Ethan

by Chris Keniston

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 Christine Baena

  Excerpt from Finn copyright © 2017 Christine Baena

  Formatting by Dallas Hodge, Everything But The Book

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, redistributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, print, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Author.

  Indie House Publishing

  Books by Chris Keniston

  Available on Kobo

  Farraday Country

  Adam

  Brooks

  Connor

  Declan

  Ethan

  Finn

  Grace

  Aloha Series

  Aloha Texas

  Almost Paradise

  Mai Tai Marriage

  Dive Into You

  Shell Game

  Look of Love

  Love by Design

  Love Walks In

  Waikiki Wedding

  Surf's Up Flirts

  (Aloha Series Companions)

  Shall We Dance

  Love on Tap

  Head Over Heels

  Perfect Match

  Just One Kiss

  It Had to Be You

  Honeymoon Series

  Honeymoon for One

  Honeymoon for Three

  Family Secrets Novels

  Champagne Sisterhood

  The Homecoming

  Hope's Corner

  More on Chris and her books can be found at www.chriskeniston.com

  Follow Chris on Facebook at ChrisKenistonAuthor

  or on Twitter @ckenistonauthor

  Acknowledgments

  Oh boy did Ethan need a lot of help! This is the book where my super fans stepped up and saved the day. Thank you so much to Coral Mitchell for walking me through getting an injured Ethan from the sandbox to Texas and Jessie Collins for helping me break Ethan's ankle LOL. You guys saved my last minute sanity!

  My dear friend Jan from San Diego once again came through with legal pitfalls to avoid, and my big brother Chris walked me through the quandaries of criminal law. You both rock!

  Of all the Farradays so far, Ethan has been the hardest brother to write, and perhaps as a result the one my team is the most proud of. I hope you enjoy Ethan and stick around for the rest of the family to come. Did I mention cousin Hannah will be in Tuckers Bluff soon?

  Yeehaw and enjoy!

  Chris

  Chapter One

  "Clear to lift."

  Weeks of planning, coordinating, and training until the team could have executed this mission in their sleep was about to pay off. Eight souls aboard and another pilot on their way home.

  Out of nowhere shouts of "missile, missile, missile!” sounded in Ethan's headphones. Over his shoulder he caught the signature of the ground-to-air-missile. Damn. A kaleidoscope of orange and yellow flashed to his right as the helicopter rocked left. Son of a… The aircraft pitched up and down, then side to side. Not how he'd planned to end this mission. Using the intercom, he called for the other pilot to empty his weapons system. "Fire it out." Making a spiral descent, this bird was going down. Fast. Crap.

  Surrounded by difficult terrain, the GPS, radio and emergency beacon probably wouldn't be worth a damn, and time was not on his side. Riding a pissed off bull with his nuts strapped was a piece of cake compared to controlling a helo with its tail boom severed. He had nine men on board. They'd come too damn far not to make it back to their families. You go home with the one that brung ya. Today was not a good day for these men to die. Ethan had brought 'em and he was taking 'em home.

  The pounding repetition of gunfire blanketed them like the constant static crackling of a struggling comm system. Smoke seeped into the cockpit and the mountainside grew too damn close. "Not today," he muttered. Flames licked at his aircraft like a lizard trapping its prey. "Brace for impact!"

  Ethan's eyes sprang open. Breathe. Calm. He was alive and… not hanging upside down. Blinking hard he glanced down at his hand. No shrapnel, no blood. A bandage. He blinked again and swallowed a hard gulp of calming air. "The men," he muttered before he remembered what was left of the helo had gotten all his passengers on the ground in mostly one piece.

  "Are fine, Major." A tall attractive woman crossed the short distance from the doorway to the bath and emerged with a washcloth. Not saying a word, she dabbed away the sweat that had settled over his brow and trickled down his face.

  Her name was on the tip of his tongue. He knew this woman, but his mind was still half asleep and the other half was back in the sandbox.

  "I'm told what you did was nothing short of miraculous. Not many people survive helicopter crashes—"

  "Controlled hard landing." He didn't want to hear the word crash again.

  "Sorry. As I was saying, not many survive a hard landing, never mind an entire crew."

  Now he remembered. Commander Billings. His surgeon. They must have put him back on some of the stronger meds. He hated the drug-induced brain fog. "How fine is fine?"

  The pretty doctor frowned and then smiled again. "The other pilot is already patched up and back with your unit."

  The fog in Ethan's brain continued to lift. He knew that. Knew his buddy Hammer was okay.

  "The majority of the team are recovering from a range of broken bones, minor concussions and lacerations. A few first degree burns from getting everyone to safety. Lieutenant Bishop had to undergo surgery for a ruptured spleen along with a lacerated liver, but he's recovering nicely."

  Ethan knew that too. "You already told me this, didn't you?"

  The commander nodded. His forgetfulness must have been what had her frowning before, now she seemed pleased to have him remember. "You're progressing well. Foot looks good. Your hand too."

  He wiggled his fingers and his toes. He wasn't sure how many days he'd been here, but he did know he was ready to get off his back. "How long before I return to duty?"

  A single brow arched high on her forehead. "Marines," she muttered, softly shaking her head. "That's a serious break. You've had multiple surgeries and a nasty infection with a high fever that has kept you mostly asleep for the better part of a week. Your bones will need the same six to eight weeks to heal as those of mere mortal men."

  Something about the way she teased made him relax. Reminded him of home. Now he remembered. He'd been looking at the computer, catching up, when he couldn't stay awake any longer. How long ago was that? "My family?"

  "Yes, well. It seems there was a bit of a paper glitch."

  "Glitch?"

  "They only received official notice of your status yesterday. I understand your father and brother are on their way."

  "No." If the doc was planning on keeping him on medical orders for two months, that meant he'd be going back to home station when released. In that case he might as well use up his accumulated leave and get his ass home. If he had to be laid up he'd rather do it on the ranch. Not that going back to Pendleton was a bad thing—it just wasn't home. "That's not necessary."

  "The hell it's not." Sean Farraday strode into the room. Over six foot, dressed in standard West Texas attire of jeans, button down shirt, first place rodeo buckle, well worn—and polished—boots, and of course, his Stetson, the man was an imposing presence. And a bit of an anomaly in Washington D.C. "You're just lucky Aunt Eileen isn't here or she'd be hugging the stuffing out of you already."

  Ethan began to chuckle and a pulling pain stabbed at his side.

  "Bruised ribs," the doctor explained. He didn’t rememb
er that. Of course, he hadn't had anything to laugh about since arriving at Walter Reed. "I'm Commander Billings," she said as she extended her hand.

  "How do you do?" His dad, having removed his hat, shook the offered hand. "You been taking good care of my boy?"

  The woman's eyes twinkled with humor, but she had the decency not to laugh at Ethan being referred to as a boy. "We're all doing our best."

  "Good." His father turned, a crease between his brow, and approached his son. "How ya feeling, really?"

  "Like a swim in the creek. Should be nice and high about now."

  His dad smiled. "Could be better."

  "Not enough rain?" The brain fog hadn’t lifted. He should know the answer.

  "Enough," Sean answered, studying his son from head to toe as if he were a brand spanking newborn.

  "So what's the other guy look like?" Slipping a phone into his pocket, his brother DJ came into the room and stuck his hand out at the doctor who seemed a bit awestruck at a second six-foot-plus man in cowboy hat and boots. "I'm Declan."

  "Declan?" Ethan muttered in surprise. "You in the doghouse?"

  His dad shook his head, smiling. "Seems Becky thinks Declan is a nice name."

  So he wasn't misinterpreting the internet posts. "I'll be…"

  "If you'll excuse me." Dr. Billings stepped aside. "I have rounds to make. If you have any questions the nurse can page me, otherwise, if he continues to show improvement, your son should be on his way back to California within the week."

  DJ and their father exchanged a quick sideways glance and Ethan didn't like the look of it. Somewhere between the post surgery haze and the high fever, he'd discovered the barrage of contacts from his siblings and wondered what was up. Slowly the pieces in his mind were falling back into place. Once he'd seen the doe-eyed photos of his brother and Becky, he'd figured that's what the messages were all about. The Farraday brothers were dropping like flies. At least he knew for sure not only was Becky a great catch, but he would kick his brother's sorry ass from here to Bagram if he let her down. But that look on his father's face seemed to have nothing to do with lovesick sons.

  "So what the hell is going on?"

  ***

  Hot water pounding on her back, Allison Monroe swore there wasn't a blessed thing better in life than running water. If she had to choose between a toilet and a water heater, a hot shower would win every time.

  Tomorrow morning she'd report to the small office base for MHI, Mobile Healthcare International, and catch up on the happenings in the civilized world, but until then she had a date with a very warm and comfortable mattress. After living on either a boat or in tents in very remote villages for the last seven months, a real bed came in second place after a hot shower, nudging the toilet easily into third place. Sleeping past sunrise was a long awaited luxury.

  The one aspect of even small-city life she was not looking forward to was the rituals of primping and fussing with hair and makeup before facing the public. Wet hair twisted in a towel on her head, and smothered in a terry cloth robe, Allison sank onto the feathery bed and reached for her laptop. At only seven o'clock, if she let herself fall asleep now she'd be awake long before sunrise.

  "Some of the crap." This is why she spent seven months every year away from civilization. The things people felt compelled to complain about on social media as though they were life and death. "I want to see you up to your knees in sick and dying children and then tell me how important it is that your city councilman not be allowed to promote his alma mater. Really."

  Shoving off the mattress, Allison unwrapped the towel and shook her hair out. Not even in the tropical heat did her hair fall anything but pin straight. Tossing the towel into the bathroom, she crossed the room and grabbed a mango. This she was going to miss. Especially the native fruits that couldn't be found even in the lush northern California valleys. And the friendly service. Most days when people went out of their way to help la doctora, she felt more like a queen than a physician.

  A few ciduelas in hand, the small red and orange fruit having nothing in common with American plums, and a small dish with the mango she'd sliced, Allison plopped herself in front of the laptop again. "Maybe email won't be so bad." Deleting all the unsolicited correspondence from the multitude of African princes wishing to gift her millions of dollars and the seminars on how to become a real estate mogul with an empty bank account and a few other physiologically improbable advertisements, Allison focused on emails from people she actually knew.

  Most of her friends understood that while traveling from village to remote village south of the equator, finding a Wi-Fi hot spot would be as likely as discovering the fountain of youth. Others not so much. Which left her with a long list of apologies to send for missing the barbecues, birthdays, and other celebratory events of her coworkers in recent months.

  "Meredith?" The email from her landlady popped out at her. Meredith was most certainly one of the people who would know better than to think Allison would get email.

  Not sure when you'll see this, I left a message on your cell too. Strangest thing, had a visit from some guy from Brooklyn Security and Investigations in Miami looking for you. Well, actually he was looking for your sister. I told him he had to be mistaken, that you don't have a sister, but he was rather persistent.

  "Oh, Francine. Now what?" Allison's chest constricted, the same breathless pressure she felt whenever circumstances had her thinking about the sister who'd taken a path so different from her own. For as long as Allison could remember, her sister had been in one disastrous mess after another. At first with their poor aunt who hadn't a clue what to do with her, then with her teachers, and with the police, until one day she was just gone. Once in a while Allison would receive a postcard, like the time Francine got married. Then divorced. And still another declaring her path to stardom now that she'd become a model. All the cards postmarked from California had been the catalyst to Allison accepting a scholarship to Stanford. Even though at the time, Allison never had a clue where her sister was, or what shenanigans she was up to, somehow she'd felt better knowing they might at least be in the same state.

  He left his card and I didn't think anything more about it until Mark mentioned the same investigator showed up at the hospital looking for you there too. The guy insists it's important he find your sister. Just in case you want to reach him as soon as you have access I've attached a scan of the card with all his contact info.

  Allison clicked on the attachment. Plain card. Nothing fancy. Straight and to the point. Probably some kind of hoax or gimmick like the foreign royalty scams. She closed the file and returned to her email. Five or six emails down the list and she didn't have a clue what she'd just read. What if the investigator wasn't a scam? What if something had finally happened to Francine? No, that didn't make sense, if the guy was looking for her then he wouldn't know if something was wrong. Or would he? "Blast."

  Switching over to the email Meredith had sent, Allison scribbled the number onto the pad by the bedside table then sprang to her feet and dug out the cellphone, still in its plastic bag. Tucked away deep in her suitcase, she hadn't expected to use the phone until she was on her way home in another week or two. If she was going on a wild goose chase, at least she had a decent international phone plan. Tapping in the digits from the circled phone number, Allison waited impatiently through each ring.

  "Brooklyn Security," a deep voice with a hint of New York answered.

  "Yes," she cleared her throat, "this is Allison Monroe. I understand someone from your office is looking for me."

  The sound of keys clacking echoed in her ear before the voice responded. "Oh yes, we were hoping you might have been in contact with your sister, Francine, recently."

  Clearly the guy wasn't very good at his job or he'd know that Allison had been in the South American jungle for the last seven months.

  "Any time within the last year," he clarified.

  "No." That was easy enough. Allison hadn't heard from her sister s
ince she needed bail money well over a year ago. Francine had insisted the drugs weren't hers. Allison desperately wanted to believe her, but by the time she'd hopped a flight to San Diego, Francine had disappeared. Again. The phone number not working and the woman at the address her sister had given her claimed she hadn't seen Francine in well over six months. It amazed Allison that in this day and time it could be so easy for someone to live off the grid. She just hoped it didn't mean her big sister was on the streets. That thought scared the crap out of Allison almost as much as nightmares of drug dens and DWI crashes.

  "It's rather important my client speak to Francine. When was the last time you saw your sister?"

  "The day after her sixteenth birthday." Allison squeezed her eyes shut. The fight between Francine and their Aunt Millicent had been the worst since they'd moved in with her.

  "Spoken with her?" he asked.

  Whenever she needed money in a hurry.

  "Dr. Monroe?"

  "Over a year ago." She wasn't sure why she answered him. Somewhere deep inside maybe she was hoping this man could do what none of the investigators her Aunt Millicent had hired could.

  "Possession charges." It wasn't a question. Allison nodded. For all the good that did the guy on the other end. Not that he seemed to need her affirmation. "And she hasn't made any attempt at contacting you in the last few months?"

  Allison shook her head. "Not that I know of, I'm still out of the country."

  "I see. When will you be returning to the United States?"

  "Maybe you should tell me why you’re asking all these questions about my sister?" Silence hung heavily on the other end as more keys clacked in the background and Allison held her breath. She didn't like the feel of this.

  "Dr. Monroe, are you aware that you have an infant niece?"