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  Bridge of Hope

  by

  Pam Champagne

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and

  incidents are either the product of the author’s

  imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

  to actual persons living or dead, business establishments,

  events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Bridge of Hope

  COPYRIGHT © 2007 by Pam Champagne

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or

  reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written

  permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in

  the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or

  reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Nicola Martinez

  The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 706

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Champagne Rose Edition, 2007

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To military men and women for sacrifices made for our

  country. God bless and keep you safe.

  Praise for Pam Champagne

  Pam Champange delivers a timeless story of loss and new

  love in times of war...her characters inspire one to live life

  to the fullest!

  —Marty Kindall

  Chapter One

  Cynthia Jenks scurried away from the protective rail.

  She drew a deep breath, crept forward to stare at the dark

  swirling water below. Bubbles of foam danced on the

  surface. Please God, forgive my weakness. Pure and

  simple, she didn’t want to go on without Peter. The deep

  ache in her chest hadn’t ceased since she’d received the

  news.

  She ran her thumb over the gold wedding band on

  her left hand. Memories of their wedding day warmed her

  like a winter coat. Simple perfection; sun shining on the

  honeysuckle weaving its way up and over the arbor at the

  entrance of her mother’s perennial garden. Grosbeaks

  sang from nearby trees as if to add their congratulations,

  while hummingbirds flitted from flower to flower. Her

  breath hitched when she remembered Peter’s first words

  as her husband. Forever and ever, Cyn. That’s the way it’ll

  be for us.

  Too much pain. More than she could bear. She hadn’t

  lost just a husband. She’d lost her best friend. She raised

  a leg and rested her foot on the rail.

  “Don’t jump!”

  Cyn froze at the familiar voice from behind. Her gaze

  remained glued to the ominous, black water. Her ears

  roared like thunder. Peter’s voice? Surely, her grief had

  kick-started her imagination. She slowly lowered her leg

  until both feet rested on the solid grates of the steel

  bridge. With trepidation laced with hope, she turned. If

  she hadn’t been clinging to the rail, she’d have tumbled to

  her knees. No! This couldn’t be happening. Peter died

  three days ago. Yet, there he was, not four feet away,

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  dressed in BDUs. “Peter?”

  A frown creased his pale, handsome forehead as he

  stood tall and proud with his hands on his hips. “What’s

  wrong with you? How could you consider taking your own

  life?”

  The sadness in his brown eyes opened a dam of tears.

  Guilt rushed in faster than the river’s current flowing

  beneath the bridge. She squeezed her eyelids shut. “You

  were killed in an ambush south of Baghdad. “You’re a

  figment of my imagination.” She slowly opened her eyes,

  expecting the ghostly image to have vanished.

  She sucked in the chilly air and blinked several times

  to clear her vision. Peter remained in the same spot. “Are

  you really here or am I imagining you?”

  “I’m here. Why are you contemplating suicide?”

  Words left her mouth as a croak. “I can’t live without

  you.” His expression hardened. He crossed his arms over

  his chest—a gesture Cyn knew well. Peter was furious.

  “You think killing yourself will make things right? You

  who loves life more than anyone I’ve ever known?”

  Shame-generated heat burned her face. “We had so

  many plans. It’s not fair.”

  He took a step closer. She reached out, the need to

  touch him too powerful to control. A sob tore from her

  throat when her hand passed through his chest. Had she

  actually thought the reports had been wrong? That her

  husband wasn’t dead?

  Peter’s voice softened. “Is this the first time you’ve

  cried since you got the news?” He nodded toward the

  river. “What’s down there that lures you?”

  “Oblivion. An end to my pain.”

  Peter chuckled. “Death’s not all it’s cracked up to be.

  Given a choice, I’d take life any day.”

  She struggled to accept that she was talking to a

  dead man. He’d kept his keen sense of humor even in

  death. “How did you get here? Will you be able to stay?”

  His firm lips turned down. “’Fraid not, sweetheart. It

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  wouldn’t be a healthy arrangement for either of us.”

  “But—”

  “No, Cyn. Don’t argue. Promise me you’ll go home

  and forget this nonsense. If you need help, get it. The base

  has an excellent counseling center; people well equipped

  to help families cope with the tragedies of war.”

  She turned away and focused on the river. “It’s not

  fair. We didn’t get to grow old together.”

  “That’s true, sweetheart, but we had more years

  together than many people have.”

  She clung to his words. They’d fallen hard for each

  other at sixteen and their love only mushroomed over the

  years. She whirled to face him. “If you hadn’t joined the

  military—”

  He held up a hand. “Don’t go there. Death is a

  certainty for everyone. I died for a cause I believed in.

  What more can a man ask? From where I stand, it’s better

  than dying in a car crash or wasting away in bed with a

  debilitating disease.”

  The truth of his words brought another huge lump

  into her throat.

  “Remember me with pride, Cyn.”

  “I am proud of you. I just can’t stop the bitterness. It

  eats away at me.”

  “Life goes on. You’ll fall in love again and—”

  Rage filled her senses. A scream rose in her throat.

  “I’ll never stop loving you!”

  Was that pity in Peter’s smile?

  She dropped her gaze.

  “Your loyalty is only one of the many things I loved

  about you. I’ll always be a part of you. You’re warm,

  generous and giving. You can love another man without

  diminishing the lov
e we shared.”

  Cynthia’s stomach rebelled, and she fought the urge

  to vomit. “Are you telling me to find someone else to take

  your place?”

  “No need to search. He’ll find you. I promise.”

  In a panic, she bolted across the road away from her

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  dead husband.

  Mike Spencer yawned and asked himself why he’d

  thought a trip down Hess Road at two o’clock in the

  morning was a good idea. He’d got off work at one and left

  Fort Drum a half hour later. If he’d gone straight home,

  he’d be in his favorite chair on the porch, sipping a beer

  and listening to crickets.

  Instead, he coasted along the dirt road with his

  window open, listening to water rush down the Hope

  River. The bridge should be right up ahead. Once he

  crossed the river, there was a picnic area where he could

  turn around. The road curved sharply to the left, and as

  he came around the bend and started over the bridge, he

  tensed at a flicker of movement ahead. What the hell? He

  slammed on the brakes and barely avoided plowing into a

  slim blonde woman.

  As if in slow motion, he watched her trip and pitch

  forward. He cringed at the hollow thud of her head hitting

  the Jeep’s bumper. He jammed the shift lever to park,

  flipped off the key and hurdled out the door. She lay on

  her side still as death. Teased by the breeze, wisps of

  curly, blonde hair blew around her face.

  Mike sat on his heels. He touched her neck with a

  shaky hand and breathed a sigh of relief to find her pulse

  steady and strong. He sprinted to his Jeep and grabbed a

  wool army blanket from the back seat. Once he’d tucked it

  around her shivering body, he pulled out his cell.

  The back of his neck prickled as if someone watched.

  He twisted his body to glance over his shoulder. The

  phone slipped from his hand and hit the metal grates on

  the bridge with a clatter.

  A soldier stood several feet away. Not just any

  soldier, but Peter Jenks, who’d deployed to the Mideast

  two months earlier. He’d been killed in action three days

  ago.

  Mike shook his head to clear the fog in his brain and

  dragged his attention back to the injured woman. God, he

  must be more tired than he’d thought. He retrieved the

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  phone and quickly punched 911. “This is Major Spencer. I

  have an emergency at the Hope River Bridge on Hess

  Road. Possible head injury.”

  “Is the victim breathing?”

  “Affirmative. She ran in front of my Jeep.”

  “Did you hit her?”

  “No. I stopped in time. She slipped and hit her head

  on the bumper. Pulse is strong and steady. No visible

  blood.”

  The voice from behind his left shoulder sent a shiver

  down his spine. “Her name is Cynthia Jenks.” The hairs

  on his arms stood at attention.

  From his squatting position, Mike half turned to look

  over his shoulder. The vision of Peter Jenks stood in the

  same place. Sweet Jesus. Was he hallucinating?

  Jenks continued in a calm voice. “She was planning

  to jump. Please take care of her, Sir. She needs your

  strength.”

  “I don’t understand…” Mike wasn’t sure if he spoke

  to the dead soldier or himself.

  Jenks gave him a quick salute and vanished.

  The dispatcher’s voice jerked him back from

  confusion. “Major? Are you still there?”

  “Yes. The woman’s name is Cynthia Jenks. Is an

  ambulance on the way?”

  “Should arrive in less than fifteen minutes.”

  “Thank you.” Mike disconnected the call and

  concentrated Cynthia’s pale face. Her eyelids fluttered a

  few times, and then stilled. She was beautiful and so

  damn young to be a widow.

  His brain raced with the implications of seeing a

  dead man. He’d never given ghosts and spirits much

  consideration, although he always kept an open mind. He

  had no doubts about what he’d seen. Peter Jenks had

  been as real as the woman lying at his feet.

  Why would Peter make him responsible for his

  widow? They barely knew each other. Peter had sat in on

  his intelligence logistics classes before deploying, but

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  they’d shared no personal friendship.

  Ten minutes later sirens blared in the distance. He

  picked up Cynthia’s limp hand. “Help’s on the way. You’ll

  be fine.”

  Her eyelids fluttered. “Who are you? Where’s Peter?”

  So she, too, had seen her husband. No wonder she

  ran in front of his Jeep. “No, Cynthia. He’s gone. I’m

  Major Spencer…call me Mike.”

  Her loud moan of distress sounded like a wounded

  animal. She struggled to rise. “Did you see him? It wasn’t

  just my imagination…was it?”

  Mike gently pushed her down. “Lie still. The

  ambulance is here.” She ceased struggling and began to

  cry. Her wrenching sobs stabbed him deep. He knew all

  too well the pain of losing a loved one.

  Two EMTs rushed toward them carrying a stretcher.

  “Is she conscious?”

  “Awake and crying. I think she’s fine, but she should

  be checked out.”

  Cynthia grasped his arm. “No hospital. Please, Mike.

  Don’t leave me.”

  Mike tried to break eye contact and failed. Against

  his better judgment he said, “I’ll follow the ambulance to

  the hospital. We’ll see what the doctor has to say. If he

  says you’re okay to leave, I’ll take you home.”

  Her gaze never left him when the EMTs lifted her

  onto the stretcher and pushed it into the ambulance. It

  drove off, siren blaring. Mike tossed the wool blanket into

  the backseat and drove to the picnic area ahead where

  Cynthia had parked. He put the Jeep in neutral, hit the

  emergency brake and let the engine idle.

  She drove a fairly new pickup truck. A brown suede

  purse lay on the seat; the keys dangled from the ignition.

  A folded piece of white paper stuck out of her purse.

  Mike snatched it and read the one sentence written

  in blue ink. Everything is too much for me. The words

  confirmed Peter’s words. Cynthia Jenks had no intention

  of driving her truck home this night.

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  Mike rested his forehead on the window, trying to

  control his anger. Mary Jo had fought like a lion to live,

  knowing her chances were slim to none. He’d lost his wife

  to cancer, and this young woman was anxious to throw

  her life away. He slammed a clenched fist against the

  door at the unfairness.

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  Chapter Two

  Mike grabbed Cynthia’s purse and keys, and hurried

  to his Jeep. Remembrances of Mary Jo drummed in his

  head as he maneuvered the roads to Watertown. He tried

  and failed to imagine coping w
ith the loss of his wife

  without his daughter’s help. For the first year, Katy had

  been the reason he’d gotten out of bed in the morning,

  when all he’d wanted was to drag the blankets over his

  head and sleep forever.

  What gave him the right to judge Peter Jenks’ wife?

  Get off your high horse, Spencer, and show a little

  compassion. The spirit of a young soldier had asked him

  to keep an eye on his despondent widow. He had no choice

  but to honor that request.

  On his way to the hospital, he called home to tell

  Doreen he’d be late. Twenty-five minutes later, he took a

  right into the hospital parking lot and chose a space

  under a streetlight. A myriad of bugs swarmed the yellow

  glow. Once on the pavement, he stretched and took a deep

  breath. The cloying honeysuckle scent in the warm

  summer night gave him a headache. He glanced at the

  full moon and shivered. The “man in the moon” appeared

  to have his mouth open in a silent scream. The clouds in

  the east were tinged in crimson, foretelling of the coming

  dawn.

  Shoving his hands in his pockets, he shook off the

  fanciful thoughts and strode toward the emergency room

  door. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could

  go home. If Cynthia and Peter had lived on base, she

  would have to leave at the end of the month. Hopefully,

  she had family to support her in the months ahead.

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  Nurses bustled around the emergency room, the

  waiting room chairs filled to capacity. People coughed and

  sneezed while others bent over clutching their stomachs.

  God he hated hospitals. Too many bad memories. After he

  scanned the room, he hightailed it to the patient

  information window. “Hello. I’m looking for Cynthia

  Jenks. She was brought in by ambulance.”

  The woman scrutinized him. “Family? If not, I can’t

  give you any information. HEPA rules you know.” The

  cool dark eyes belied the smile on her face.

  Mike rested his hands on the small counter and

  leaned his face close to the glass separating them and bit

  out each word. “At this moment, I’m the only family she’s