Coast Guard Sweetheart (11 page)

Honey's dad scrubbed his hand over his face as if trying to dislodge bad memories. “My point, son, is that none of us deserve anything but for the grace and mercy of God. You know what grace is? Or mercy?”

Sawyer shook his head, his throat thick. He'd failed everyone who ever loved him.

“Grace is getting something we don't deserve.” Seth's eyes bored into his. “Like with Jesus, a second chance and forgiveness.”

Sawyer fisted his hands.

“And mercy? Mercy is not getting what we so richly deserve. What our sins deserve. Do you hear me, son?”

Sawyer cast his eyes to the floorboard. “I can't really fathom a God—anybody—who could love somebody as broken as me.”

Honey's father smiled. “As broken as all of us. Who can truly grasp that sort of love?”

“That's God's kind of love. Not human love. I hurt Honey and no matter how much I wish I could have a do-over, there are consequences.” Sawyer raked his hand over his head, sending his headgear akilter. “She'll never trust me again. Never allow me a second chance at her heart.”

Sawyer blinked rapidly. “Crazy to think a Martha Stewart wannabe would ever want anything to do with a washed-up cowboy like me.”

Honey's father patted his arm. “I happen to know you set that girl of mine's heart aquiver every time you walk in the room. That—not you—is what makes her so furious. With herself. God's given you a second chance, not only with Him but with Honey, too. A second chance to prove to her your feelings are real and true.”

If only Sawyer believed he stood a chance at winning back her respect and love.

Honey's father flung open the door. “Way I see it, you've got about two months before Harbor Fest to convince my daughter of your trustworthiness. But first? Let me introduce you to a few horses.”

Seth's faith in him strengthened Sawyer's burgeoning resolve. For the first time, hope took root in his heart. Warring against his feelings of inadequacy.

Whatever it took, whatever he had to do—Sawyer refused to give up on the best thing outside of God he'd ever known.

If Beatrice Elizabeth Duer believed she could get rid of him so easily, she had another think coming.

Chapter Twelve

I
t was over. Honey's dream ruined. Her dream of a forever home swept out to sea with the hurricane.

She felt as if she'd lost her mother all over again. The ground floor was a total wreck. Like her life. Her hard work and the money she'd borrowed down the drain. She ached with a certainty that once FEMA inspected the lodge, the engineer would declare the structure unsound and that her family home would be torn down.

Although the hurricane had downgraded to Category 2 by the time it hit the peninsula, the Duers weren't the only ones affected by the destruction of the storm. Eastern Shore–tough, the Kiptohanockians rallied. Twenty families had been displaced by the floodwaters. But on the Eastern Shore, neighbors helped neighbors.

Surveying the devastation the day after, sadness engulfed Honey. Overwhelmed her as surely as the waves had swallowed the first floor of the lodge on which she'd pinned her hopes. She'd never felt so alone in her life.

In the immediate aftermath of the storm, with the Bay Bridge damaged, the only access onto the peninsula came from Maryland to the north. The governor of Virginia declared a state of emergency, clearing the way for FEMA to speed the process of recovery. The National Guard arrived to clear road debris. A long line of utility trucks from as far away as New Jersey made the journey south to restore electricity and phone service.

Recovery, like Honey's dream, would be a slow process. The village settled into a long haul of rebuilding.

Making a personal visit to the Delmarva Peninsula by helicopter from Richmond that first day, the governor promised he'd do everything in his power to help the locals file their insurance claims for reimbursement. But residents knew only those with deep pockets could afford to begin the rebuilding process without the insurance checks.

Some didn't even have flood coverage. She'd been round and round with their adjustor arguing over whether the damage to the inn resulted from the hurricane winds or the tidal surge which followed. Either way, the dickering could take weeks if not months. Time she didn't have if she wanted the inn back up and running. If that was even a possibility.

The day after the storm, a structural engineer declared the inn sound, but unlivable, until the downstairs had been restored. Sawyer relinquished the second floor efficiency he rented at Pauline Crockett's farmhouse and insisted the Duer family take up temporary residence.

She'd seen little of Sawyer. Out of sight, out of mind. Only the first part of that equation holding true. Where he spent his nights, she hadn't a clue. Their so-called date had been put on indefinite hold. Which was exactly the way she preferred things, she tried to convince herself.

Then out of the blue on Day Three post-Zelda, the Eastern Shore Bank in Onancock called to say they'd received money for the Duer account. She couldn't believe the insurance had settled so fast.

“God is good,” her dad reminded her.

So they began making plans for the renovation. But the Duers, like their neighbors, would have to get in line for a reputable contractor to tackle the remodel. Former high school boyfriend and now sheriff's deputy, Charlie Pruitt, arrested a dozen scam artist contractors who arrived in droves to feed on the misery of beleaguered homeowners.

Seventy-two hours after the storm, Honey parked her father's truck at the muddy remnants of the circle drive to give her old home a thorough assessment and compile a punch list of jobs to be completed.

“A Honey Do-er list,” her father joked.

Portions of the wraparound porch had been ripped away by the tide. It would be one of the first items on the checklist so workers could access the interior.

Careful to test each splintered board, she climbed to the open entrance. Once over the threshold, the wreckage took her breath. She wrinkled her nose at the pungent smells of mold and mildew, which in the humid air left by the storm, flourished unchecked.

Her eyes cut to the destroyed hand-carved mantel. No amount of twenty-first-century know-how could fix that. She moaned, the sound echoing off the twelve-foot ceiling.

“Why, God?” Honey stalked over to the fireplace. “Why did you allow this to happen?”

She pounded her fist on the dented and mangled mantelpiece. “Why did you take my mother and Lindi?” She rested her forehead against the battered wood. “Why does everyone always leave me?”

Behind Honey, a plank creaked. “Like me, you mean?”

She whirled, her heart thundering.

It was Sawyer, in a grubby baseball shirt, jeans and tool belt slung around his narrow waist who filled the gaping entrance. In his hand, he clutched a bunch of the yellow daisies with brown centers, which grew wild along Shore ditch banks in autumn.

She put a hand to her mouth. How much of that embarrassing stroll through her soul's darkest corners had he overheard? She gestured at the flowers. “Where'd you find those?”

A soft smile curved his lips. Lips that once kissed hers. On a beach in the moonlight—she snatched her thoughts away from that precipice.

He strode forward in his work boots. “These somehow managed to survive the salt water and wind. They've also become my favorite flower in the past few years.”

“Why's that?”

He laid them lengthwise across the gouged surface of the mantel. “Because they remind me of you. Brown-eyed Susans, we call 'em in Oklahoma. With your blond hair and brown eyes, that's what my foster mother would've called you, too.” He ducked his head.

Foster mother? Sawyer grew up in a foster home? She blinked. Why hadn't she known that about him? Something so fundamental...

That long ago spring they'd talked of many things. Okay—mainly she talked. Of her frustrations with Amelia's demands she return off-Shore to finish a college degree Honey didn't want. Of her father babying her. Of the family home and vacation destination she wanted to create.

Her. Her. Her.

Only now, she realized how self-absorbed she'd been—still was, to hear her dad tell it. Sawyer had listened. Drawing out of Honey her hopes and dreams and fears. Of himself, he'd shared little.

Cracking funny jokes about his adventures at Basic. Humorous anecdotes about the inadvertent mayhem caused by clueless recreational boaters he encountered at Kiptohanock.

She'd thought she knew the essential things about Sawyer. That he loved horses and the sea. The color blue and long walks on the beach under the stars. She'd believed him sweet, funny and most of all, completely trustworthy and sincere.

Watching him interact with his Coastie colleagues, she recognized early he put on a front for the world. She'd been too immature to question why he'd felt the need to do so. Instead, she'd been flattered that to her—of all the people in the world—he'd given glimpses of his heart and the real Sawyer Kole underneath the Coastie cowboy bravado.

At least that's what she believed until he'd abandoned her on a beach in Ocean City. Was there more to the story—Sawyer's story—than what she imagined she knew? In hindsight, there were a lot of questions she should've asked him then.

“Why did you bring them here?” She cleared her throat.

Avoiding her eyes, he busied himself unloading his tools. “Your dad and Braeden told me they finished dragging everything out of the first floor yesterday. They plan to begin demolition this weekend on Braeden's off days. But with my shift over, I figured I'd give them a head start this afternoon.”

“You didn't answer my question.”

He removed a crowbar from a tool chest. “Amelia said you were dropping by tomorrow.” He coughed. “I brought them for you. I knew seeing the place this way would gut you.”

She stared at him. A muscle jerked in his throat. His gaze swung to hers and back to the floorboards.

“Thank you, Sawyer,” she whispered. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

His mouth tightened. He strode with purpose toward the wall against which once the sofa had rested. “You probably should leave so you don't have to see this.” He knelt and inserted the pry bar between the wall and the baseboard.

“Wait.” She hurried over, catching his arm. “What are you doing?”

“Starting with the baseboards and trim, I've got to rip out the dry wall. Everything down to the studs, joists and wiring. Which will need to be rewired by a professional. But otherwise, I promised you I'd give you back your home, Beatrice, and that's exactly what I intend to do.”

He nudged his chin toward the open door. “Best be on your way.”

She planted her hand on her hip. “Are you trying to get rid of me? I'll have you know I didn't intend to just ‘drop by.' I intend, despite what you think of my girly-girl self, to be completely involved in restoring my home to its full beauty.”

Rising, his eyes glinted. “Nothing wrong with your girly-girl self, I keep telling you, Beatrice.” He broadened his shoulders. “I'm right glad you're a girl.”

Sawyer grinned. “And beautiful, too. If you're determined to help, while I'm ripping out the baseboards you can locate and mark the screws and nails with this stud finder.”

He reached over to a toolbox beside the sawhorse and extracted a palm-size device. Aiming it at a section of the wall, he swept the machine upward and sideways. He stopped at the sound of a ping.

Extracting a pencil from his pocket, he marked the spot. “Easy. See?” He handed the device to her.

Giving him a look, she scanned the beam over the next section and was rewarded with additional beeps. After marking the studs, she smiled at him over her shoulder. “A stud finder, you say?”

Eyes narrowing at her tone, he rocked on his heels and folded his arms across his chest. “Yeah... So?”

She ran the beam from his head to his steel-plated work boots. “Hate to disillusion you, but as I suspected, no studs here.”

His eyebrows arched and those dimples she'd loved widened, bracketing his mouth. He lunged. “Give me that thing.”

She danced away, raising the gadget high above her head, dodging out of his reach.

“Bee-ahh-triss...”

Laughing, she turned on her heel and darted for the stairs.

Giving chase, his arm caught her around the waist. Her back pressed against his chest, they wrestled for the stud finder. They stumbled into the railing.

“Are all cowboys as annoying as you, Sawyer?”

“Are all the Duer girls as aggravating as you, Beatrice?” he grunted. “Give it up, Girly-Girl.”

Encircled by his arms and trapped against the staircase, she cocked her head. “I'll surrender the stud finder...” She moistened her lips. “For a kiss.”

With a quick, indrawn breath, he let go of her. “I thought you hated me.”

She clutched the device to her chest. “Maybe, like you said, it's time to revisit this thing between us. Probably wasn't as great or big a thing as we imagined. Get it out of our systems once and for all and finally move on.”

He took a step backward, and she immediately missed his warmth. “Let me get this straight. You want me to kiss you?”

She laid the stud finder between the rungs on the stair step. “I do.”

Honey lifted her chin and moved closer. “For old time's sake. Give it your best shot, Kole.” She fondled the pearl stud on her earlobe.

A skittish look in his eyes, he knotted his hands against the sides of the jeans that fit him oh so right. But he didn't move. Made no attempt to come near or to touch her. He gazed at her, two...three...five seconds.

Doubt assailed her. What had gotten into her? Suppose he didn't want to...?

His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat and in a sudden move, he took hold of her forearms. He lowered his head. Her lips parted, and she edged upward on the tips of her toes.

Sawyer's mouth hovered millimeters from her own. Her heart hammered. Her arms drifted and locked around his neck.

What was he waiting for? If he didn't go ahead and kiss her, she was going to fall over.

An electric bolt went through her the moment his lips touched hers.

The rough calluses of his palms cupped her face. His mouth broke free, his eyes holding her with his gaze, something powerful passing between them.

A catch in her breath, she kissed him back. Too soon—for Honey's preference—he released her. She leaned against the newel post, grateful for its support. She was glad to note he seemed to be having as much trouble recovering his breath as she.

She grasped for the threads of her composure. She mustn't let him see how he'd rattled her. “See? Just as I suspected.”

He stilled, then with great deliberation passed his hand over his Coastie buzz cut. “I guess you showed me,” he rasped.

Oh yeah, she'd shown him. Shown him how much she despised him.

Honey forced out a hollow laugh. “Just a walk down memory lane. Keeping it fun. Gotta keep the past in the past, though.”

The bleakness in his eyes chilled her. “Right. What future could there have ever been between a messed-up cowboy Coastie and the Eastern Shore's Sweetheart?”

“Mission accomplished.” Her mouth trembled. “And nobody calls me sweetheart.”

Sawyer hooded his eyes, but not before she spotted the hurt there. Hurt she'd placed there. “Despite what you believe, Beatrice, I don't play games.”

He staggered toward the door. “I'm going out to the truck to bring in some supplies.” He hesitated at the entrance. “I hope we can still be friends.”

Why did that leave her feeling empty?

Mission accomplished, all right. Instead of excising the Coastie from her life, the opposite had occurred. How was she going to keep her heart intact working alongside Sawyer to rebuild the inn? 'Cause kissing Sawyer Kole
had
proven to be as great as she'd remembered.

She sank onto the bottom step of the stairs. Truth be told, more so.