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*** American Son ***

Chapter 1

Fortunate Son

America…

Sharon Riley stepped from the porch of her sturdy farmhouse and walked down the wide, gracefully sloping lawn. Thin wisps of clouds drifted across the blue Oregon sky, as the late-day sun hung like a golden gem over the land. The clouds to the west were heavy and tinged with gray. Rain was coming, perhaps three or four hours away, she estimated. Walking across the gravel driveway, she came to a timber fence, and leaned against it, shielding her eyes against the afternoon dazzle. The rumble of a diesel engine sounded across the field, coming from behind a stand of pine trees. Inhaling the good smell of freshly tilled earth, Sharon waited for the tractor to appear.

She had been a mystery to her neighbors seventeen years ago, generating talk about a single woman—a single mother no less—tackling a five-hundred-acre farm. The talk lessened as the farm prospered. Sharon was a quiet woman, who kept mostly to herself, but she was hard working, and that counted for much in rural Oregon, where the pioneer spirit lived still. Six years ago, a flash flood tore through the town of Newburgh, destroying most of downtown, and dozens of houses. Sharon worked day and night, side-by-side with the lifelong residents, saving those who could be saved, recovering those who were lost. In the following weeks, she helped rebuild the houses and businesses. After that, there was no more talk of her being an outsider. She was a private woman, a mystery still, but the people accepted her and her young son as part of the community.

Sharon pulled her flaxen hair into a ponytail, tying it off with a band. The few strands of silver-gray in her hair, along with the fine lines around her eyes, were her only signs of age. She was lean and fit, with the liquid grace of a dancer, but underlying it was a steely strength that seemed from more than farm work could account. She was attractive, beautiful even, but remote and distant. That distance made her formidable, and ultimately unapproachable. More than a few of the local men had attempted to breach that distance and get to know her, but none succeeded. She was part of the community…but only to a point.

As the rumble of the engine grew louder, Sharon gazed across the field, seeing the tractor come into view some quarter of a mile away. Given the noise of the engine, and with the distance, her voice wouldn't carry far. It wouldn't need to. She waved and called out.

"Grant!"

Grant waved back, cranking the handle to raise the plow as he steered the tractor forward. Always big for his age, he now stood over six-feet tall, and his frame was filling out. She felt a small ache in her heart, the secret pain all mothers know; happy to see their children grow, yet not ready to say goodbye to their babies. It was more than that, of course. There were things she needed to tell him soon, secrets she had kept in the corner of her heart for seventeen years, out of sight, but never out of mind. When she finally told those secrets, would he understand? Could he forgive her for keeping the truth from him? She put those questions aside. The time for telling secrets was coming, but it was not yet here.

Grant shut the engine off and leapt to the soft turf, smiling as he walked towards her. Another pang shot through Sharon's heart; he looked so much like his father, but never more so than when he smiled. Putting his hand on the top rail, he vaulted the fence, landing lightly in front of her.

"Got the plowing finished," he said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "I'll have the corn planted by the weekend."

"There's plenty of time for that. Right now, I need you to run into town, pick up some supplies."

Sharon held out a small list of groceries. Grant took it and then glanced at the pole barn where a battered but sturdy old Ford pickup sat parked, its hood opened, waiting patiently to be brought back to life. He looked at his mother with a hopeful smile.

"Is the carbureator in?"

"Yes," Sharon said, to which her son whopped in joy. It made her feel good to see him happy; she hated what she had to say next. "I also need you to stop at the post office. Next year's lesson plans just came in."

Grant's joy evaporated. "Mom, we talked about this. I want to finish my senior year at high school. You said I could."

"I said I'd think about it. I'm not saying no," she added, seeing the look on his face. "We'll talk about it tonight, after dinner, okay?"

Grant's shoulders slumped. "We'll talk. That means you explaining why it's going to be your way. This is my last year, mom, I want to go."

Sharon sighed. "Is this about Allison?"

"No," he snapped. He faltered under her probing stare. "Well…not only her. I need to be around kids my own age. I've been talking to coach Brennan. He wants me to go out for football."

Sharon's eyes flared angrily. "Football? Absolutely not, Grant!"

"You can't just make every decision for me! I want to be a normal kid, why is that so wrong? Why do you hate Allison?"

"Oh, Grant, I don't hate her, you know that. Allison's a sweet girl, and there's nothing wrong with wanting a normal life…but I can't let you put yourself at risk."

"What risk? I'm talking about going to high school! God, all my life, you've been telling me about risks, about enemies. Where are they, mom?"

Sharon's eyes hardened as she pointed to the horizon. "Out there, in the world. Oregon isn't the world. There are dangers most people know nothing about, bad people with bad intent, just waiting for their moment to strike. Your father had enemies, and if they knew about you…"

She took a breath, pulling in her emotions, making her voice quiet again. "Your safety is the most important thing in the world to me. I know I seem hard sometimes, unfair…but I'm only doing what I think is best."

Grant scuffed his work boot across the grass. "I can't live my entire life hiding away from the world. What good is being safe if I'm not happy?"

"Are you really so unhappy?" Sharon said quietly. "That's not what I want for you."

"I know," Grant said, running a hand over his neck, massaging the tension there. "Mom, you have to let me breathe. I need to be normal. I need…I need to know about my father."

Sharon froze for a moment. "I've told you about him."

"I'm not talking about a few photos, some medals in a box—that doesn't tell me who he was. You tell me he was a soldier, but who was he? Why did he have enemies who'd want to hurt us? Why won't you tell me who he was?"

"You deserve answers. I'll give them to you soon, I promise."

Grant looked at her, his pale blue eyes hooded with pain. "Soon. You've been telling me that my whole life." He walked away, speaking over his shoulder without looking back. "I'm going to school this fall."

Sharon watched Grant stalk over to the pole barn and bury himself under the hood of the old pickup. He'd spent a lot of time there this past year, partly to get the truck running, yes, but also to find distraction from loneliness and pain. That she caused even a fraction of his loneliness and pain hurt her more than he would ever know. She long ago mastered the art of concealing her own feelings, just as she had mastered the art of concealing the truth. It was a skill that kept her son safe over the years, but the price it exacted might be his love.

Grant worked on the old jalopy, his pain evident. Like his father, his emotions were always genuine, as was his character, shining like a beacon. He hadn't inherited her talent at deception, for which she was grateful. Her earlier thoughts came back to her, about how the time for telling secrets was not yet here. She nearly laughed at the bitter realization of how wrong she was. Taking a deep breath, she walked over to the barn. The time was here, now.

Grant was pulling on a chain lift, hoisting the motor a dozen feet above the pickup. Locking the chain in place, he wiped his hands on a rag and bent under the hood again. Sharon spoke, her voice quiet.

"You haven't eaten since breakfast. You must be starving. You're like your father that way, always hungry."

"I wouldn't know about that, would I?" he answered, his head still buried under the hood.

"We can change that. Come in, I'll fix us something to eat, and we can talk."

"I want to talk, but you never listen," Grant said. He closed the hood and looked up, the scowl on his face softening, but the hurt still there. "I love you, mom…but it can't just be your rules, with me having no say in my own life. I want to go to school. I want to go on dates and play sports. I want to hang out without giving detailed reports on everywhere I go. I want to be normal. Don't you want that for me? Don't you want me to be happy?"

Before Sharon could reply, a loud crack sounded overhead. She looked up, seeing the huge wooden beam holding the chain lift splinter, and then fall, the chain hoist and the motor plummeting with it. Grant cried out, leaping forward, as Sharon dropped to the floor, knowing there was no chance to avoid the collision. She closed her eyes, waiting for the clattering chain and the splintered oak beam to crush her…

A second passed, and the noise ended. Sharon slowly opened her eyes, seeing dust fill the air, and Grant standing over her, with part of the beam leaning against his back. He was holding the chain, with the motor dangling from the end, inches above her head. Taking care to avoid the motor, she stood.

"It's okay, son. You can put it down."

Grant slowly lowered the motor, which thumped heavily to the floor, the chain clinking as it fell. Sharon went to his side and wedged her shoulder against the heavy beam leaning across his back. Grimacing, she pushed, pivoting it away from him. The beam fell to the floor with a reverberating bang. Sharon turned to him.

"Are you okay?"

"Just a little sore," he said, rotating his shoulder, flexing his back with a slight grimace.

"I don't doubt it—that beam must have weighed three hundred pounds, the motor twice as much. Looks like I'm not the only one who's been keeping secrets. How long have you been able to do things like this?"

"I…I don't know. You were in trouble, I had to do something. It was adrenaline."

"And last month in the north pasture, when you lifted that fallen tree limb off the calf, was that adrenaline? The limb must have weighed a thousand pounds, not to mention you carried the calf half a mile back to the barn."

"How do you even know about that?" he asked with dawning suspicion. "You couldn't see it from the house. Have you been spying on me?"

"I watch out for you, Grant. It's what I do."

Sharon reached out and brushed the dust from his short blonde hair, and then hugged him tightly. The embrace lasted several seconds. She knew she was saying goodbye to her little boy. She pulled back and looked at him.

"I know you want to go to school, play sports, be…normal. I'm sorry, but you can't. You can be many things, Grant but not normal. You're very special, and it's time you learned the truth about who you are. Come on."

Sharon headed out of the pole barn, and Grant followed, moving with a hesitancy born from the sense that his world was about to change. They walked up the rising slope behind the house, towards a small cluster of trees sitting on the crest of the hill. Sharon stopped at a huge oak tree which towered above the others, it's branches stretching high in the late afternoon sky, its roots sunk deep in the soil. Though he climbed it often as a young boy, it seemed to Grant as if he was seeing this ancient tree for the first time.

Sharon turned to him, looking uncertain, and vulnerable. He would almost think she was afraid, if that emotion wasn't impossible to associate with her. She laid her hand on the tree lovingly, her palm resting on an old carving cut deep into the bark. She spoke, her voice quiet, and fragile.

"Grant…this is your father."

Grant looked at the name carved in the tree. He'd seen it before, never paying it any great attention. It was just a name from the past, a boy from generations earlier, or so he thought. He walked forward, and read the name aloud.

"Steve Rogers." He turned to his mother, confused. "But our name is Riley...isn't it?"

"Riley was my mother's maiden name. I used it when you were born. I needed to disappear from my old life, so I had to lose my name. I was Sharon Carter…and your father's real name was Steven Grant Rogers. He lived here, on this farm, as a young man."

She moved her hand, revealing a date carved below the name, and she read it, her voice nearly a whisper. "1935. He carved this the day he left for college."

"Mom, I...I don't understand. That was almost a hundred years ago."

Tears sparkled in Sharon's eyes. He had never seen her cry before and the sight cut into his heart, driving out his own feelings of confusion and anger. He wanted to hug her but hesitated, and the moment passed. Drying her eyes, she turned to him, and spoke.

"I'm sorry for keeping the truth from you. I'd like a chance to explain. When you know the whole story, maybe you'll be able to forgive me. Let's go to the house, son. Let's talk."

His mother headed down the hill, and Grant followed, walking towards the frame farmhouse that had been his home all his life. It seemed changed now—everything did. The world was different, unknown…and so was he. Whatever it was his mother had to tell him, Grant knew his life would never be the same.

. . .

Nearly a mile distant, just beyond the freshly plowed field, a man lay silent in the tall grass bordering the edge of the deep woods. Dressed in dark tactical camouflage, he trained his rifle on the woman and the boy, watching them through the high-powered scope. Lifting his wrist to his mouth, he spoke into the communicator, his voice a whisper, lost on the wind.

"X-ray nine to command. I have visual confirmation. Target acquired."

A voice came over the small device fitted in his ear.

"X-ray nine, this is command. Are you positive? We've had two false leads already this month."

The figure smiled. "It's him."

"The strike team is approaching due south, they'll be at your coordinates in thirty minutes. The boy is to be taken alive and unharmed. Make sure your team knows."

"Affirmative. The woman?"

"Kill her."

The line went dead. The man trained his sight on the mother and her son, just now walking into the house. He set his watch and hunkered down to wait. Twenty-nine minutes later, the nearly inaudible sound of helicopter blades cut the air, stealth aircraft, cloaked and silent. The aircraft hovered just above the tree line, as twenty agents rappelled to the field. The man stood, the others converging on him. He pointed forward, making the 'eyes on target' sign. As twilight tinged the country skyline, the strike team drew their weapons and crept toward the farmhouse, like silent shadows of death.