Bridge to Forever

by Rachel Ann Nunes

Damon felt a numbness begin in his heart and spread throughout his body. He couldn’t imagine life without Belle. She had kept both him and Tanner going when Charlotte had died. She’d been their very reason for living.

  Of course, he had the gospel now, and with his heart and soul, he knew that if she died, Belle would go to heaven and wait for him there, that they would be reunited one day. Yet he was unprepared for this terrible agony slicing into his heart, unprepared for the bleakness of life without her smile, without her hugs, without her tiny hand in his. He leaned forward and put his head between his hands, closing his eyes against the devastation.

  Jennie Anne. The idea that she was being held by desperate men was even worse than Belle’s accident. They might never see her again, might never know what unspeakable things she suffered.

  Mickelle took his hand, and only then did he realize the extent of the fear she had experienced at his near death. No wonder she’d been so afraid of loving him! He gripped her hard, wanting to keep what he had left from slipping away.

  The FBI Special Agents came and went long before the doctor finished with Belle’s surgery. When he did emerge, his young face was drawn and weary, and his sandy hair was matted to his scalp. Damon and Mickelle rose to meet him.

  “I’ve done everything I can,” he told them gravely. “Right now your daughter is stable, but I—her chances aren’t very good. She was bleeding profusely from nearly all the major organs in her abdominal cavity. The surgery stopped the bleeding for now, and we just have to wait and see how well things heal. She may start bleeding again, and there’s a high risk of infection. It’s hard to predict. The best thing she has going for her is her age. I’m sorry I can’t give you better news. They’re taking her to the ICU now, and you can see her. I don’t know that she’ll wake up . . . She woke up briefly before the surgery, and she was in extreme pain. I had to give her a high dosage of painkiller. She’ll have to keep taking it. It’s just too much trauma for her body.” He hesitated. “You might call her whole family and . . . say your goodbyes.”

  They started crying, but Damon managed to say, “We want to give her a blessing.”

  The doctor inclined his head. “Of course. It might make the difference we need. There’s always hope. My prayers will be with you—with her.”

  So Jesse, Mickelle’s father, and Mickelle’s two other brothers-in-law went into Belle’s room and surrounded her bed. Jesse anointed her. Then they laid their hands on her head. Damon began the blessing, but halfway through he couldn’t continue. There was so much he wanted to say, but he was having difficultly separating his will from the Lord’s. So much depended upon this moment, and the responsibility didn’t rest easily upon his shoulders. The group stood in silence around Belle’s inert figure for long moments, until at last Jesse resumed in Damon’s behalf, pleading for Belle’s life and asking that the Lord’s will be done.

  Damon nodded his thanks, his heart so full of torment that he wondered if he would ever be completely happy again.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  From the dilapidated couch, Colton alternately studied his companion in crime and the little girl they’d abducted. He wished he could roll back time to before he had paid Troy to attack Mickelle, that he had skipped town after stealing the insurance money.

  Of course then he wouldn’t have the money from Mickelle’s diamond ring.

  He sighed. If only she’d made it easier for him, if she had fallen for him like the others. Then he wouldn’t have needed to come up with a plan to get more, to make her pay for her betrayal. She should have loved him. Then he could have left town with the money, the ring, and the good feelings he normally enjoyed after these exploits.

  Most certainly he wouldn’t be at this deserted farmhouse freezing his toes off. This was also Mickelle’s fault.

  If things had gone differently he might not have split Utah at all, for a while anyway. He and Mickelle could have had fun together, maybe even gotten married—never mind the other wives he’d left behind in three other states. It wasn’t like he’d ever go back to them. Especially to Terry. She didn’t want him anyway after what he had let happen to their sons that dreadful night ten years ago. If they hadn’t drowned, his life would have been much different. He wouldn’t have to keep moving to stay ahead of the loathsome reality, the all-encompassing pain.

  Mickelle had been the first one in all these years to whom he had admitted the truth. He knew she would understand because of her nephews, and he’d been right. And even though she hadn’t loved him, her comments about the afterlife had temporarily assuaged his horrendous guilt. Could any of it be true?

  The little girl they had kidnapped was huddled on the floor by the wood fireplace where Troy had started a fire, an untouched hamburger on her lap. She cradled her left arm with the right, her freckled face pinched white with pain. Her silky skirt, now stained with dust from the floor, puddled around her. Colton suspected her shoulder was broken from when Troy had thrown her into the van yesterday. She had whimpered then, until Troy had threatened her with his fist.

  Now Troy was pacing the floor, hitting his fist into his hand repeatedly. Colton wanted to yell at the overgrown monkey to sit still, but he didn’t want to start anything. Not now, when he had to think.

  What was he going to do?

  He remembered Mickelle’s face when he had seen her in the pool and from the van yesterday. She had looked good, really good. She had recognized him too, at the end. What had she felt? Did she miss him at all? She must know about the insurance money.

  It’s all her fault.

  The situation continued to nag at him. He’d stolen money more times than he could count, along with a good number of female hearts. He had been a burglar, a con-man, and a tax evader.

  But for the past ten years he had never been directly responsible for hurting a child. He’d made sure of that.

  Except that now Belle, the pretty, rosy-cheeked angel Mickelle adored, could be dead, and this little girl by the fireplace needed medical attention.

  He wanted out.

  “It’s over,” he’d told Troy when they had driven a few blocks from the school yesterday. “Let’s just let her off at the next corner and get out of here.”

  Troy’s face had lunged at him over the seat. “It ain’t over till I say so. Now keep driving!” Then he’d pulled out the gun.

  Colton had little choice but to obey and hope the man came to his senses. What had begun as a scheme to get a little cash had now turned into a fiasco. There was no way the police wouldn’t be involved, not with one child dead and a million witnesses. They were facing big-time jail sentences. He realized belatedly that he should have planned better, but his impatience to punish Mickelle had proven too great a temptation.

  He could cut out, of course, but that would leave the little girl with Troy, and somehow he couldn’t stomach that. It wasn’t right, leaving her defenseless. After receiving the ransom money, Troy would just as soon let her remain here to freeze to death as return her to Mickelle.

  Colton was a lot of bad things, but despite his tragic past, he wasn’t a murderer. Or a child abuser. Troy seemed to have the potential for both.

  He had to try again. “I think we ought to get out of here. They’ve called the feds by now.”

  Troy whirled suddenly and shook his fist under Colton’s nose. “You’re a wimp. And we do it my way. Understand? Where’s the note?”

  Colton knew Troy thought of him as spineless and weak, but that was perfectly all right with him since he considered Troy crude, unlearned, and stupid.

  He smiled. Stupid. Now that he could get around.

  He pulled on his gloves and removed a tiny envelope from his jacket pocket. “Here it is.”

  “You deliver it. Then I’ll go get the money,” Troy commanded.

  Colton smirked darkly inside himself. Troy was so brainless that he thought Colton would actually trust him to go for the money.

  “Okay.” He pocketed the note. “But don’t move
her. Shoulder’s broken.”

  Troy shrugged his indifference. “Hurry. They’ll be anxious ’cause it’s been so long.”

  As Colton stood, Troy grabbed the front of his jacket and pushed him up against the wall. His unshaven face was inches away, and Colton could see the bulge of the gun in his pocket. For a moment Colton thought Troy was going to hit him as he had the night he had stolen the ring from Mickelle, but the man only sneered, “Don’t try to put one over on me, fancy boy. Or you’ll be sorry.” With a few heavy curses to accentuate his threat, Troy released him.

  Colton fastidiously straightened his jacket and walked over to the little girl. “Don’t give your uncle any trouble,” he muttered in a low voice. “Just hang tight. It’ll be over soon.”

  She said nothing, not even raising her head to look at him. Her eyes were fixed on her left arm. Colton had only felt like this much of a rat twice before—once ten years ago and again more recently, when he had seen the damage Troy had done to Mickelle the night he stole the ring. He shouldn’t have hurt her that badly. And the attack alone should have been revenge enough, but Colton had been too angry and hurt to see it then.

  It’s still her fault. She could have chosen differently.

  He left the farmhouse, driving a new car he had rented under one of his aliases with a stolen credit card. Without Troy’s intense gaze, he felt more confident, more sure of what he would do.

  Two blocks away from the flower shop he put on his disguise, thick clear glasses, a hat with blond hair, loafers with a tall heel. Pulling on his gloves once again, he took out the small envelope. He removed and tore up the old ransom note inside. Then he took out a small sheet of paper and wrote a new message. Smiling in grim satisfaction, he sealed the envelope before walking to the flower shop.

  “May I help you?” asked the matronly woman behind the counter.

  “I’d like to send some flowers. A dozen yellow roses. Preferably dark yellow—almost gold.”

  “Will these do?”

  “Perfect. I want them delivered.”

  “How about this vase?”

  He nodded and watched as she expertly arranged the roses with baby’s breath and several greens, tying it with a yellow ribbon. “If you’ll fill out the address where we are to deliver it,” she said, placing a form before him, “I’ll ring it up. Oh, and here’s a card to write a note.”

  “I got one when I came in earlier.” He showed the note in his gloved hand. “I wanted to think about what I was going to say.”

  She smiled, obviously approving the action. Colton paid for the roses with a stolen credit card. “Thank you,” the woman said, not checking the signature on the back. Of course, even if she had, the signatures would have matched to the untrained eye. He was good at what he did. Too bad the cards weren’t good for more than a few uses, and then only up to a paltry amount. Not like a hundred thousand dollars insurance money or a heart-shaped diamond ring.

  Colton left the shop, walked back to his car, and drove away. If he was lucky he could be free of Utah by nightfall.

  * * *

  Friday night, and all day Saturday, Mickelle and Damon stayed at the hospital with Belle. The only change was for the worse when an infection set in. The antibiotics had halted the advance of the infection but didn’t seem able to get rid of it completely. Her life hung in the balance. The doctor had tried lowering her pain medication so she would awaken, but she exhibited such stress that he put her under once more.

  At least her abdomen had not filled again with blood—yet. That was another reason to keep her sleeping and unmoving while her organs healed. Only the monitors and the slight up-and-down motion of her chest showed that she still lived.

  Periodically Mickelle and Damon kissed or patted the soft, feverish cheeks, unmarred by the accident except for a small scrape by her left temple, and begged her to come back to them. The doctor told them that whether or not she awoke, either to say goodbye or to get better, would depend not only upon how quickly her internal injuries healed but how hard her spirit fought for survival.

  Mickelle knew Belle was a fighter. She always had been. But was she strong enough for this?

  They heard nothing from Jennie Anne’s kidnappers, though Mickelle’s parents had gone to Wolfe Estates with the boys to await a ransom note. The FBI and the police had turned up nothing except the brown van, deserted in Lehi a short distance from the freeway. Their phone was tapped, and an FBI agent had joined Stan in the basement, where he would be notified at once if anyone came close to the house.

  “You two need to go home and take a break,” Brionney said to Damon and Mickelle late Saturday afternoon. “Go home, take a shower, be with the kids, have a good dinner and sleep. I’ll stay right here with her. I have your cell number, and I’ll call you the instant anything happens.”

  Mickelle frowned at Damon’s haggard face. Her sister was right; he looked as though he hadn’t slept in a month. He needed rest. However, Damon shook his head. “No. Thanks anyway.”

  Brionney didn’t give up easily. “Go on home. Neither of you slept at all last night. The doctor said there wasn’t likely to be any change this evening, didn’t he? Until he lowered her medication. So come back in the morning. Then you’ll be ready to stay the whole day, to be here when she really needs you.”

  Damon shook his head again, and Mickelle knew exactly how he felt—that if they stopped focusing on her for one instant they would lose her.

  Like Jennie Anne.

  Damon cleared his throat. “The specialists I found—”

  “Won’t be here until tomorrow,” Brionney interrupted. “I know it’s hard to leave her, but I’ll take care of her.” She hesitated and added, “Mom called and told me the boys are really upset. She thinks they need to see you both home right now, if only for a while. Jeremy wet the bed last night.”

  The implication was clear: Jeremy always wet the bed when he was emotionally disturbed. Mickelle exchanged glances with Damon. She saw the suffering in his eyes . . . and something even worse—resignation. She knew he didn’t believe Belle would live. He rubbed a hand over his worn face and through his yellow hair. The lines around his eyes and on his cheeks seemed to have deepened overnight. “Okay,” he agreed finally. “We’ll go home for bit.” His eyes pinned Brionney’s. “But you must call us if there is even an insignificant change. Any change at all could be important.”

  “I will, I will. Don’t worry. I’ll guard her as though she’s my own.”

  Mickelle and Damon spoke little on the way home, but as they pulled into the garage, she put her hand on his. “There’s still hope, Damon. We must have hope.”

  He nodded and gripped her hand, pulling her to him as though he would never let her go. There was no passion in his intent, only an urgent need for comfort.

  Inside the house, the boys were waiting in the family room with Mickelle’s parents. Jeremy threw himself at her, and Tanner likewise went to Damon. Only Bryan continued to sit on the blue leather couch and stare at his hands. Mickelle settled Jeremy on the couch and sat between her sons. Tentatively, she placed her arm around Bryan’s shoulders. He turned and hugged her, quiet sobs shaking his body. Mickelle tightened her hold and rocked him gently.

  “Have you eaten yet?” asked Mickelle’s mother, her clear blue eyes showing concern. Her short, white hair was as carefully styled as ever, and her slender frame looked elegant in her black silk pantsuit, but there was an unmistakable sadness in the fine lines of her face. Mickelle hadn’t seen those for a long time, not since the day Mickelle had confessed to her about Riley’s abuse.

  “No, Mom, we haven’t.” Mickelle couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten, though she vaguely recalled a cheeseburger and a drink. She was hungry. But how could she eat under the circumstances?

  “Your father and I will get you something. Terrell?” Irene looked at her husband, who grasped Damon’s shoulder in a heartfelt gesture of sympathy before following Irene into the kitchen. Damon and Tanner settled o
n the love seat, legs touching, as though they needed to know the other was nearby.

  “Is Belle going to die?” Jeremy asked, squeezing even closer to Mickelle on the couch.

  Mickelle stroked his hair. “We don’t know yet.”

  “What does the doctor say?” Tanner asked.

  Mickelle saw the desire to protect his son in Damon’s eyes, but also the reluctance to lie to him. “He doesn’t know,” Damon said finally. “We have to wait and see.”

  Bryan stood abruptly, fists clenched. “This can’t be happening! Belle—Jennie Anne—it just can’t!”

  Before anyone could speak, he ran into the bathroom and slammed the door, locking it behind him. Jeremy began to cry, and Mickelle pulled him onto her lap. “It’s okay,” she soothed. “It’s okay.”

  “I want Jennie Anne,” he cried. “I want Belle.”

  “I know.” There was nothing she could do but rock him until he fell asleep in her arms. Then she laid him gently on the couch and pulled a blanket over him.

  Her parents brought a plate of food from the kitchen, and Mickelle was grateful because she felt too emotionally and physically exhausted to move. She’d taken only one bite when Stan and another man she didn’t know burst into the room. They were an incongruous pair, one dressed in jeans, the other in a dark suit.

  “Heads up,” Stan announced. “We’ve got company. Looks like a flower delivery, but it could be the ransom note.”

  The knots in Mickelle’s stomach doubled in size. “What should we do?”

  “Wait here,” the other man said. “We’ll take care of it. It may be nothing.”

  Mickelle set her food on the coffee table, her appetite vanished. Damon managed a few more mouthfuls before he also set his plate aside. They waited tensely.

  Mickelle’s mother settled on the arm of the couch where Mickelle sat next to the sleeping Jeremy. Her mother’s calm and stately presence in the midst of this entire crisis brought strength to Mickelle’s heart, for which she was grateful.

  Bryan came from the bathroom, his face red, but his emotions under control. He sat on the floor by the couch, as though afraid to be too close to Mickelle. She wasn’t offended because she felt the same way; each time she neared Damon, she wanted to collapse into a weeping bundle.