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?”