Returning to Eden (Acts of Valor, Book 1): Christian Military Romantic Suspense

by Rebecca Hartt

  “I’m sure you’ll want to get down here right away,” the commander prompted.

  “Of course,” she said, all thought of her overworked muscles fleeing her head.

  “There’s something you should know, ma’am, before you see him.”

  The commander’s hesitancy made Eden’s pulse skip. She braced herself for more shocking news—maybe Jonah had been disfigured.

  “He’s lost a few years of his memory, apparently.”

  What?

  “He doesn’t have any recollection of a family, I’m afraid. This kind of thing is normal, I want you to understand. It’s an indication of post-traumatic stress, nothing that can’t be dealt with, probably not permanent, though we’ll know more once the results of his CT scan are in. Why don’t you come down to the hospital tonight, and I’ll go into more detail with you?”

  Shocked into silence, Eden stared at her pale-faced daughter. Jonah didn’t remember them.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Yes,” she said automatically. “I’ll be there in about an hour.”

  “Traumatology is on the third floor. Just ask for Commander Schmidt, and I’ll escort you in to see your husband. Maybe someone should come with you?” he suggested.

  “I’ll bring my daughter.”

  The commander hesitated, no doubt picturing a small child. “I don’t know if that’s a—”

  Eden hung up on him, too overwrought to explain. The phone slipped from her numb fingers, thudding to the bath mat. The flames of the candles danced in the corner of her eye. Maybe she’d drowned in the tub and was experiencing hallucinations.

  “Mom!” It was Miriam, bending over her with silvery-purple hair instead of chestnut. “It’s Dad, isn’t it?” she demanded, searching Eden’s expression. “He’s back, isn’t he?”

  Eden couldn’t tell if the edge to Miriam’s voice was excitement or stress. Maybe she was worried about Jonah’s reaction to her hair.

  Poor Miriam. When Eden had married Jonah, her daughter had been euphoric at the thought of finally having a father. She’d insisted on calling him Dad right away, even when it was clear that unsettled Jonah. Her disillusionment upon realizing he had no time for an adolescent daughter had been hard to watch.

  “He doesn’t remember us.” Eden heard herself relay what the doctor had told her. “He’s suffering some kind of amnesia due to post-traumatic stress.”

  “He was probably tortured,” Miriam stated.

  Eden’s stomach lurched at the bald statement. Her daughter could always be trusted to call a spade a spade.

  “We need to get to the hospital.” She started to rise out of the tub.

  “Mom, you need to rinse your hair.”

  Oh, yes, her hair. Twisting the faucet, Eden stuck her head under a cold stream of water, hoping to shake off her shock.

  With Miriam picking out her clothes, she dressed in record time, brushed the tangles out of her long hair, and jammed her feet into her tennis shoes.

  “You want me to drive?” Miriam asked, looking suspiciously composed.

  “Yeah, right.” Eden forced a laugh. For someone who wasn’t even related to Jonah, Miriam was a lot like him. She took blows without a blink, seemingly unfazed by the harsher aspects of life—until her stress manifested itself in some self-destructive behavior, which usually sent Eden scrambling for a counselor.

  “It’s not that hard to drive,” Miriam insisted, following Eden down the hallway and out the front door.

  Eden drove the silver Jaguar that had been Jonah’s exclusive property. It was nearly nine o’clock on a gorgeous August evening. Leaving the coastal community in which they lived, they chased the sun that was sinking fast behind the pine trees. Eden took Route 264 at eighty miles an hour, fingers clamped so tightly on the steering wheel she had to pry them loose to turn up the radio.

  I should be feeling grateful, she thought, realizing she wasn’t. The dominant emotion residing in her chest at that moment was confusion. How could this be happening when she’d just acknowledged she was better off alone? What kind of selfish woman did that make her, accepting Jonah’s death when he wasn’t even dead? If he really was alive, then God had worked a miracle! She ought to be feeling grateful, not confused.

  I’m just wary, she decided. She didn’t know what to expect. After all, Jonah had been imprisoned for a year, by a country that was no friend of the United States. Under its current dictator, Venezuela had allied itself with Iran and North Korea. What if Jonah’s captors had let those countries take a crack at interrogating him? If they’d known he was a Navy SEAL, they would have worked him over to the point of nearly killing him.

  God help him. Help all of us, actually.

  Glancing at Miriam, Eden wondered if her daughter felt as torn as she did. Miriam appeared utterly composed, staring out the window at the Norfolk and Portsmouth skylines.

  “It’s going to be all right, squirt,” Eden said, if only to keep them on line and communicating. The counselors had all stressed the importance of communication.

  Miriam didn’t answer. Glancing down at her daughter’s hands, Eden noticed that her fingers were crossed on both hands, as if for luck. What was she hoping for? That Jonah would remember them? That he would be okay?

  It wouldn’t be that easy, would it? Jonah was the toughest man Eden knew—even tougher than her father. He’d been hardened by his horrendous childhood to withstand hostility. For him to have repressed his memories, something truly awful must have been done to him.

  The irony of having been reveling in her newfound freedom when the call came in did not escape her notice.

  Of course, I’ll be there for him, she assured herself. She’d been raised from childhood to consider marriage sacred. As Jonah’s wife, she possessed certain obligations. She would welcome him home as warmly as any wife should. She would help him to regain his footing, do whatever was required of her. But after he’d healed mentally and emotionally, after he’d reestablished himself on the Teams, she might yet ask him for a separation. His supposed death had proven she was happier without him. Having tasted her freedom, she could never be content returning to the life she’d led before, and neither could Miriam.

  With that decision made, the tension in her shoulders eased. For the time being, her move toward independence would have to wait. Blowing out a shaky breath, she accepted what had to be done. For now, Jonah needed her.

  The knock at the door startled Jonah out of a drug-induced lethargy. He’d been staring at the blank TV screen envisioning a baseball game he remembered watching three years ago, wondering how he could remember that and not remember the two years that followed.

  “Come in,” he called, struggling to sit up straighter with an IV in his hand.

  The knock had been charged with purpose. Jonah’s pulse quickened to think this might just be his wife and kid—the ones he couldn’t remember. Dr. Schmidt had warned him they were on their way.

  A bouquet of flowers preceded his visitor through the door. Over a bright yellow spray of lilies, Jonah recognized the commander of Blue Squadron, Captain Daniel Dwyer, and he started clambering out of the bed to salute him, not sure he had the strength to do it.

  “At ease, Lieutenant.”

  Dwyer’s words had him sliding his legs back under the sheets—it was so cold in the room! Marching in, the CO deposited the vase of flowers on Jonah’s bedside table.

  “From the office,” he explained, setting his cap beside the vase, then dusting a fallen petal off his dress whites. Dwyer appeared to be dressed for some important function.

  “How’s the patient today?” he asked, giving Jonah his full attention.

  Jonah had always thought Dwyer resembled John Wayne, except with a head of salt-and pepper hair and a thick mustache, all black, which suggested he dyed it. He remembered his CO asking him that very question yesterday, only he had been too tranquilized to answer.

  “Better, sir,” he said. “I apologize for not responding yesterday.”

>   Dwyer shrugged off the apology. “There’s no need to explain, Lieutenant. You’ll have bad days and good days. At least you remember me.” His gray eyes narrowed, an implied question in his statement.

  “Yes, sir, of course.” Jonah sat a little taller, wishing he felt stronger. “I remember being stationed at Dam Neck with SEAL Team Six, working with Blue Squadron as a troop leader, but that was over two years ago.”

  Dwyer’s long stare struck Jonah as grave. “Mind if I sit down?” he asked, heading for the recliner on the other side of Jonah’s bed.

  “Of course not, sir,” Jonah murmured.

  Watching the CO round the bed, his concern rose. What if Dwyer asked him the same questions that the NCIS Special Agent had asked him yesterday? What if Jonah lost his cool again and started stressing so badly he had to be shot up with another dose of lorazepam?

  Dwyer hitched his perfectly creased trouser legs before sitting, military straight, on the edge of the recliner. “Tell me what you do remember.”

  Jonah swallowed hard. Dear God, how many times was he going to have to do this?

  “Of the last mission, sir?”

  “No, no,” Dwyer corrected. “I mean everything. Start with the beginning. Where were you born?”

  Oh, okay. Jonah’s anxiety eased, though he knew this was only a reprieve. At least his childhood—as much as he’d like to forget it—was indelibly etched into his mind.

  “I was born in Missouri, sir, my parents’ only child. My mom ran a business out of the house. My father was a preacher.”

  Dwyer nodded approvingly. “Go on.”

  Jonah heaved an inward sigh. His life had gone steadily downhill after the age of five. “When I was five, my dad was killed in a car accident.”

  Dwyer’s flexing eyebrows conveyed sympathy.

  “My mom moved to Indiana and remarried when I was eight.” Jonah opted to skip over the next decade—years of being bullied by his stepbrother, at least until he was big enough to fight back. His teen years were spent breaking into people’s houses and stealing items he could pawn until Sergeant Reynolds of the Evansville Police Department intervened and essentially saved Jonah’s life.

  Captain Dwyer didn’t need to hear how Reynolds had talked the judge into letting Jonah join the Navy in lieu of going to jail. He’d been given the chance to redeem his sorry life, and he had made the most of it.

  “I enlisted when I was eighteen. They made me an intelligence specialist. I attended night school, got my B.S. and went to Officer Candidate School, then straight to BUDs after that.”

  Dwyer nodded approvingly. He’d clearly read up on Jonah’s personnel file, which meant he knew all these facts for himself.

  With a prick of impatience, Jonah summarized the rest of his history in a few clipped sentences.

  “I graduated with Class 295 in 2012. I remember everything, all of my SEAL qualification training, every objective and every mission, right up to the jumping exercise in Oceana when Blake LeMere never opened his chute.”

  In fact, the memory of that training exercise traumatized Jonah like it had happened only yesterday. The vision of Blake plummeting past him as his own parachute billowed open filled him with horrified helplessness. He could do nothing but watch LeMere tumble toward the earth, eventually hitting the ground feet first. An investigation of the incident later revealed he hadn’t opened his chute because he’d been unconscious. How and why LeMere had passed out shortly after leaping from the plane remained a mystery. That he had died unconscious, however, had been a small comfort.

  Dwyer’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the last thing you remember? Blake LeMere’s death?”

  Jonah wracked his brain for a single memory that might have come after. A sharp pain, startling in its intensity, lanced the left side of his face, driving deep into his eye.

  He clapped a hand over his eye and doubled over.

  Dwyer jackknifed out of his chair to put a hand on his back.

  “You okay, son? Should I call the nurse?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Jonah grated.

  Forcing himself to sit up straight, he pulled his hand from his face and blinked Dwyer into focus.

  “This happens sometimes,” he added, deftly shrugging the CO’s hand off his shoulder. “Apparently I took a blow to my left cheek.”

  Dwyer stepped back, crossed his arms, and frowned at him.

  Jonah felt compelled to reassure him further. “The doctor says my memory loss is probably temporary. I’ll get it back,” he added, holding Dwyer’s gaze with determination.

  “What about your captivity? Do you remember that?”

  And here it came, the questioning he’d dreaded.

  “Not really. I remember waking up and realizing my cell door was open. No one was around, so I slipped away without anyone seeing me and ran straight toward the ocean. I stole a boat to get away, and I paddled for several days before a merchant vessel came across me.”

  He glanced surreptitiously at his blistered hands.

  The CO drew a deep breath, the sound of which cinched Jonah’s gut with worry.

  “Look,” Dwyer said, uncrossing his arms and letting them fall to his sides. “I’m not here to pressure you.” His big hand rested on the railing between them. “You’ve been through enough already. I just want you to know I’m concerned about you.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Desiring with all his heart to return to the Teams, Jonah held his CO’s gaze steadily.

  Dwyer looked at his mouth. “That blow to your face,” he said. “Dr. Schmidt thinks that’s contributing to your amnesia.”

  That was news to Jonah. He’d been told his amnesia was due to post-traumatic stress. The doctor must have gotten the results of the CT scan.

  “Really?” The news bolstered his confidence. SEALs weren’t supposed to suffer long-term effects of post-traumatic stress. If it didn’t go away on its own, it became a disorder—PTSD—and that would prevent him from returning to active duty. Losing his memory from a blow to his head looked better, didn’t it?

  “The scan shows damage to your frontal lobe,” Dwyer continued gravely. “I’ll let Schmidt explain the results in more detail. It’s just—” his commander hesitated then shrugged, “he said there’s a chance you may never get your memory back. The loss could be permanent.”

  Jonah swallowed his dismay. Dwyer had said the word permanent like it was the worst thing that could happen to a SEAL.

  “I’m sorry, son,” the CO added, confirming Jonah’s perceptions.

  “Sir, are you saying if I never get my memory back, I can’t be on the Teams? Even if I remember all of my training?”

  Searching Dwyer’s inscrutable expression, Jonah tried to guess the answer before his leader said it.

  “That’s not strictly up to me. And there’s still the matter of PTSD. If you’re diagnosed with that, you can’t be undertaking missions, obviously. If it’s less pernicious than PTSD, then your doctors, Vice Admiral Holland, and I will all have to clear you before you can return to active duty.”

  Who? Jonah tried to hide his confusion.

  “Oh, you wouldn’t remember.” Dwyer grimaced apologetically. “Holland replaced Vice Admiral Leland last year. He’s the new base commander.”

  So much had changed! Jonah gripped the bed rail to ground himself.

  “Son, I don’t mean to pressure you,” Dwyer added, his face the very picture of remorse, “but I need to know if you recall the night of your disappearance.”

  Jonah had figured the questioning wasn’t over. Just like the NCIS investigator, Dwyer wanted to know what had happened to him in Venezuela. SEALs weren’t supposed to fall into enemy hands—ever. They were trained to avoid capture at all costs, even take their own lives before letting the enemy lay hold of them. Yet, somehow, Jonah had been captured rather than perishing in the explosion which, according to Commander Schmidt, was believed to have caused his death.

  “Do you remember anything?” Dwyer asked him. “Anything a
t all?”

  In a desperate bid to restore his CO’s faith in him, Jonah blew out a breath and focused inwardly. For the barest second, an image formed—light blazing in the darkness—but then it receded, lost in the gaping hole of the past two years. He winced as the pain behind his left eye threatened to return. Eyes closed, he shook his head, unable to admit to Dwyer’s face that he could not.

  His CO clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder again. “Relax, Lieutenant. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Obviously, we’re delighted you’re alive. It’s a miracle you’re here with us again,” he insisted.

  Maybe I’m just depressed, Jonah thought, but Dwyer didn’t sound all that delighted.

  “Concentrate on getting your strength back. Things will fall into place after that,” the man assured him.

  Too choked up to speak, Jonah kept his mouth shut.

  “I hear they’re releasing you tomorrow,” Dwyer added, stepping back.

  Jonah nodded. The reminder that he was going home to a family he couldn’t remember stole his breath momentarily. The last home he recalled was an apartment on base for unmarried military personnel. His only family then had been his brothers in Alpha Troop.

  “Are the guys around, sir?” He looked up at last. “Saul, Theo, Bambino and…and the new ensign, Lucas Strong?”

  “Strong’s a lieutenant junior grade now,” Dwyer said with a wry smile. “He stepped into your shoes as troop leader.”

  “Oh.” Jonah tempered his envy with the logic that someone had to lead the troop.

  “The men are training off the coast right now,” Dwyer said, rounding the foot of the bed. “I’ve radioed the news of your return, and Master Chief Rivera is flying back as we speak.”

  The news came as a relief. Master Chief was exactly the man to have around at a time like this. Unlike the CO, Alpha Troop’s highest ranking enlisted officer wouldn’t undermine Jonah’s confidence. He’d bully Jonah into remembering and suggest he get his act together if he didn’t want to disappoint his teammates. Jonah looked forward desperately to seeing him.

  Dwyer retrieved his cap off the bedside table. “You can expect Rivera sometime tonight or tomorrow. He’s going to help you with the paperwork and such.”