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: [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

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

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 love 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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Bridge of Hope

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?”