BOH 8-21-07 (00178434).DOC (2 page)

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.

6

Bridge of Hope

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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Pam Champagne

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 with 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.

8

Bridge of Hope

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

got. Cynthia lost her husband in Iraq. I’m the one who

called 911. She’s my responsibility.”

The woman swallowed a few times, and then dropped

her gaze. She punched a few keys on the computer. She

waved her hand toward a set of double doors on the other

side of the room. “She’s in cubicle three.”

He pivoted without a thank you and headed down the

hall.

He stopped outside the third cubicle and observed the

woman resting in bed. Face as white as the pillowcase,

her hands repeatedly clutched at the blanket.

“I’m Dr. Anson, assigned to Ms. Jenks’ case. And you

are?” With a sigh of resignation, Mike turned to the man

who'd come from behind and now stood next to him.

“Major Spencer.”

“Related to Mrs. Jenks?”

“No. Mrs. Jenks’ husband was killed overseas

recently. She tripped and banged her head on my Jeep. At

the moment, I’m responsible for her welfare.” Careful to

keep his voice soft, he nonetheless slipped into his

authoritative tone.

Dr. Anson’s lips pursed. “Hospital rules—”

“Damn your rules, Doctor. The Army takes care of

their own, and Cynthia Jenks is Army.”

9

Pam Champagne

Expecting dismissal, Mike braced himself for an

argument. Dr. Anson regarded him for a few moments

before nodding. “Shall we go see the patient?”

They walked through the parted curtain and each

moved to opposite sides of the bed.

Dr. Anson leaned over to shine his pencil-like light in

Cynthia’s eyes. “Are you awake?”

She blinked several times and opened her eyes. It

seemed to Mike she had difficulty focusing on the doctor.

“What happened?”

“You’ve had a slight accident. You’re at Memorial

Hospital.”

Her brow puckered and she rubbed her temple. “I

have a terrible headache.”

Dr. Anson shot Mike a glance then shifted his

attention back to Cynthia. “Mrs. Jenks, what were you

doing on the Hope River Bridge at two o’clock in the

morning?”

The rhythm of Cynthia’s breathing increased. Mike

recognized a plea for help in her gaze. A need to protect

her came out of nowhere. “Cynthia and I made plans to

meet there…to discuss her husband’s death. She needed a

friend, and I’m always willing to oblige. Isn’t that right,

Cynthia?”

If the hospital discovered she’d considered suicide,

they'd admit her for psychiatric observation. He saw no

crazed look in her eyes; just a grieving woman with

nowhere to turn. Having been in the same position, he felt

a psychiatric hospital was the last place she needed to be

right now. His empathy stirred long buried fears.

The doctor glanced up from his paperwork and

peered over his glasses. “At two o’clock in the morning?”

Mike shrugged, ignoring the man’s skepticism and

sat on the mattress next to Cynthia. “My shift at the base

isn’t over until one.”

The doctor cleared his throat and returned his

attention to the chart. Mike chanced a peek at Cynthia,

who watched him from the corner of her eye, her arms

10

Bridge of Hope

crossed in a defensive posture.

One of Mary Jo’s sayings popped into his head.
Little

lies never disappear. They only grow into bigger ones.

Mike grabbed the bull by the horns. “What about the

test results, Doctor?”

Dr. Anson stuck his pen in his pocket and focused on

the patient. “A few bumps and contusions. Nothing

serious enough to keep her here. That is, as long as she

won’t be alone for a few days.”

Cynthia struggled to sit up. “I—”

Mike placed his hand on Cynthia’s arm and squeezed

a warning. “She's staying with me.”

The doctor frowned. “I haven’t said I'll release her.”

He squinted at Cynthia, his bushy eyebrows drawing

close together. “Ms. Jenks, I have a few more questions.

Regardless of what Major Spencer has told me, I have

doubts. Standing on the Hope River Bridge in the early

morning hours makes me wonder if you were

contemplating suicide. Unless you can convince me that

wasn’t the case, I can’t in good conscience let you leave

the hospital.”

Cynthia swallowed and almost choked on the lump in

her throat. She blinked to make the sparkles of light

floating in front of her eyes go away. What should she do?

Tell the truth? Or a partial truth? If she told the doctor

her dead husband had convinced her not to jump off the

bridge, he’d lock her up for sure. She now wondered if

she’d have been brave enough to end her life.

Who was this kind man who’d lied for her? He’d said

he was Major Mike Spencer. Not a name she knew.

“I’ve already told you—”

“It’s all right, Mike,” Cynthia interrupted. “Dr. Anson

should know the truth.”
Or at least part of it.
“I was

despondent last night. It’s been difficult accepting my

husband’s death. When Mike called, I jumped at his offer

of someone to talk to. Like he said, we made plans to meet

on the bridge…” Her gaze darted away from the doctor

and latched onto Mike. His smile gave her courage to

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Pam Champagne

continue. “The air grew chilly while I waited, so I started

back to my truck for a sweater and tripped…that’s all I

remember.”

“Hmmm…” The doctor wrote a few notes on the

clipboard. “Since Major Spencer has taken you under his

wing, I’ll let you leave.” Dr. Anson directed his attention

to Mike. “May I see you for a moment, Major Spencer?”

Cyn strained her ears, but couldn’t understand their

muffled conversation. Was Dr. Anson trying to convince

Mike that she should be locked up?

Cyn fought not to flinch when Mike strode into the

room, his face tense. She pressed herself into the pillows

when he brought his face close. “Swear to me on Peter’s

grave that you’ll never again think about taking your

life.” “I won’t. I promise,” she managed to croak.

“I’ll arrange for counseling, and you
will
attend every

session.”

Cynthia balked, shaking her head. “No! I don’t—”

He leaned so close that his breath warmed her chilled

lips. “Dr. Anson suspects we’re lying. You’ll do it, or I’ll

rescind my offer of a place to stay. ”

She slapped his hands away and scuttled to the edge

of the bed. “They’ll treat me like I’m some sort of a lab

specimen.”

Mike rose and moved away. “For the time you’re in

therapy, that’s what you’ll be. Do we have a deal?”

Did she have a choice? “I guess. As long as you cool it

with the testosterone. I don’t like to be manhandled.”

She sucked in her breath at the pity shining in his

eyes. “Trust me. I have no intention of interfering in your

life any longer than I have to.”

****

straight in the seat. Her head bumped against the

window every time she nodded off.

“Are you cold? Mind if I call you Cindy? Cynthia is a

mouthful.”

12

Bridge of Hope

“Call me Cyn.” She hadn’t meant to bark the words.

Slouching lower in the seat, she fought back tears. “I’m

sorry. Must be the pain medication making me irritable

and weepy.”

He glanced over at her and smiled. “No problem.

We’re almost there. Katy will be thrilled to have a guest.”

Cyn lurched into an upright position. “I didn’t realize

I’d be imposing on a family.” God! How stupid to think a

good-looking man Mike’s age—he must be at least thirty-

five—would be single.

Mike chuckled. He turned left onto a narrow country

road. “I’m no longer married. Katy’s my daughter. She’s

eight going on twenty-one.”

The implications of his statement bounced around

her brain like ping pong balls. What happened to his wife?

Warmth flooded her face. She’d always had a knack for

shoving an arm, along with both feet, in her mouth. “I’m

looking forward to meeting her.”

His voice softened. “She’s precocious—sees and

understands more than any eight-year-old should.”

“Who takes care of her while you work?”

“A neighbor comes to the house and stays until I get

home. What about your family? Parents? Brothers or

sisters? Surely, they know the situation. Will they be

coming to Fort Drum for the funeral?”

Her nerves danced and anxiety coiled around her

stomach. “No,” she forced herself to reply. “My parents

were killed in a car accident while Peter and I were on our

honeymoon. I’m an only child.”

Mike reached over and squeezed the hand clutching

her stomach. “I’m sorry.”

She had no appropriate response.

“Where are Peter’s folks located?”

More pain. “His father died when Peter was a kid

and his mother passed away soon after we graduated high

school. That’s when Peter joined the military.”

“So it’s always been you and Peter against the