Читать книгу: «Navy Seal Promise»

CHAPTER ONE

Five Years Later

AN ILL WIND blew Kyle into his Alabama home port. As he docked his beloved one-man sloop, the Hellraiser, in its rightful slip, he felt change in the air.

By the pricking of my thumbs—

Looking south, far off south, he saw nothing but cerulean skies skidded with small white fat-bottomed clouds. It was June, however, and though temps were climbing fast into the blistering nineties, the breeze was high. Off the Hellraiser’s stern, the Stars and Stripes flapped raggedly, the line ticking a cadence off the metal flag pole.

—somethin’ wicked this way comes.

The dawn, too, heralded change for the shore of his coastal home, he remembered as he checked the bilge pump and turned all power off to the cabin. This had been his home away from home for the past week and a half, while he sailed from Virginia Beach near Naval Amphibious Base Little Creek, down the Atlantic seaboard, around Florida’s jutting peninsula and its glittering green keys. Watching the day break like a fire-soaked phoenix on his restive swath of the Gulf of Mexico, he recalled the old adage: Red sky morning—sailor’s fair warning.

Kyle had hoped that that warning was for what lay behind, what had drawn him to the refuge of the sea to decompress from his latest conflict as a Navy SEAL.

At sea, he could breathe. He could disconnect from the chaos and violence of his chosen profession. He could clear his head and reinvigorate his soul.

It had been harsh, the last string of operations. Harsh enough to wake him every night in the bunk of his sloop. But the cradle-like motion of the sea had helped beat back the tightness in his chest. And up on deck, with the salty wind in his hair and his sea-legs beneath him, he had slowly been able to realign the molecules between head and heart.

Out at sea, he wasn’t Chief Petty Officer Kyle Bracken. He was just a sailor having his go at the age-old existential clash between man and nature.

He loved his job. He loved his brothers-in-arms. He loved fighting the good fight. But even warriors needed a reprieve. Even the trained elite needed to unplug and get back to self. The little tropical cyclone he’d run into just off Cedar Key had been a welcome reception. A challenge. He’d turned the sloop’s bow right up underneath its cloudy, disordered skirt and sailed right through it.

It had been headed northeast, but the wind had now shifted, Kyle noted. He knew before his feet hit the dock of the marina, without switching on the weather radio. He had lived through enough summers on the Gulf to be able to sense the change in barometric pressure. Hell, he could practically taste it.

That damned storm was headed straight this way.

He spotted the man on the deck of the houseboat two slips down and whistled loudly. “’Ey, Nick!”

The white-headed gentleman turned. His face was leathered and bronzed, his beard bushy and white enough to rival Santa’s. He was wearing the same Hawaiian-print shirt as always, and the exact style of sunglasses that had died out sometime after the Kennedy assassination. “Hey, boy. Where the hell’ve you been?”

“Can’t say,” Kyle claimed, gripping the shiny silver rail on the Hellraiser’s port side. Nick had been calling Kyle “boy” since his first visit to the marina alongside his father at the age of seven. Kyle might have changed a good deal since their first meeting, but the salty seaman living on the houseboat had not.

Maybe he was Santa Claus.

“Still a person of mystery,” Nick grunted.

Kyle lifted a shoulder in answer.

“Saw your old man out and about...oh, Wednesday, I think it was,” Nick said, scratching his forehead.

“Yeah?” Kyle asked, lightening at the mention of his father.

“Gearing up for that big show this weekend up at that airfield of his. Reckon you heard about it.”

“Huh.” Big show. Airfield. Neither his father nor his mother had mentioned either in their weekly emails or the short phone calls they’d managed to grab with him over his last week of deployment. Though words like big show and James Bracken were no strangers to each other. And James did own an airfield, among a litany of other strange and wonderful things.

“Your folks know you’re in town?” Nick asked.

A grin managed to climb over the lower half of Kyle’s face. He hadn’t known when his vessel would bring him into port. That combined with the stormy run-in had kept him from contacting his parents.

Besides, he liked the element of surprise.

The far-off wail of a weather warning reached Kyle’s ears, and he straightened as Nick’s head swiveled in the direction of the houseboat’s wheelhouse. They both listened for a moment to the radio before Nick glanced back at Kyle, his caterpillar brows vee-ed. “What the sam hell did you bring home with you? Weatherman says that cyclone’s spun itself into a ripe-old tropical storm. Headed this way.”

The grin washed slowly from Kyle’s face as he picked up on the rest of the weather warning. It seemed the calm he’d sought in the waters that straddled Fort Morgan and Dauphin Island, the lull of the Eastern Shore and the bay that, to him, represented the flow and pace of what life should be, was about to be rudely disrupted. What had he brought with him?

Nick hocked loudly and spat a stream over the rail before he added, “Go on, boy. Tell your mama you’re here.” He raised his glasses and peered across the empty slip. “Or I will.”

Kyle gave a nod. “Yes, sir.” He began to gather his things from the Hellraiser’s cabin when Nick called to him again.

“It’s good to see you back.”

“Were you worried about me, Nick?” Kyle asked, teasing.

Nick’s laugh was a rusty tumble. Just the thing for a sailor as old and crusty as he. “Maybe.”

It was as heartfelt a sentiment as Kyle had ever heard the man utter. He nodded. “See you out at the airfield later?”

Nick barked. “Your crazy old man might’ve traded his sea legs for a pair of wings.” He stomped one rubber boot onto the deck of the houseboat. Kyle was surprised the ancient decking didn’t splinter under the abuse. “My place is right here.”

“Uh-huh. You might wanna shower,” Kyle suggested. He raised a brow at Nick’s questioning frown. “I can smell ya from here.”

That rusty laugh climbed into the air and followed Kyle belowdecks.

* * *

AFTER LONG ABSENCE, most sons brought their mothers roses.

What Kyle brought his he wrapped doubly in cotton swaths and stuffed carefully into the mid-leg pocket of his cargo pants. His motorcycle was housed under the awning next to his mother’s old bay cottage where he’d left it so many months ago, locked and chained and maintained no doubt by his father whose many professions included auto mechanic. He slung the travel bag over his shoulder and fired up the bike before speeding off along the shoreline.

It took minutes to reach the gravel lot just off South Mobile Street, Fairhope’s scenic highway. Kyle spotted the familiar sign for Flora. Adrian, his mother, had built her small business from the ground up to support herself and her young son after a disastrous first marriage. Kyle had spent many days after school behind the counter of the flower shop watching her work. If he was restless or naughty, she’d send him off to one of the neighboring small businesses owned by three women who had become aunts to him in everything but blood.

Attached to Flora on the bay side was Tavern of the Graces, owned by Olivia Leighton and her husband, Gerald, a bestselling author. Olivia had taught Kyle how to play pool and darts and how to woo chicks. Later, she’d taught him how to mix drinks and hold his liquor—not that his mother knew any of that. The now third-generation establishment was operated chiefly by Olivia and Gerald’s first son, William, these days.

Above Flora was the gleaming display windows of Belle Brides, bridal boutique and operating center of buzzy wedding coordinator and couturier, Roxie Strong. Kyle had tried to avoid Belle Brides as a kid. Most everything was off-limits there. However, Roxie always kept sweets behind the counter, which she used to her advantage whenever she needed stand-ins in lieu of mannequins.

Finally, beyond the shops and Flora’s greenhouse, there was the inn. The white antebellum structure was a real gem. Framed by gardens and supported by great columns, Hanna’s Inn was lovingly tended by Briar Savitt and her husband, Cole. They’d lived on the third floor for years and had only just expanded into a new wing.

Construction looked to be complete, Kyle noticed as he parked his motorcycle in front of Flora and took off his helmet. Leaning back on the seat, he removed his gloves one finger at a time. He wasn’t normally a fan of alteration, but the demand from the inn’s guest book had all but screamed expansion as far back as Kyle could remember. And the design was swell. He’d bet Briar was pleased as pie.

He always felt warm when he thought of the innkeeper. She’d often cooked for him, baked for him. Long before she married Cole and gained Gavin as a stepson, she’d let Kyle sleep in the linens she tended as religiously as the landscaping. He’d done homework at her kitchen table. He’d laughed himself silly chasing a giant Irish wolfhound named Rex across the kempt lawn—a lawn he’d regularly mowed as a teen to keep his Jeep full-up on gas.

He’d caught crab for supper from the traps tied off her dock, had learned to fish and swim there, had tied his first skiff there. It was also there he’d kissed a girl for the first time, hunkered down in the butterfly bushes. Amelia Blankenship. They were almost eleven. She wore pomegranate lip balm.

He’d slipped her the tongue, and she’d told his mother. He then spent two weeks sulking without video games as penance. But not two years later Amelia started cornering him behind the lockers at school looking for a French partner, and all was forgotten.

As Kyle shifted from the leather seat of his hog and planted his hard-soled riding boots in the gravel, he wondered if he’d be able to stick around long enough to catch the sunset from Hanna’s. There was nothing like the view from her sunporch at the day’s end.

He should know. He’d seen the sun set most everywhere.

The bells chimed over the door to Flora as he entered the shop, the sound as comforting as it was timeless. He stuffed his gloves in the riding helmet and tucked it against his side. The girl—well, woman—behind the checkout counter and the old-fashioned cash register was built like a willow branch. She had short-cropped raven-colored hair in a punk-ish sweep. There was a teensy diamond stud in the crease of her nose and several others creeping up the shell of her ear. She wore black makeup, black clothes. She always dressed in black, even in the thick of summer.

She was a carbon copy of his mother without the red hair neither of them had managed to inherit. Adrian’s freckles had faded out long ago, but they remained on Kyle’s sister, dark and splattered every which way across pale features. Still, the woman before him was so small even holding her as a child in arms, arms that had felt clumsy and reckless, Kyle had wondered that they could be so closely related.

He was eight when his mother married his biological father, James. And he was just shy of ten when the sibling he’d wished for with every fiber of his being was at last born. Not a brother like he’d wanted. But a sibling just the same.

When the door closed behind him, encasing him in the fresh, sweet-scented showroom, she didn’t look around. Her head bent over a large open book, she recited in a bored monotone, “Welcome to Flora, Fairhope’s finest florist. How may I assist you?”

“Damn,” Kyle muttered, backtracking. “This ain’t the cathouse.”

Mavis’s spine straightened. Her head whipped. Dark eyes pinned him to the spot, the muscles of her face momentarily slack in a rare show of surprise. “Kyle?” It wasn’t so much a question as a demand. “You’re home,” she stated, combing him.

“Just.”

“You didn’t call,” she said, accusing now. A well-worn scowl pulled at her insouciant mouth. “Typical of you to just show up and give everybody the shock of the month.” A fist came to rest against her hip. “Jackass.”

“Pipsqueak,” he threw back.

“Nimrod.”

“Tightwad.”

“Meathead.”

The corners of his lips moved. “Meathead?”

He watched hers waver. “Yeah. That’s what I said. Meathead.”

He couldn’t stop it. He broke into a fond grin. “Get over here.”

Mavis had never been one for public displays of affection. Despite that and the tough love she volleyed routinely back at him in spades, she moved toward him. When he wrapped her tight against his chest, she stood only slightly stiff in his embrace.

“Miss me?” he whispered, his cheek against her hair.

“Eh.”

A quiet laugh rumbled through him before he let her go.

She gave him another study. “At least you’re intact. Wilderness Man.”

Kyle skimmed his knuckles over the unruly beard. “Yeah, I could probably do with a shave, huh?”

“You’re going to need a bush-hog to rid yourself of that mess.” Eyes widening, she asked, aiming to tease, “Didn’t lose any more of the family jewels, I take it.”

He hissed through his teeth. “Can’t afford it. What’s left is here, standing right in front of you,” he added when she continued to eyeball him, waiting for a solid answer on the health front. She blinked, and the relief was gone, but the glimpse of emotion he gleaned made his stomach tighten just the same. “What about you? How’re you doing?”

“No complaints.” When his brows hitched and he scrutinized her much as she’d scrutinized him, she repeated, “I said no complaints.”

“Good,” he said after a second’s longer study. Mavis had been treated for epilepsy since she was a little kid. “And how’s business?”

“Fine,” she admitted.

“Mmm-hmm. Any, uh—” he fanned his fingers in the air “—sightings lately?”

She smirked, banding her arms over her chest. “You know that’s confidential.”

Mavis had an unusual job description and loose hours to go with it. When she wasn’t tied up doing paranormal investigation, she filled the needs of her parents and their various industries—Flora, Carlton Nurseries, Bracken Mechanics and his father’s latest and fondest project, a start-up company called Bracken-Savitt Aerial Application & Training. Or B.S., for short. “You’re being careful out there at least,” he said. “Right?”

“God, Kyle. It’s not like I chase zombies or supervillains or whatever it is you do.”

“Just ghosts and ghouls,” he asserted. He digressed. “Where’s Mom?”

“Greenhouse,” she told him. “You better have brought her something. Seeing you’s bound to knock her over.”

He flicked the end of her button nose. She dodged and swiped. Bringing her against his side, he pecked a quick kiss to her temple. “Plans for dinner?” he asked as he backtracked to the entry door.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” She crossed her eyes at him.

He rolled his at her and pushed his way out into the heat. “I’m still waitin’ for directions to that cathouse.”

“Drive hard due west,” she called at his back. “When you hit the bay, hold your breath and keep going!”

He chuckled again when the door closed behind him. He followed the path through the silver sale buckets and past an impressive display of succulents planted between the slats of an Old West wagon wheel. Around the side of the building, a wheelbarrow overflowed with annuals and a pineapple-shaped fountain burbled just before the wide-parted doors of Flora’s greenhouse.

He heard the clomp of the stem cutter before he was even part of the way through. Inside, it was sweltering. The hanging plants and tables of vegetation soaked up the humidity. Kyle was already sweating under his cotton T-shirt when he rounded the corner and saw his mother chopping the stems off her latest delivery of fresh roses. The blade swung down, decisive under the guiding stroke of her hand. She worked by rote, quick, efficient in a red apron labeled with the Flora logo and thick work gloves to ward off any ill will from thorns.

He reached into the leg pocket of his cargoes and pulled out the wrapping with his offering inside. “Howdy.”

Adrian’s head rotated quickly, and she stopped.

It took her a moment. Kyle knew with the beard, and his hair grown out a good ways, that the resemblance between his father and himself was striking. He watched it sink in. Her hands fell away from the cutter, and her mouth parted. With her, the emotions bled through him easily and he let them, smile going soft. “Is this where you keep Dad’s testicles?” When she continued to gaze, slack with surprise, he went on. “Mav and I. We’ve always wondered.”

Her lips closed and her throat moved on a swallow. Though her eyes filled, she pulled in a breath and offered him a smile in return. “Why do you think I germinate the best bulbs in five counties?” The mist in her eyes grew until she blinked. She lifted her shoulders, taking him in. “Oh, my God, Kyle.”

“Hey,” he said, as her hands rose to her face and she lowered it into them. He crossed to her and spanned his arms around her. It was easy to hold her, much as it was once easy for her to hold him. When a silent sob tremored through her, he cradled her closer and rocked, side to side. He gave a small, cajoling laugh. “Mom. Hey, it’s okay.”

“Did something happen—to send you home early?”