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

by Rebecca Hartt

  With his head against the pillow, Jonah struck her as curiously vulnerable. His hair, in bad need of a haircut, had fallen over one eye, giving him a boyish demeanor.

  “You just got here,” he protested, but he sounded suddenly exhausted.

  “I know, but you’ve been through a lot, and you’ll want to save some energy for tomorrow. Besides, I need to make some phone calls and free up my work schedule.”

  A hint of her overwrought state must have crept into her voice for Jonah immediately apologized. “I’m sorry. I’m probably an unexpected burden.”

  “Not at all,” she assured him. “I’m happy to help. Are you kidding? This is amazing…to see you again and…” Not knowing what else to say that wouldn’t mislead him into thinking everything was hunky dory, she let her voice trail off.

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” she said instead. “What time are they releasing you again?”

  “Oh-nine hundred,” he replied, proving there was nothing wrong with his short-term memory.

  “I’ll see you then,” she promised, hitching her purse strap higher. Now what? Should she embrace him, kiss his cheek, or simply walk out?

  She opted for a quick smile and a wave. “Come on, squirt.”

  Spinning on her soles, she practically ran for the door.

  Miriam followed at a more desultory pace.

  “It’ll be all right,” Eden heard her daughter tell Jonah.

  Would it, though? Things were steady, calm, and normal when Jonah was supposedly dead. Now that he was alive again, with no memory of their brief, disappointing marriage, everything seemed off-kilter, unnerving, and a little frightening, if she were honest. There were way too many variables in this crazy equation for things to be all right.

  Chapter 3

  Jonah’s eyes sprang open. Save for a soft line of light under the door, he lay in a room steeped in darkness. His sluggish mind informed him he was still in his squalid cell in Carenero, Venezuela, and danger was coming, as it always did in the darkest part of the night.

  A faint creaking sound, like that of cane being flexed, reached his ears.

  Please, God, not another caning. He lacked the energy to endure that particular torture, not to mention the hours following as he rode on waves of feverish agony.

  Jonah felt for a weapon, anything he could use to fend off his captors, to dissuade them from taking him—at the very least to slow them down.

  As the creaking came again from somewhere close, Jonah’s fingers closed around the handle of an object, one that was full of liquid. A silhouette loomed over him, suddenly, and Jonah tossed the contents of the pitcher at it. With a startled exclamation, his attacker jumped back. Jonah hurled the pitcher for good measure and scrambled out of the contraption he was in, tearing off some kind of creature—a snake!—that bit into the back of his hand. In an instant, he was on his feet with the contraption between himself and his attacker.

  Cursing in Spanish, the man snapped on the light and yelled at him.

  “Jaguar, it’s me!” He gestured to his sodden T-shirt. “What are you trying to do, drown me?”

  At the sight of his master chief, Jonah sucked in a breath of disbelief. He groped for the bedside table for something solid to hold onto. A few darting glances corroborated where he was: not in some dark cell, but in the Portsmouth Naval Medical Center facing his beloved master chief, who’d apparently just risen from the leather recliner by Jonah’s bed.

  “Santiago,” he whispered, struggling to clear his head.

  Santiago Rivera looked exactly the same—lean and swarthy, with hair one shade darker than his espresso-colored eyes. Rivera’s look of outrage shifted into one of concern as he beheld Jonah’s transformation.

  “You’re okay,” he said, in that soothing manner of his that calmed even the greenest Navy SEAL during harrowing missions.

  Rounding the bed cautiously, he looked Jonah up and down, taking note of every new scar, every outward sign of abuse. Pausing about a foot away, he laid a tentative hand on Jonah’s bony shoulder.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you. I was trying to get comfortable.” Rivera gestured at the leather recliner on the other side of the bed.

  Jonah couldn’t help noticing the man’s rough appearance. In complete contrast to Captain Dwyer, Rivera looked like he’d spent the last six weeks aboard a coastal patrol craft. His black hair was overly long and curly, his chin in need of a shave. He wore an odiferous naval warfare uniform, with the jacket cast aside. The white T-shirt, sodden from the water Jonah had just tossed at him, was stretched and stained with sweat.

  Nothing in the world could have looked more dear to Jonah. He knew a startling urge to burst into tears and to hurl himself into Rivera’s arms. At the same time, he wanted to die for having revealed the pitiful state of his overwrought nervous system.

  “You’re groggy from medication,” Rivera said, justifying Jonah’s overreaction. “Go in the bathroom and splash water on your face.”

  As an officer, Jonah didn’t have to take orders from his master chief, but he gratefully obeyed, seizing the chance to pull himself together.

  He doused his whole head in cold water, hoping it would help him shake off the dulling effects of the tranquilizer he’d been given. Drying off his hair first, he then scrubbed his face. With his composure restored, he carried a dry towel out to his master chief. “Here.”

  Rivera dabbed the wet spot on his T-shirt. Draping the towel over his neck, he reached for Jonah, turning him toward the light to better see him. His expression of tenderness put a lump in Jonah’s throat.

  “Am I looking at a ghost?” Rivera asked him.

  Jonah laughed. “Yeah, maybe. I feel like I’ve been resurrected.”

  To his secret relief, Rivera pulled him into a wet embrace. It felt so good to be held. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d hugged someone, apart from his cute but strange stepdaughter and that half-hearted embrace from his wife. The urge to weep rose up in him again.

  At last Rivera set him at arm’s length. His dark eyes glittered with tears as he inspected him more closely.

  “I thought I would never see your ugly face again.” In his lilting cadence influenced by his Puerto Rican heritage, the insult sounded like an endearment. “How can you be alive?” he added. “The warehouse exploded with you in it.”

  Jonah tried desperately to remember then shook his head. “I don’t know. I can’t remember the mission at all.”

  “There were four of you—you, Theo, Saul, and Lowery.”

  Jonah frowned. “What was Lowery doing there? Isn’t he too senior to go on ops?”

  “Lowery took Taylor Rex’s place. You remember Taylor. His foot got crushed when that roof in Chiapas caved in. He’s off the Team now.”

  Jonah did not remember. He shook his head with a sense of shame. “There’s a lot I can’t remember right now.”

  “You will,” Rivera assured him. “Just give it time.”

  “What happened to Taylor? What’s he doing now?” Jonah couldn’t help thinking he might be the next man cut from the Team.

  “He got a prosthetic foot and a therapy dog. He serves on the police force in his home town. In fact, I hear he’s getting married.”

  “It’s good to hear there’s life after the Teams,” Jonah mused.

  “You’re not going to be med-dropped,” Rivera said with certainty. “Your memories will return, and the PTS will fade,” he added, proving he had discovered Jonah’s diagnosis.

  Jonah latched onto Master Chief’s optimism. “I hope so. Unless it turns into PTSD. Plus, they say there’s some damage to my brain behind my left eye. Apparently, I took a blow to the face.”

  Rivera cocked his head and considered him more closely. “Maybe that’s how you got that scar on your lip.”

  Jonah grimaced and showed him his missing tooth.

  “Oh,” said Rivera, then chuckled.

  “The doctor says the brain damage is permanent.”

 
; Rivera’s smile disappeared.

  “I might never get my memory back.”

  “Never?” One of Master Chief’s dark eyebrows shot up. “I didn’t think you knew that word, sir.”

  Jonah smiled at the gentle ribbing. Rivera was exactly the man he needed around him right now. “I’ve lost two years of memories, though,” he pointed out. “Who forgets that much?”

  Master Chief had no immediate answer.

  “Dwyer came to see me,” Jonah added. “I got the feeling he’s cut me already.”

  “No.” Rivera shook his head with vigor. “The CO’s thrilled that you’re alive. He’s retiring soon, that’s all, so he couldn’t care less whether you get your memories back. By the time you return to active duty, there’ll be a new CO.”

  “I have to be a SEAL, Santiago,” Jonah grated. A sudden shiver wracked his body.

  “You’re cold,” Rivera noted. “Get back into bed. I’ll call a nurse to put your IV back in.”

  Chagrined by his weakened state, Jonah climbed into bed, pulling the blankets over him as Rivera wound up the IV tube.

  “I’d rather have some real food,” he groused.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Rivera promised.

  The edge of Jonah’s pillow was wet from the water he’d tossed. Exhaustion swamped him suddenly, keeping him from doing anything more than shifting his head to a dry spot while shuddering under the blanket. He’d never felt more helpless in his life.

  Recovering his strength and two years of missing memories seemed an impossible feat from his present perspective. But he was a SEAL, and a SEAL never gave up.

  Suspecting Jaguar had fallen asleep, Santiago hung up the IV tube and looked down at the lieutenant. The shock he’d masked earlier washed over him. The once supremely confident Jaguar looked like a scrawny teenager. With zero body fat on his large frame, no wonder he was cold.

  Exhaustion purpled the sunken sockets of Jaguar’s eyes. Dark eyelashes fanned his sharp cheekbones. The pale, thin scar that hadn’t been on his lip before the mission-gone-wrong seemed to reflect the light shining from the bathroom.

  A fatherly affection rose in Santiago, making him want to pull the blanket higher over the lieutenant’s shoulder and tuck it under his feet. He satisfied himself with switching off the light. Jaguar’s pride had taken enough of a blow for the evening.

  Lowering himself back into the leather recliner, Santiago bent to lace his boots so he could fetch a nurse. As he did so, he recalled the last time he’d seen Juaguar alive. He’d been boarding a UH-60 Black Hawk on route to the carrier USS Kearsage in the Gulf.

  As Jaguar had ducked into the helo, followed immediately by Lt. Lowery, a feeling akin to foreboding had seized Santiago. When word had come the next day that Lt. Mills had disappeared following an explosion, Santiago’s premonition had seemed like a psychic revelation.

  But Jaguar was alive. Never in his wildest imaginings had Santiago considered he might have escaped what the other men described as a massive, planned detonation. To see him, resurrected, defied comprehension. It made his heart swell with gratitude. At the same time, a certain disquiet kept Santiago from rejoicing.

  The failed mission had given rise to an NCIS investigation, yet so many questions remained unanswered. The only SEAL who might answer them was Jaguar himself—if only his memories would come back to him.

  Eden watched Jonah pause in the parking garage at the Portsmouth Naval Medical Center to admire his automobile. Dressed in the jeans and T-shirt she’d brought from what little clothing of his she’d yet to donate to the American Veterans, he looked less like a starved prisoner-of-war and more like himself. The familiar sight of the car he’d owned before their marriage obviously cheered him. She worried for a moment he would inspect it for recent scratches or even comment on the fact that Eden was supposed to be driving the Jeep. Of course, for the time being, he didn’t remember that. Clearly, there were perks to his amnesia.

  Slipping behind the wheel, she glanced at the car’s digital clock—nearly noon. It had taken two hours for the psychiatrist, Bart Branson, and then Dr. Schmidt to clear Jonah for release. Filling his prescriptions and signing paperwork had taken yet another hour. If not for Master Chief Rivera’s calming presence, Eden might have spent the entire morning on edge.

  Jonah had displayed surprising patience. She supposed he was too tired, depressed, or medicated to grow agitated when the process dragged on for an eternity. Just once, when reviewing the paperwork that declared him disabled, possibly a victim of PTSD, had she seen him grow visibly upset.

  Reading the paperwork herself, she saw it would take the recommendation of his psychiatrist, Dr. Schmidt, his commanding officer, and the base commander before Jonah could be cleared for active duty. What’s more, he had to be cleared within a twelve-month period to be considered. And if he failed to meet the rigorous standards imposed by Naval Special Warfare, he’d be relegated to a disabled status permanently.

  Eden had shaken her head at the cruel irony of Jonah’s situation. He’d been missing for more than twelve months, and now he had just twelve months’ time to get over what had happened to him.

  By the time she’d signed her life away by agreeing to ferry Jonah to and from his counseling appointments, her goodwill had nearly run dry. They still had a half hour’s drive to get home and little to talk about, given that Jonah didn’t even know them. Miriam’s chatter began to fill the quiet car as she said aloud whatever popped into her head.

  Concerned that Jonah would lose his patience, as Eden accelerated onto the highway she suggested, “Honey, why don’t you be quiet for a while and let Jonah relax.”

  He turned his head to look at her. “I like it when she talks.”

  The assertion stunned her. Eden was still pondering how different Jonah seemed from the uptight husband she’d known when they drove into Sandbridge, prompting Miriam to blurt, “Guess which house is ours.”

  Eden turned left onto Sandfiddler Drive, reducing Jonah’s options. The Atlantic Ocean, denim-blue and covered in white-caps, lay just beyond the ocean-front homes to their right. Even on a Tuesday afternoon in August, the beach crawled with tourists who’d rented out the wooden castles at the edge of the sea for their summer vacation.

  Their own home, occupied year-round, was in less peril of being swept away by hurricanes, positioned as it was a hundred yards from the back gate of Dam Neck Naval Base.

  “This one?” Jonah asked, indulging Miriam’s request. He pointed at a fairy-tale beach house, complete with turrets and towers.

  Miriam laughed. “No, not that one.”

  Eden studied Jonah with interest. Was he playing this game with Miriam because he had nothing better to do? In the past, his job kept him constantly preoccupied. He’d scarcely acknowledged her daughter’s presence, let alone indulged her in a whim.

  “Oh, I know,” he said, sounding confident this time. “It’s coming up now, that one on the left.” He pointed out a beach home resembling a museum of modern art with its streamlined architecture.

  Miriam hooted, enjoying herself. “Not that one, either.”

  Eden used the rearview mirror to glance at her daughter’s dancing eyes. Hadn’t Miriam been happier, like she was, when Jonah was gone?

  With too much to think about, Eden guided the Jaguar around the bend. Passing two more houses, she swung into their driveway, next to the Jeep that didn’t run.

  “Whose car is that?” Jonah asked.

  “Mine. I need to replace the battery.”

  “I can help with that.”

  Okay. Jonah on disability was going to be a whole new experience. “Thanks.”

  He studied their home, in no apparent hurry to get out of the car. Trying to envision it from his eyes, Eden studied the modest wooden contemporary perched atop a dozen fat pilings and wondered if he might be disappointed. It was two stories high, with a laundry room, shower, and workshop on the ground level. Wooden steps zigzagged up to the front door where a balcony wr
apped around the right side of the home, overlooking the front yard, their neighbor’s house, and the Atlantic Ocean, only a short walk away.

  In the front yard, she had planted wildflowers on little mounds of fertile soil: valerian, chicory, and black-eyed Susans. They splashed color onto the sandy yard, creating an effect like a Monet painting. She glanced at Jonah to gauge his response and found him looking baffled.

  Miriam leaned over the seat and peered at his profile. “You don’t remember,” she guessed.

  “No,” he admitted, on a note of disappointment. “But I like it,” he added. “Especially the flowers.”

  Eden exchanged a startled look with Miriam. The Jonah they had known never slowed down long enough to notice pretty things, like flowers. With an inward shrug, Eden pushed open her door and jumped out, hurrying to help Jonah from the car.

  That morning she’d dressed in a denim skirt and a peach top. Warm sand crept into her sandals as she rounded the car to open Jonah’s door. Miriam had beat her to it, so she paused at the trunk to fetch Jonah’s meager possessions.

  The hospital had sent him home with a box that held the vase of lilies, a baby cactus given to him by his psychiatrist, and a business card from an NCIS Special Agent Lloyd Elwood. She’d tossed his prescriptions into the box making it easy to carry everything at once.

  Shutting the trunk, she stared for a moment at the vision of Miriam assisting Jonah from the car and toward the house. Apart from the hug Miriam had given Jonah yesterday, Eden had never seen them touch before. Yet, there they were, touching shoulder to thigh, with Jonah’s arm around Miriam’s neck, leaning on her. Chatting casually, her daughter started with him up the many stairs.

  Dr. Schmidt’s words the day before came back to her all at once. The prefrontal cortex is responsible for things like memory, complex cognitive functioning, social behavior, even personality.

  Oh, wow, Eden thought. Was Jonah different because of the blow to his face?

  The challenge before her seemed suddenly overwhelming. Not only was she having to take in a husband she’d already buried, at least in her heart and mind, but for the next twelve months—unless he got his memory back—she’d be living with a virtual stranger.