BOH 8-21-07 (00178434).DOC
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: info@thewildrosepress.com
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