Then, Major Brooker arrived on the scene.
Ethan, the son Ham’s parents had never had.
Ham pushed back his sense of failure and resentment and gratitude, an unholy mix of contradictory emotions, and pulled on a pair of Land’s End jeans and a threadbare rugby shirt. He’d bypassed his wardrobe of expensive pieces from Neiman Marcus. Because of his ordeal, his parents wouldn’t comment about his sub-par attire this time. He was their genius son who didn’t care about money. They’d never understand him.
Why should they? He didn’t understand himself.
He slipped into his twenty-dollar moccasin sneakers. His hair was long, straight and stringy, another bone of contention. He’d never make a very good Carhill. Although Ethan was an army officer, not a capitalist, he was a West Point graduate. He’d fought terrorists. He’d captured bad guys.
Ham had gotten himself shoved into a jeep at gunpoint.
His parents didn’t know he’d provided information to the government that had saved lives—not that they’d be impressed. They’d call him a do-gooder. They’d tell him that kind of work should be left to others. Risking his life on a daring adventure was one thing. He’d come across as devil-may-care and manly. But his work for Mia O’Farrell they’d consider an unnecessary risk—not just of his life, but of the family name, their privacy, their stability, their fortune.
Suddenly he felt claustrophobic, although his bedroom suite was three times bigger than Tatro’s hut. It’d had no running water, no electricity. They’d used generators. And the bathroom facilities consisted of an out-house swarming with insects.
Five years ago, Ham’s parents had moved out of their house on their thousand acres in west Texas, razed it, then built their current monstrosity. It had a turret and towers, an art gallery, a media room with stadium seating and a popcorn-maker. Everything was very expensive and not all that tasteful.
If not for Carhill money, Ham knew he could never have afforded to spend the past two years in South America. His parents had expected him to stay in safe, rich enclaves, but he’d had his own agenda—his own dreams. Unfortunately those dreams had landed him in Tatro’s hands, and now he was getting the big “I told you so.” Not in as many words, because his parents didn’t really know all the details. But he understood the subtext of what they were saying.
No more of this shit or he was out of the will.
They didn’t know about Mia O’Farrell.
Ham walked down the massive curving stairs to the main level of the ostentatious house. If it glittered and sparkled and dripped—and cost a lot—his mother liked it. His father trusted her taste completely, which, in Ham’s estimation, was a mistake.
His mother emerged from behind a Greek-looking statue. Ham had no idea if it was real or a quality fake. He felt that way about his mother sometimes. Faye Carhill, wife, hostess and benefactor. What about her was real, what was fake? Ham wasn’t sure anymore.
She had on a pale pink knit suit with diamond studs in her ears. She was ash-blond, slim and agile from her private Pilates and yoga classes. Although she wouldn’t admit it, Ham got his thinness from her side of the family. His height came from his father’s side. The two traits didn’t fit that well together, and the result was their awkward son. Ham didn’t know where his IQ came from. Probably a genetic quirk.
“Luke and Dorrie Brooker are joining us for dinner tonight,” she said.
Ethan’s older brother and wife. Ham tried to look nonchalant. “Just them?”
“Yes, Luke’s folks are in Denver.”
“What about Ethan?”
His mother winced. Although she’d have claimed him as her own in a heartbeat, she liked to pretend that Ethan made her nervous, especially since Char’s death and his brush with international killers—and, even worse, international headlines. If the Carhills feared anything, it was notoriety—getting sucked into the public eye in ways they couldn’t control, becoming part of a media feeding frenzy.
“He won’t be here. I don’t even know where he is these days.”
The Brookers were multigenerational Texas ranchers with a working ranch up the road. They weren’t as rich as the Carhills, but few were.
Although he was still uncertain how much his parents had surmised about his ordeal, Ham knew they didn’t want to talk about it. For them, it was over. He’d told them he’d run into some trouble in Colombia on a side trip to check out emerald mines. Whatever else they knew or had gleaned on their own, they at least pretended his explanation satisfied them. Beyond asking him about his health, there’d been no questions.
“Are you all right?” His mother touched a cool hand to his cheek. “I worry about you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Your father’s in the library if you want to see him.”
“I thought I’d take a walk.”
“It’s hot out—”