Coast Guard Courtship

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?