Braving the Valley (Acts of Valor, Book 5): Christian Romantic Suspense

By Rebecca Hartt

American Woman Rescued from Venezuela by Navy SEAL Vows to Return for Her Son in Braving the Valley, A Gripping Christian Romantic Suspense Novel From Rebecca Hartt

--Present Day, Venezuela--

A Mother's Unyielding Love, A Navy SEAL's Desperate Mission...

Grace Garrett won’t leave Venezuela without the boy she’s working to adopt, but with the Venezuelan Army hunting down Americans, she is lucky to escape alive—or so she’s told. Forced to leave four-year-old Miguel behind, Grace is devastated. She vows she will never forgive the Navy SEAL who wrested them apart. That is, until he comes knocking on her door asking for her help.

United by Faith, Driven by Love...

For Senior Chief Amos McLeod, orders are orders, and he did what he was told to do. Yet Amos knows the heartbreak of losing a child. But now, the tables are turned, and it’s Amos who needs rescuing. With her selfless spirit, Grace heals old wounds and makes Amos realize he’ll do anything to reunite her with her adoptive son, even face odds that would make the most fearless man flee in terror.


Publisher’s Note: "Braving the Valley" is an enthralling Christian Romantic Suspense novel that will keep you on the edge of your seat. From heart-stopping action sequences to tender moments of profound connection, Rebecca Hartt masterfully weaves a tale of hope and triumph over adversity. Fans of Ronie Kendig, Lynnette Eason, Dee Henderson as well as Marliss Melton, Susan May Warren, and Colleen Coble, will enjoy this engrossing and heart-stirring series of redemption and rebirth.

The Acts of Valor Series
Returning to Eden
Every Secret Thing
Cry in the Wilderness
Rising From Ashes
Braving the Valley
All Things Together

Rebecca Hartt is the nom de plume for an award-winning, best-selling author of a different name who, compelled by her faith, decided to spin suspenseful military romance where God plays a vital role in character motivation and plot.

As a child, Rebecca lived in countries all over the world. She has been a military dependent for most of her life and knows first-hand the dedication and sacrifice required by those who serve.

Living near the military community of Virginia Beach, Rebecca is constantly reminded of the peril and uncertainty faced by U.S. Navy SEALs, many of whom testify to a personal and profound connection with their Creator.

Their loved ones, too, rely on God for strength and comfort. These men of courage and women of faith are the subjects of Rebecca Hartt’s enthusiastically received Acts of Valor romantic suspense series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rise UP Publications
• Release date: Jul 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781644573327

Rebecca Hartt

Rebecca Hartt is the nom de plume for an award-winning, best-selling author of a different name who, compelled by her faith, decided to spin suspenseful military romance where God plays a vital role in character motivation and plot. As a child, Rebecca lived in countries all over the world. She has been a military dependent for most of her life and knows first-hand the dedication and sacrifice required by those who serve. Living near the military community of Virginia Beach, Rebecca is constantly reminded of the peril and uncertainty faced by U.S. Navy SEALs, many of whom testify to a personal and profound connection with their Creator. Their loved ones, too, rely on God for strength and comfort. These men of courage and women of faith are the subjects of Rebecca Hartt’s enthusiastically received Acts of Valor romantic suspense series. ed Acts of Valor romantic suspense series.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

VENEZUELA, PRESENT DAY

The classroom door burst open, startling Grace Garrett as she stood at the chalkboard instructing ten indigenous children on how to read. Peter Doyle, the Irish missionary she had worked with both last summer and this one, summoned her from the doorway with a harried blue gaze. His towering stature and beaked nose reminded her of Liam Neeson. He even had the same charming accent.

Sorry to interrupt, but I need to talk to you.

Grace glanced toward her waiting pupils. Right now?

It’s urgent.

His breathless tone underscored the words, causing her to cast an eye at the four-year-old she was working to adopt. Mateo had stopped his drawing to stare at them.

Maria? Summoning the brightest student to the front of the room, Grace handed her the chalk and told her to play teacher for a few minutes. Then she slipped into the hallway, leaving the door cracked to keep one eye on the kids. What’s up?

I’m afraid I’ve got unpleasant news. A friend in the British Embassy just informed me that the National Army has orders to arrest any and all Americans. This is happening all over Venezuela, not just here.

A chill skittered over Grace, though the news wasn’t unexpected. Ever since four so-called mercenaries‍—aka CIA agents‍—had tried to assassinate President Maduro, then escaped from prison with the help of American Special Operators, the Venezuelan dictator had been bent on revenge, putting every American in his country behind bars. All Americans? Even missionaries?

Yes, all.

Peter’s grim tone speared Grace with alarm. All at once, she knew why. They know where to find me. I provided the customs officials with your address. She clamped her fingers around the doorjamb as the floor seemed to tilt. And there’s an Army base right near here!

Peter laid a hand on her arm. Don’t worry. I’m going to the port now to find a fisherman who’ll take us across the river to Colombia.

Us? There wasn’t any point to mentioning her fear of water.

You, Amanda, and I, he said, including his wife. I doubt the soldiers will be any friendlier to Irish nationals harboring an American.

I won’t leave Mateo, she warned him. He’s coming, too.

Peter’s countenance softened at the panic in her voice. Of course. I’m going now to prepare for our exodus. Be ready to leave at any moment.

But…who’ll care for the orphans while we’re gone?

Padre Tomás will watch over them. He did so before when we made a trip back to Ireland.

Grace nodded. Could she legally take Mateo from his native country when his dossier wasn’t yet complete? I’m so sorry, Peter, for causing you all this trouble.

The words fell woefully short. Not only had the Doyles given her room and board two summers in a row, but now they were risking their very lives for her.

It’s not your fault, Grace. Best advise your sister, but no more phone calls. There’s only one wireless provider in this country. It’s easy enough to discover who’s calling the United States. Send her a WhatsApp message. That should be secure.

She nodded. I will.

Her thin voice must have betrayed her fear, for he stopped and caught her eye. It’ll be all right, Grace. God will protect us.

She nodded again, wishing that were true. But God had given her a stillborn son instead of a healthy baby boy, and then He’d let her marriage fall apart. If God had wanted to protect her, she wouldn’t be in Venezuela now, in danger of imprisonment.

After a steadying breath, Grace went back to the classroom where Maria had added four more words on the board, similar to the first.

Very good, darling. Grace spoke to her in Spanish, though the indigenous language, Wayúu, was her first tongue. You’re a natural-born teacher.

As she took the chalk back from Maria, Grace glanced protectively at Mateo, who seemed to sense a change was in the air. His dark, worried gaze tugged at her heartstrings.

Don’t fret, my darling. I won’t go anywhere without you.

CHAPTER 1

SUFFOLK, VIRGINIA

Prompted by his smartphone, Supervisory Special Agent Casey Fitzpatrick slowed his Lexus as he approached a freshly painted sign at the head of the driveway. There was nothing in this part of Suffolk, Virginia, but fields of cotton and forests of deciduous trees. The sign read: BACK-IN-THE-SADDLE HIPPOTHERAPY RANCH.

Horse therapy, Fitz determined, was not for horses but referred to the benefits of riding them. He’d read an article about it once. People with all kinds of challenges‍—physical, mental, and even emotional‍—benefited from having to adjust to the horse’s movements. Interesting.

With a finger stab, Fitz curtailed the haunting aria from the opera Carmen as he turned down the graveled driveway. He was here to interview Faith Saunders, a woman who had called him at the FBI field office no less than six times between yesterday and this morning, asking for his help in finding her sister. She’d left her address as her messages became more desperate, stating she was too busy to drive to the Norfolk Field Office, and could he please come out and see her?

Clearly, she knew who Fitz was since she’d addressed him by his nickname. Since her voice did sound familiar and since her sister’s situation sounded dire, Fitz’s curiosity got the better of him. He’d slipped into his car over the lunch hour and driven twenty minutes to the address she’d supplied. All the while, he racked his brain, trying to remember who she was. Her name was not in his lengthy contacts list, nor did he know any hippo-therapists.

The trees on either side of the driveway gave way to a clearing, in the middle of which stood a butter-yellow farmhouse in need of a fresh coat of paint. A large red barn stood off to his right with a fenced-in riding ring behind it. Fitz parked before the farmhouse, cut the engine and reached for his iPad.

As he rose from his car, he was struck by the peaceful quiet of Suffolk. Over the ruffling of leaves and the birdsong came the nicker of a horse. He started for the farmhouse, his glossy dress shoes crunching the gravel driveway. Bushes and weeds had overtaken the front yard. As he crossed the covered porch, the planks groaned beneath his weight, though he was not a large man at 190 pounds. Curtains in the front window kept him from seeing inside as he raised a hand to the door and knocked. It immediately popped open.

Yeah? A boy, perhaps thirteen years old, confronted him. His russet hair needed a trim. His scowl and hard hazel eyes were meant to chase Fitz off.

Hello. He tried to soften the rasp of his injured vocal cords, but the boy was already staring at the scar above his crisp white collar. I’m Casey Fitzpatrick with the FBI. He still wasn’t used to his new title of supervisory special agent. Is Faith Saunders home?

The hostility in the boy’s expression vanished. She’s in the barn. He eyed Fitz’s light green blazer, as if looking for his sidearm.

A blonde head poked out from under the boy’s arm. You want to come in first? We made cupcakes.

Fitz couldn’t help but smile at the friendly, freckle-faced girl of about six.

Her brother tugged her back from the door. We don’t let strangers into the house.

He’s not a stranger. Mommy knows him.

The words lit a fire under Fitz’s feet. He’d better remember who Faith Saunders was, and soon. I shouldn’t keep your mother waiting.

As he hastened toward the barn, the siblings’ bickering grew indistinct, at least until the girl shouted, You can’t tell me what to do!

The words strummed poignant memories. How long had it been since he’d heard his own children squabble? They’d been dead almost seven years now, long enough that his bottomless grief had dwindled to a constant ache.

Fitz could tell right away the barn had just been built. It touted a ruddy red stain, and the tempered wood of the adjoining fence still looked green. As he slipped through the slightly opened double doors, the scent of fresh lumber beckoned him into the cool shadows.

Dust motes floated in the rays of sunlight slipping through the boards of the sturdy outer wall, lighting his way. He walked the length of the building, scenting only a faint odor of horse manure but mostly that of fresh straw stacked in tight bales. As he passed one empty stall after another, he was starting to think he’d imagined hearing a horse until an enormous bay poked his head over the last stable door to stare at him.

What’s the matter, Otis? came a woman’s voice.

Rounding the horse’s head, Fitz encountered the wide eyes of the woman grooming the animal. She gasped, stilling her brushing. Fitz!

Hello. He knew her chestnut ponytail and heart-shaped face at once, but the reason eluded him until she yanked off her gloves, prompting a memory of her doing something similar at the hospital.

Thank God you’ve come. She tossed aside the gloves and went to let herself out of the stall.

How could he have forgotten her? Faith had been the first one to greet him when he’d been swept into the ER with a laceration to the neck more than eighteen months ago. She kept him calm and assured him he’d be fine, even as he choked on the blood pouring down his throat. Then later, after surgery, when he’d been moved upstairs to a hospital room, she dropped by to visit him and ended up staying for an hour.

As she eased out of the stall, it was impossible not to notice she was pregnant. Apart from that, she looked exactly as he remembered, with berry-red lips in a perpetual smile, sparkling brown eyes, and a dusting of freckles across her piquant nose.

Thank goodness. She embraced him briefly, her baby bump brushing his belt buckle.

The smells of leather and hay and bodywash teased his nostrils.

I wasn’t sure you would actually show up.

Of course. How could I not? No way would he admit he’d forgotten who she was.

I know. I didn’t give you much choice, did I? Her gaze fell briefly to his scar. Your voice is almost normal.

Hah. You’re too kind. He knew he sounded like a gargoyle when he spoke. So, this is where you live? He gestured to encompass the country estate. Did you change careers or something?

Yes, actually. I gave up nursing to do hippotherapy. Her smile grew strained. But that’s not why I called you. Let’s go back into my office and talk.

She led him through the smaller of two doors at the back of the barn, into a waiting room bright with windows that overlooked the riding ring and filled with mismatched chairs.

Have a seat. She crossed to the nearest sofa and sank down onto it, gesturing to the armchair across from her.

As he eased onto the worn cushion, he stated the obvious, You’re expecting.

With a sigh, she propped the heels of her boots on the scarred coffee table. Yes, just eight weeks left.

Fitz heard only exhaustion in her answer. Congratulations. And your husband? Is he still with the state police?

She shook her head. No, no, he’s not. But that’s not why I need to talk to you.

Hearing real fright in her voice, Fitz set his iPad on one knee and roused it. You said in your message that your sister has disappeared while doing mission work in Venezuela.

Yes.

What on earth made her go there? A level-four travel advisory warned Americans not to set foot in that tumultuous country. Ruled by a tyrannous dictator, Venezuela’s economy had crumbled, resulting in rampant crime, civil unrest, poor health infrastructure, hunger, and kidnappings.

Well, last summer, Grace went on a church-sponsored mission trip to an orphanage in Puerto Ayacucho, which is down near the jungle. She’s a first-grade teacher, and she also speaks Spanish, so it sounded like something right up her alley, but the truth was she went to get over her divorce. Faith shrugged. Anyway, last summer she came across a little orphan boy and fell in love with him. She started the adoption process right away, but, of course, it takes so much time. She had to leave him there last summer, and it nearly broke her heart. This summer, she was going to bring him home with her.

Faith paused to catch her breath. "But ever since the assassination attempt on Maduro by those American mercenaries‍—she painted air quotes around the word‍— every U.S. citizen in Venezuela is being rounded up by Maduro’s soldiers and arrested."

Right. Fitz had read about that in a report two weeks ago.

Faith rubbed her stomach as she spoke. Grace stopped calling me because there’s only one cellular provider in Venezuela, and she didn’t want to advertise her location. Her last message to me was on WhatsApp three days ago. She said Maduro’s soldiers were looking for her. Her Irish host had found them a boat so they could cross the Orinoco River into Colombia, but the weather wasn’t cooperating. That’s the last news I’ve heard from her.

You don’t think she’s safely in Colombia but has no internet connection?

No. I don’t know if you give credence to this kind of thing, but Grace and I are mirror twins. We’ve always known when something is wrong with the other. I started to feel like something was really wrong yesterday.

I see.

You probably think I’m panicking for nothing.

Not at all. Intuition has saved my life more than once. He glanced down at his iPad. Spell the name of the town she’s in.

I can do better than that. Grace rolled onto one hip and pulled an index card out of the rear pocket of her shorts. Here’s her exact address in Puerto Ayacucho. She’s been staying with Irish missionaries who live there year-round.

Fitz copied their names and their address into his software program. What’s your sister’s full name?

Grace Elizabeth Garrett. She reverted to using her maiden name.

Do you know her social?

Yes. Faith relayed it to him, then heaved a sigh as he entered it into his form. I’d be so grateful if you could find her and bring her home.

Looking up from his iPad, Fitz caught a careworn expression on Faith’s pretty face as well as a sheen of tears in her bottomless eyes. For the first time, he noticed the dark circles under them and the stress firming her lush lips. When was the last time you slept?

She managed a wan smile for him. I look that bad, huh?

You look beautiful but exhausted.

Hmph. Her eyes twinkled with the liveliness he remembered.

Hey. He surprised himself by moving out of the armchair to sit beside her.

She regarded his offered hand for a split second, then lay her slim, warm hand over his. Awareness swirled in him, catching him off guard. Try not to worry. That’s my job now, okay? He used the very words she had spoken to him when he’d been wheeled into the ER, drowning in his own blood.

Okay.

She’d clearly forgotten what she’d said to him, then. Her thoughts were too preoccupied with her sister’s welfare. After releasing her hand, he saved his document, then closed his iPad. Let me get to work on this. I’ll notify you the instant I discover anything.

That would be great. She dropped her boots to the floor and they both stood. Can I feed you lunch in return for your kindness?

He would have enjoyed sticking around, but her husband might not appreciate her entertaining an FBI guy while he was away at work, especially since a competitive spirit existed between state and federal law enforcement. I appreciate the offer, but I have an urgent mission. He started for the door. I’ll see myself out.

She followed right on his heels. I’m going that way, too. I have to feed my kids lunch.

Yes, I just met them. He pushed the door open for her.

Oh? I hope they weren’t rude.

They crossed through the quiet barn, watched by Otis as he munched on hay.

Not at all. Fitz wasn’t going to rat out her son, who was just being protective of his home and his sister. How old are they?

Grayson is twelve, and Olivia is almost seven.

Ah. His heart gave a pang as he pictured Rory and Rosy, his older two, who were thirteen and four at the time they’d been killed. Like him, Faith would soon welcome a third child. He envisioned Baby Collin’s gummy grin with a stab of loss.

As they stepped into the blinding sunshine, he shaded his eyes to take in her big, yellow farmhouse. Have you always lived here?

Oh, no, but Grace and I grew up here. I just bought the place from my parents, who wanted something more manageable.

From what he could tell, her parents hadn’t been able to manage the property for some time. Then it registered. "I bought the place," she’d said, not we.

Fitz’s heart skipped a beat. Had she divorced her husband? Not wanting to get into that now and sensing Grayson watching them from within the house, Fitz slowed his step and touched Faith’s arm. I’ll be in contact.

Her brown eyes softened. I can’t thank you enough, Fitz. Please call me soon. You have my number?

Oh yes.

A divorce would explain the weariness that hung over her like a shroud. Fitz was tempted to hug her, but that might put thoughts in her head. And he had no romantic notions whatsoever, not for a mother of nearly three.

Bye. He sent her a nod, then turned and walked to his car.

Watching Fitz slip into his silver Lexus, Faith caught herself thinking he moved just like an Irish boxer‍—with the name to match. She had only once seen him dressed in something other than a hospital gown, and that was the salmon-pink button-up covered in blood that he’d worn into the ER. Still, remembering that pink shirt, it didn’t surprise her that he should wear a light-green blazer over a white dress shirt, paired with a pink-and-green-striped tie. The colors suited his auburn hair and freckled complexion.

As he smiled at her through his driver’s window, a weight seemed to lift from her heavy heart, easing the anxiety that held it in a vise. How wise of God to bring him into her thoughts just when she needed him most. She and Fitz had bonded when he’d come into the hospital, only to lose touch after his discharge. If anyone could find Grace, she knew Fitz could.

But the instant he backed up and pulled away, her anxiety returned.

In her rush to give him all her sister’s information, Faith hadn’t told him she was widowed. Every morning she awoke to the panicky realization that her family’s welfare rested on her narrow shoulders. And, so far, God was giving her the strength to soldier on. But Jerry’s surprise legacy would be born in just eight weeks, and she had so much left to do before she could give their baby the attention he or she deserved.

Compounding all of that was this feeling that Grace’s very life was in danger.

Wiping perspiration from her brow, Faith turned and plodded to the farmhouse to feed her children, reciting as she walked the words that sustained her through this endless crisis.

‘For I know the plans I have for you: plans to prosper you and not to harm you; plans to give you hope and a future.’ She was hanging on to Jeremiah 29:11 with every fiber of her being.

CHAPTER 2

I t’s only Padre Tomás.

Peter’s reassurance freed Grace to breathe again. Even so, the pounding of her heart failed to subside as the footsteps crossed the mahogany floorboards overhead, coming ever closer until they stopped directly above them. Twelve feet beneath a trapdoor, Peter, Amanda, Grace, and Mateo sat in the dark wine cellar of the seventeenth-century Catedral de María Auxiliadora. Only a single candle flickered between them, its flame about to drown in wax.

Peter’s efforts to secure them a ride across the river had failed due to torrential rainfall that same day, making the Orinoco River too dangerous to cross that night. Then, that evening, Padre Tomás had warned that troops from the nearby army base were planning to swarm the town at dawn and arrest any Americans. He had offered to hide them in the cathedral’s wine cellar, just below the sacristy, covering the trapdoor with a rug and a table.

That was three days ago. Gripped with the fear of discovery, Grace hadn’t been able to eat, barely able to sleep, in all that time. Whenever she closed her eyes, she dreamed of a Venezuelan soldier, one of Maduro’s minions, arresting and torturing her.

Now it was dawn on the fourth day. Every morning before sunrise Father Tomás brought them food donated by his parishioners. His flock were of mixed indigenous and Spanish descent‍—lovely, selfless people who were all too happy to feed the priest’s anonymous recipients.

According to the priest, the army had just arrested two American youths who’d popped over from Colombia‍—poor planning on their part. Grace had overheard the priest whisper to Peter that people were being questioned about her whereabouts, to the point of torture. Even in the candlelight, she saw Peter pale at the news. He cast a worried glance at his wife, and Grace herself had nearly vomited.

How much longer would the loyal locals hold out against such terrifying pressure? And how many people knew of the existence of the wine cellar in the old cathedral? It seemed just a matter of time before they were betrayed. And then what? She would be imprisoned. Peter and Amanda would be punished for protecting her. And Mateo…her arm flexed around his frail form. He would be taken from her‍—perhaps forever.

She could sense the awful separation coming.

For even if, by some miracle, she evaded capture and managed to escape into Colombia, she still had to come back for Mateo’s dossier, which was due to arrive at the Puerto Ayacucho post office any day now. Without it and without an immigrant visa, his entrance into the United States would be illegal. What she needed‍—what they all needed‍—was a miracle.

Peter had been praying for one, hour after interminable hour. But Grace was getting a different message: God didn’t want her to have a child, natural or adopted. In that dark pit carved out of the humid earth of the Amazonas region, she gnawed on her resentment and shivered with fear.

Senior Chief Amos McLeod tabbed his inter-team radio to inform his four-man squad of what he had just guessed. Above the lush jungle that encircled the port town of Ayacucho, the stars pulsed like miniature lasers illuminating the adobe-covered buildings surrounding Plaza Bolívar and the whitewashed walls of the colonial-era Catedral de María Auxiliadora.

She’s hiding in the church, he stated with certainty.

His sniper, Ben Harmony, whispered back from the church’s bell tower, where he and Theo had just witnessed the priest’s approach. Roger that, Mako.

Thank God Ben agreed with Amos. The hope that this search-and-rescue operation could end countered Amos’s exhaustion. For over forty-eight hours, ever since they’d gone to the residence where Grace Garrett was staying and found the door kicked in and the house ransacked, the rescue team had been in surveillance mode, watching the plaza, the church, and the adjacent school where Grace had been teaching.

Amos and Bambino had camped out on the flat roof of a family-owned grocery store while Ben and Theo were tucked into the church’s bell tower. Their perspective gave them a clear view of the busy port city on the edge of the Amazon jungle. Sleeping on concrete by day and huddling under netting by night while mosquitos the size of wasps hummed around him wasn’t Amos’s idea of fun anymore. At least it was the wet season in the equatorial region, making it cool enough to sleep, if only the concrete weren’t so unrelenting.

It didn’t seem to faze Bambino, who lounged comfortably on the low stone wall next to him‍—but then Bambino was only twenty-two years old, and Amos was thirty-seven.

At Amos’s revelation, Bambino flipped up the night vision goggles he’d been peering through and stared at Amos.

What makes you so sure, Senior Chief?

Ask questions later. Amos didn’t want to delay another second. Besides, he’d made his guess based merely on a hunch. The priest had also entered the church at zero-four-hundred hours the previous morning. He’d entered with a full bundle and come out with an empty one. Plus, according to their intel, Father Tomás Santos worked closely with the missionaries who’d hosted Grace Garrett. Ergo, they were all hiding in the church.

Amos tabbed his mike again. Let’s roll. Rally up at the same door the priest just went in.

As he clambered painstakingly to his feet, Bambino sprang up next to him and made short work of cleaning up their campsite. All four SEALs were dressed in night ops tactical gear, carrying backpacks stuffed with meals-ready-to eat and baby wipes. They bristled with weapons, from M4s, to pistols, to back-up blades.

In less than a minute, Amos and Bambino descended from the roof they’d squatted on for the past thirty-six hours. They went down the same way they’d gone up: on thick vines of bougainvillea that scarcely bowed beneath their weight. The shop owners who ran the bodega by day had never known they were up there.

Slinking up an alley, Amos came to the front of the building and lowered his night vision goggles to sweep the quiet plaza for any sign of movement. They had about one hour before the Venezuelan soldiers started to stir. In the center of the plaza, two large trees flanked a statue of the Great Liberator, Simón Bolívar, on a rearing horse. Amos glimpsed two neon figures beyond the statue clambering out of the bell tower and down the cathedral’s sloping roof.

Apart from the insects leaving phosphorescent contrails across Amos’s field of sight, the SEALs were the only things moving.

Amos and Bambino crossed the plaza furtively. It was actually a good