Coast Guard Sweetheart (13 page)

Honey glanced around the bustling square on this mid-October day. The American and Coast Guard flags were aflutter atop the twin poles at the Coastie station. She shaded her hand over her eyes, gazing out across the harbor toward the barrier islands.

It was a gusty day. Dad, a seasoned waterman, would know to take it easy. But with the stiff wind, the repositioning of the steeple scheduled for today would have to wait.

Braeden promised to give her a ride back to Pauline's when he got off duty. She glanced at the time on her cell phone. Still a half hour. She'd finished the landscaping project around the lodge earlier than she'd imagined. Come summer, the air would be heady with the smell of gardenias.

Might as well get a Long John and a coffee while she waited. The bells over the cafe door jingled as she strode inside. Waving to a few patrons she'd known since she was a child, she ordered from the counter. Dixie poured her a cup of coffee. Carrying the mug, Honey snagged a booth overlooking the village green.

Sipping the aromatic coffee, her gaze riveted to the activity centered around the church. The roof had been reshingled early in the aftermath of the storm by the same North Carolina men's ministry who'd returned this Saturday to correct the tilt of the steeple. Too bad they'd made the trip north for nothing, thanks to the weather.

No surprise it was Sawyer who snared her attention first and foremost among the throng of volunteer workers.

He clamped the strap of a hardhat underneath his chin. Another worker helped him step into and adjust a safety harness. She frowned. What was he—?

She set the porcelain mug with a thud onto the tabletop as she watched Sawyer's climb to the top of the church scaffolding. Her eyes darted to the flagpole across the square as a brisk wind snapped the fabric taut before her gaze cut to Sawyer. Losing his footing, his handhold on the iron bars slipped.

He fell and swung out over nothingness.

She sucked in oxygen, her heart in her throat. But the crane supporting the safety harness held. Dangling, Sawyer readjusted his grip, regained his footing and commenced with the repair work.

Her breath came in short, rapid gasps. “Of all the stupid... What are you trying to prove, Kole?” She clenched her teeth. “Anything for a thrill, eh?”

“Is that why you think Sawyer's working so hard?”

She jerked at Braeden's voice at the end of the booth. She rested her hands palm down on the table. “I think he craves danger the way some people crave drugs.”

Braeden burrowed his brow. “He's working two days on, and on his two days off, he's either at the Keller farm or your house. Weekends he works at the church.”

He slid into the booth across from her. “Want me to tell you why I think Sawyer's pushing himself so hard?”

She pursed her lips. “Why do I feel you're going to tell me anyway?”

“I think Sawyer drives himself because he's trying to prove something to himself. And most of all, to you.”

Her eyebrows rose. “To me?”

Braeden's eyes flitted toward the sound of the crane poised over the steeple. “Sawyer didn't abandon you that night on the beach in Ocean City. He waited in the shadows of the convenience store across the street until someone came for you. He reckoned you'd call Amelia. Only he didn't know I'd come, too, and confront him.”

“He stayed?” She tried to wrap her mind around this new piece of information. “Why? What did he say to you, Braeden?”

Braeden's gaze dropped to the paper placemat. “Sawyer's been told his whole life he's a screw-up. He realized his life was on the wrong path. And he cared enough for you he didn't want to take you down with him.”

Her mouth tightened. “He told me I wasn't the kind of girl he wanted.”

“Sawyer didn't want to ruin your life.” Braeden sighed. “I'll grant you his methods were brutal, but effective. He believed then it was only a matter of time before he ended up like his birth parents, and he loved you enough to cut you loose.”

Honey shook her head. “Love me? He told you he loved me?” She made a face. “Funny how he's never said those words to me. I'm not sure that man knows the meaning of love.”

Braeden's mouth hardened. “He was thinking about your happiness, not his. Took guts and courage to walk away from you. A sacrificial love that put his heart on the right path to eventually find God. He's become a fine young man who I'm proud to serve with.” Braeden's eyes bored into her. “But more than that, I'm honored to call him my friend.”

Friend... She was about sick of that word. “Why are you only telling me this now?”

Braeden leaned against the cracked vinyl upholstery. “I'm praying at last you've room in your heart to listen. To hear the truth. I think he's found peace for the first time in his life. A joy that can only come from God.”

“How nice for him.” She gripped the handle of the mug. “Glad to know one of us is happy.”

A muscle ticked in Braeden's jaw. “The church is the heart of Kiptohanock, a place Sawyer holds dear. Possibly the first real place Sawyer's ever considered home. His happiness right now comes in using his skills to re-erect the steeple.”

She knotted her fingers in her lap. “If he doesn't get himself killed first.”

“As for the lodge?” Braeden glanced out the window again. “The lodge is your dearest dream, Honey. And for Sawyer, his greatest happiness lies in making you happy. Giving you back the home you love.”

Braeden let out a gust of air. “Can't you see it, Honey? See his heart? Must you have the words in order to believe? He's not an eloquent man, not comfortable with words. He's showing you his love in a thousand different ways through his actions.”

I'm good with my hands...
That much he'd said to her a month ago. Was it true what Braeden supposed?

Chemistry she and Sawyer had in spades, but beyond that? They'd need far more than sparks to make it work between them if they wanted a chance for real, lasting love.

And the most fundamental of love's building blocks—trust. Chemistry was one thing. Trust was something entirely different.

Fool me once...

She fought the tears welling in her eyes.

“Here's a better question for you to ponder, Honey, instead of passing judgment.” Braeden edged out of the booth. “Ever stop to wonder who takes care of Sawyer? Or if besides God, anyone ever did?”

Chapter Fourteen

T
wo days later, Honey eased the truck door open, trying not to startle Sawyer.

Head reclined against the seat, he didn't stir, a testimony to how tired he really was. She winced at the sight of the bandage wrapped around his forearm where he'd burned himself on a SAR mission earlier that afternoon. Sawyer wasn't careless. He was exhausted.

And just because she could, she allowed herself the luxury of studying his features.

Shadows smudged the skin beneath his closed lids. Grooves of weariness etched the corners of his mouth. There were deep hollows beneath his sharp cheekbones.

A brown leather Bible lay open on the seat beside him. She wondered what he'd been reading. And if it gave him the peace Braeden claimed Sawyer now possessed.

Peace... Honey was sinking—drowning—beneath a load of bitterness. An anger that had begun with the death of her mother, stoked by Caroline's inexplicable desertion and punctuated by Lindi's death.

As for Sawyer's complete and utter rejection? The icing on the cake. But his motivation? Perhaps not what she'd believed three years ago. There were a lot of things she was starting to reconsider.

She let out a small, hopeless sigh. If she had her druthers, she'd stand here all day and look at him. But this time, the rescuer needed a little rescuing of his own. And she was just the woman for the job.

“Wake up, Sawyer,” she whispered. “Wake up.”

He blinked and jerked upright. His hands grabbed for the wheel.

She touched his sleeve. “It's okay. You fell asleep in the truck. It's just me.”

His eyes flickered from her to the dusky glow of approaching nightfall above the tree line. “There's no ‘just you' about it, Beatrice.”

Sawyer swallowed and reached for the key hanging in the ignition. “I didn't mean to hold you up. I better get going and check on Keller's horses.”

“Wait...” She caught his arm. “You need to eat something first. Between the station, the steeple and the house, you're working too hard.”

“The whole town's working hard to restore what was lost in time for Harbor Fest. Don't worry about me. I'm fine.”

“You don't look fine. You look tired. Like you haven't had a decent meal in days. You're so busy taking care of everyone else, but who takes care of you?”

His hands flexed around the wheel. “I take care of myself.”

She nudged her chin at the bandage. “And not doing a great job. Come inside the house. I brought you a plate of food.”

He pushed back his shoulders. “Just give me the plate.”

She wagged her finger at him. “Not happening, Kole. You'll scarf it down in between shoveling horse manure or cleaning tack. Not healthy. You need to take a break.”

“I told you I'm fine. Got to keep moving. If I stop moving—”

“You fall asleep in your truck.”

Sawyer flushed.

Honey planted her hands on her hips. “You're dead on your feet and no good to anyone if you don't get some rest. So get out of the vehicle, Coastie. Don't make me go all steel magnolia on you. I promise, you wouldn't like it.”

“Steel gardenia in your case.” His eyes teased. “Don't sell yourself short, Beatrice. I think maybe I would.”

Honey's knees buckled at the unrepentant buccaneer grin he shot her way. And she made a quick grab for the support of the truck door. Gardenias... So he'd noticed. Her “little” landscaping project had evolved into lots of old-fashioned shrubs—gardenias, lilacs and hydrangeas.

And she'd developed more than a little fondness for ditch daisies.

With her heart jackhammering, she reminded herself of her mission objective. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Your choice.” An echo of his words to her on the day of the storm.

She cocked her head. “But one way or the other, cowboy, you're coming inside the house and eating the food.”

His lips curved. “You gonna force feed me, Beatrice?”

She placed her foot on the truck's running board. “Whatever it takes. Besides, there's a few painting ideas I want to run by you.”

“More on the Honey Do-er list?” Mock-groaning, he let go of the wheel. “So you want a design consult?”

Actually, not so much. The trick, she'd decided long ago in dealing with the male species, was knowing when and how much steel versus gardenia to apply. She switched to a more cajoling tone.

“I'd also prefer not to eat alone.” She looked down and then up at him out of the corner of her eyes. “Keep me company while I eat, Sawyer?”

He raked his hand over his Coastie cut. “I—I didn't realize you hadn't eaten...”

She caught his hand, his palm warm against hers. Indulging in the tiny frisson of pleasure his touch wrought. Even with his off duty construction attire of jeans and T-shirt, Honey was still so Coastie-susceptible.

Okay...maybe not so much Coastie-susceptible as Sawyer-susceptible.

As Sawyer gave her hand a squeeze and swung his legs out of the truck, she stepped aside to give him room. To her chagrin, he let go of her hand.

He swept his arm toward the rebuilt screened porch. “Lead on, O fearless Duer.”

She sniffed. “Like you once told me, better be careful what you wish for, Kole.”

“Bossy much, Beatrice?”

She arched a look at him over her shoulder. “I'm not bossy, Coastie. I've got leadership skills.”

Wrenching open the screen door, Sawyer's laughter made her grin. Wouldn't do to let him know that, though.

* * *

Inside the kitchen, Sawyer watched her unwrap the foil off a paper plate. She'd placed the ditch daisies he'd left—like the pitiful, lovesick XPO he was—in an antique blue bottle vase, he noted. She moved the flowery rays of sunshine to the kitchen windowsill overlooking the marsh.

“There.” Honey angled. “It'll catch the last rays of light.”

She handed him a plastic fork. “You'll have to eat standing up.”

He leaned against the newly installed countertop. “Where's yours?”

She shrugged. “We can share.”

It was hard being this close to her every day. Working alongside Honey, yet never being able to—Sawyer jabbed the fork into the pile of mashed potatoes.

He closed his eyes and moved his lips in a quick prayer. He opened them to find her watching him this time, her arms crossed. Dropping his gaze, he shoveled the potatoes into his mouth.

Sawyer's mouth watered, and he realized he couldn't remember the last time he ate. Probably those Long Johns Reaves brought to the station that morning. And before that?

Half a plate later, Sawyer froze, the fork suspended midway to his mouth. “I forgot to share.” He put down the fork. “Sorry.” He pushed the plate across the plastic-swathed granite toward Honey.

A smile quirked her lips. “I'm not. You were hungry. I like watching a man enjoy his food.”

“I always enjoy your food, Hon—” He caught himself. “Beatrice.”

Her smile dimmed. She shoved the plate back at him. “Go ahead and finish it.”

“But you—”

“I'm not as hungry as I thought. I'll grab something at Miss Pauline's.”

His brows knit, but he grabbed the biscuit and took a bite. She whirled in a slow three-sixty, taking in the reconstructed commercial kitchen. At her happiness, a satisfaction filled long empty places inside him.

She'd decided on a French country design—off-white cabinets, a yellow-and-blue-tiled backsplash, and touches of warm reds. She dreamed. He implemented.

Which, in
his
dreams, was how it ought always to be between him and Honey.

“It's going to be better than it was before thanks to you, Sawyer.”

He concentrated on taking the next bite. And chewing some more. He made a deliberate effort to swallow. “I promised you I'd give you your home back and I meant it.”

“What was your home like, Sawyer?”

He choked. Coughed. And stalled. “Oklahoma. You know that. Rodeo and barns. Now the Guard.”

“I meant your home as a boy.”

He dropped the biscuit. He so did not want to go there. Not with her.

She fingered the strand of pearls at her throat. “You've never told me about your parents. What were they like?”

He concentrated on placing the fork across the width of the plate just so.

“Sawyer... Talk to me.”

At her hushed tone, he glanced up.

Her face gentled. “Please...”

Shuffling his feet on the yet to be varnished hardwood pine, he wiped his hands along the side of his jeans. Might as well get this over with. In a few weeks, with the remodel of the church and inn complete, it wouldn't matter if she knew.

“My mother died on the streets from a drug overdose. My father died in prison for an armed bank robbery gone wrong.”

Her eyes widened.

“Great gene pool, huh?” Curling his lip, he stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Never had a real family. The Larsens were the closest, court-ordered guardians I ever got.”

Honey inserted her arm through the crook of his elbow. “So you modeled yourself after them. Became a guardian of the sea.”

Something pinged in his chest. Funny how Honey Duer got him. Sometimes better than he understood himself. And her sweetness, so like the old Honey, threatened to undo the careful barricades he'd erected around his heart.

He played off her words, allowing his shoulder to rise and fall. “Sounds much more noble than what I actually thought as an eighteen-year-old recruit after graduating from the system with nowhere else to go.”

It hurt his heart to contemplate what she must think of him. But being Honey, she once again surprised him.

“So they abandoned you? Kicked you out? How long were you with them?” Her brown eyes flashed. “How old were you when you were placed the first time?”

“Ten.” He frowned at the intensity in her gaze, confused by the anger in her voice. “I was with the Larsens only during high school.”

Was she angry with him? Angry with the Larsens? Why was she angry at all?

“The Larsens are good people. But there were other kids, a long line, waiting for the same chance they'd given me. It's the way the system works. They've tried to stay in touch. Phone calls, cards, but—”

“But you let them in too far, regretted it and rebuilt your walls. Kind of a pattern with you, isn't it? Leave before they leave you.”

A beat of silence.

Sawyer stared at her. “I guess it is.”

Her eyes softened. “Lessening the chances of being hurt. Not allowing yourself to be vulnerable. Has this strategy worked?”

“Until I met you...” He gulped past the boulder clogging his throat. “Yeah, it did.”