Coast Guard Sweetheart. Lisa Carter
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In the circle of his arms, she soaked in his warmth. He tilted his head. Her lips parted.
“Honey!”
She jerked. Sawyer stepped back.
Amelia waved from the screened porch. “Honey! Sawyer!”
“She shouldn’t be on her feet. Doctor’s orders.”
But Amelia came down the steps and let the screen door bang shut behind her. Sawyer turned off the faucet and recoiled the hose.
“What’s wrong?” Honey surged forward, clasping Amelia’s sleeve. “Did the contractions return? Do we need to take you to the hospital?”
Amelia shook her head. “No. I’m fine. But Braeden called. Thought Sawyer might be here.” A smile lifted her cheeks. “Turns out he was right.”
Sawyer’s posture altered, becoming all business. “Is there a problem at the station?”
Amelia moistened her lips. “Braeden’s calling for the off-watch Station Kiptohanock crew to report to headquarters. The forecast’s changed. The tropical depression skipped tropical storm status and mushroomed into Hurricane Zelda.”
“What’s its current status?” Sawyer frowned. “And where is it projected to make landfall?”
Amelia took a deep breath. “It’s Category 4 and gaining speed. Braeden’s meeting now with Accomack County Emergency Management officials to coordinate strategies. Landfall is estimated to occur somewhere between Hatteras and Ocean City.”
Worry prickled Honey. “Putting the Shore right in the middle of its path.”
“Like a bull’s-eye.” Sawyer’s mouth tightened. “Increasing our chances for major storm damage.”
“What about the Decoy Festival this weekend? Has it been cancelled?”
“The storm’s headed our way, but not till later this week. So for now, the festival’s still a go.” Amelia swallowed. “But it’s going to get bad. Maybe mandatory evacuations if it truly veers in our direction.”
Honey sniffed. “Real Shoremen don’t leave because the wind changes direction. We stand our ground.”
“It’s a bad wind that never changes.” Amelia gave Honey a pointed look. “And I’m not just talking about a hurricane.”
Sawyer’s brow furrowed into a V. “If the Coast Guard tells you to go, you better go.” He surveyed his mud-splattered clothing. “Good thing I keep a spare uniform in my vehicle.”
Come to think of it, she’d have known Sawyer was back in town if she’d spotted that flashy blue convertible of his.
Honey flicked him a look. “You better hose off first, Coastie, or you’ll ruin your fancy car.”
“Sold it. Got me a truck like I had in Oklahoma.”
Avoiding her gaze, he headed toward the dock once more. “I better get moving. Cool off while I’m at it, too.”
Him and her both.
But a truck? Sawyer Kole had a truck?
She wondered why he’d made the change. Wondered what the change signified about him. Maybe more in keeping with his true cowboy nature?
From the house, Max bellowed for Mimi. Amelia trudged uphill, leaving Honey staring after Sawyer’s broad-shouldered back.
Because most of all, Honey wondered why in the name of flying Long Johns she still cared.
Labor Day weekend was always busy for the small boat station, even without a hurricane bearing down on the Eastern Shore.
Sawyer had spent the past twenty-four hours on patrol, boarding and citing a plethora of recreational boats on this last official weekend of summer. Citations included reckless endangerment due to excessive speed in the harbor and/or alcohol, which didn’t mix with driving a boat any more than it did with driving a vehicle. Too many vessels also lacked mandatory safety equipment—like life jackets—on board.
Midday Saturday word came of a collision out in the channel beyond the Kiptohanock marina. Sawyer and his crew launched the twenty-four-foot Special Purpose Shallow Water craft and arrived on the scene ten minutes after the call. They found two mangled Jet Skis dead in the water.
A charter captain Sawyer recognized from the Sandpiper had witnessed the accident and called it in. The captain and several other good Samaritans who’d stopped to offer assistance dog-paddled in the water near the wreckage tending to the injured. Sawyer came alongside with the rescue boat.
“One Jet Ski carried a single rider.” The captain kept a firm grip on an unconscious man in his early twenties floating on his back. “The other ski contained two. A male and female.”
The crew pulled the more injured man from the water immediately. Reaves went to work on the unresponsive jet skier. Sawyer and Wiggins secured the remaining two college-aged kids on board. The female clutched her arm like a broken bird wing to her chest.
“Make sure EMS is waiting on the dock,” Sawyer instructed. “Reaves?”
On her knees bending over the first victim, she shook her head. “He’s breathing. I put a neck brace on him, but I suspect some degree of head injury. We need to get him to shore like yesterday.”
“Roger that.” With all souls accounted for and safely aboard, Sawyer hit the throttle and chugged the boat toward Kiptohanock.
The waves were choppy, though the incoming storm was still well out to sea somewhere off the Carolina coast. Like him, the crew felt the tension, their nerve endings thrumming at the palpable change in the air. Urgency mounted in Sawyer’s chest to get the injured to shore while not jarring any more than necessary the unconscious man, who might also have spinal injuries.
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