden raised his eyebrow a notch. “Skill and cunning?”

“Sharpens the mind, young man. Got to keep on my toes with all these females around.” Seth craned his head toward the dining room. “Ain’t that right, Max, my boy?”

Loud screeches were his only answer.

Three shutout games later, Braeden threw his hands up in surrender. He darted a surreptitious look at the clock on the mantel. Amelia, still a no-show. Max’s bath time—amid much splashing and squawking cries for the XPO to rescue him—had come and gone.

Honey emerged, sopping wet, at the top of the stairs. She gripped pajama-clad Max’s shoulder. “I’ve about had it up to here—” she made a swiping motion with her hand “—with Amelia punishing you and me for not telling her about—oh.” Her mouth snapped shut at the sight of Braeden.

“I thought you’d abandoned ship by now.” Honey tugged at Max. “Considering the unearthly howls coming from this one. He won’t go to bed. Every night this week... I can’t fight this or him again, Dad.”

Seth gnashed his teeth. “Max...”

The boy’s lower lip wobbled. “Mimi always reads me a story.”

Braeden noticed the hardcover picture book tucked under Max’s arm.

Honey let out a gust of air. “Mimi’s not here right now, Max.” She threw up her hands. “And just look at me. Just look at the mess you’ve made of me—not to mention the bathroom.”

Braeden moved out of his chair. “I’ll read Max the story. Would that be okay?” He edged toward the sofa. “Probably not be as good as Mimi, but I’ll give it my best shot.”

Seth shook his head. “Not your responsibility, Braeden, though I appreciate the offer.”

“It’s me Amelia is avoiding.” Braeden shrugged. “Besides, it’ll be fun hanging out with Max before he goes to bed.” He cocked his head at the boy on the stairs. “You will go to bed after we read the story, won’t you?”

Honey teetered on the step. He and Seth both held their breath. Max nodded. Everyone else exhaled in relief.

Seth grasped the armrests and heaved himself to his feet. “And I’m going to have a little talk with another family member of mine, one Amelia Anne Duer.”

Honey paused at the landing. “She’s shy around people she doesn’t know, Dad. Don’t be too hard on her.”

Seth tucked in his shirt. “She’s stubborn is what she is.”

Honey sniffed. “Apples don’t fall far from the tree.”

Seth gave his other daughter a crooked smile. “Same could be said for you, too, baby girl.”

With a cautious look, Max ventured off the stairs as Seth made for the door and his aunt sailed upstairs. Using only the tips of his fingers, Max extended the book to Braeden. And Braeden, for the first time, began to wonder what he’d gotten himself into. An only child, he’d never been good with kids.

Or maybe he’d simply never had the opportunity to learn.

“So what do we have here?” Braeden opened the storybook and smiled. “One of my favorites when I was a boy.”

He was more than a little relieved to realize he knew the story. And that the boy’s literary appetites didn’t run to something the length of War and Peace. Although if he stalled long enough, perhaps Amelia would come back into the house.

Braeden patted the seat cushion beside him. “Hop on up and we’ll begin.”

Sticking his hand into the pocket of his pj’s, Max retrieved his miniature muscle car. “Mimi makes noises when she reads.”

“Noises?”

It was a story, Braeden recollected, about a plucky little sailboat exploring the deep blue sea.

Max nodded and scrambled beside Braeden. The little boy flipped past the title and copyright page. “It starts with the wind in the sails. Mimi makes wind sounds like this.”

He demonstrated by sucking in his cheeks and blowing out small puffs of air. Max recited the first five lines from memory. The clean, just-bathed scent of the little boy reminded Braeden of the boy he’d once been. And of the parents who once read this same story to him.

Braeden let go of the book. “Sounds as though you don’t need me to read it to you. You know it by heart.”

All motion ceased. Max’s eyes shot up to Braeden’s. A pucker creased the ridge between his eyes. “I guess so...” His voice faded and Max looked down at the tiny car he clutched in his hand.

“But...” Braeden swallowed against the unexpected feeling. “Since it’s been a long time since I read the story, maybe you and I—we—could read it together. You could coach me on the parts I’ve forgotten or if I don’t do the sounds like Mimi.”

“Really?” Max blinked at him.

“How about it?”

Max snuggled closer, and before long Braeden found himself as caught up in the story of the brave little sailboat as Max. They laughed together at the funny seagull parts. They groaned as the sailboat’s timbers shivered in the midst of a typhoon and high waves.

By the time they reached the climax where the boat sighted a distant, welcoming shore, Max had curled into Braeden’s lap.

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