Jama stared straight ahead and focused on breathing deeply. Jama never cried.

“Afterward,” Fran continued, “I realized that I’d been wishing for her to live out my dreams for her. I wasn’t wise enough to allow her to live her own. With all the other kids, I’d allowed them to find their own way, but Amy…she was different. I guess I identified with her more. I wanted her to have a happy life, and I was afraid she would burn out before she could find someone to share that life with.”

“Med school and residency are tough on a marriage,” Jama said. “We saw several of our friends divorce. Amy wanted to wait until she had more time to devote to someone else in her life.”

Jama still felt regret that she’d never been able to say a formal, final goodbye to Amy. She’d been in the hospital, too badly injured with a damaged spleen, collapsed lung and cracked ribs, to attend Amy’s funeral.

“I wonder what she would be doing now,” Fran said.

“She would be saving lives.”

There was grief in Fran’s hazel eyes. There was also a strong faith that Jama could never hope to emulate. How did a mother like Fran cope with the death of her daughter?

How many times had Jama wished that Fran had been her mother? Not just mother of her heart, but mother in reality.

And why, after all these years, was Jama recalling her own mother’s failings so often?

Jama braked at a light and turned left. She’d driven this route so many times…

“Jama,” Fran said softly.

“Yes.”

“You know worrying doesn’t help.”

Jama was so glad Fran couldn’t really read her mind at that moment. “I know.”

“Neither does brooding about the past.”

“Are you talking about yourself now? Sometimes we can’t control our thoughts.”

“I know. Sometimes we do it anyway, don’t we?”

“Yes.”

“Sometimes, maybe, it’s simply a way of honoring those we love,” Fran said. “A way of giving them space in our hearts. And you’re one of my kids. You have one of those places of honor in my heart.”

Jama negotiated a sharp curve as the pressure flooded her chest and worked its way up. Over the years of residency, she’d learned the important art of emotional detachment. She’d lost that skill for about a year after Amy’s death, but eventually it returned.

Until now.

For a long moment, Fran said nothing. Jama glanced over to find her staring out the window, and the pain in that brief glimpse was dark and hard-the harsh and ugly scars of a break in the earthly bonds of mother-daughter love that weren’t meant to be erased by time, or by faith. They were simply meant to be endured. At least, that was how Jama saw it.

“You were the sister Amy so desperately needed in her life,” Fran said at last. “As a middle child, with two older brothers who were into their own activities, and younger twin sisters who were inseparable, she sometimes felt left out, I’m afraid. If not for you, Amy would have had a much lonelier childhood.” Fran looked over at Jama. “And now you’re the one who’s alone.”

“Now who’s worrying?” Jama teased. It was time for a lighter mood.

Fran tapped her lips with her fingers. “Shame on me.”

“So to give you something different to ponder, what do you think about Zelda Benedict joining the staff at the clinic? She helped me with Monty this morning, and her skills are top-notch.”

Fran hesitated, and Jama caught a fleeting look of disappointment in her expression. For Fran, talking about her daughter was like bringing Amy back to life for at least a few moments. Painful as that was, it was as Fran said-those memories honored Amy’s life.

“There’s been no staff hired, yet,” Jama said. “Zelda still keeps her feet in the water doing PRN work. What do you think?”

It took a few seconds for Fran to switch gears. “You realize she’s not as young as she used to be. She can’t be on her feet all day.”

“Perhaps in a supervisory role. Teaching, maybe?”

“She smokes, Jama. That’s not good for the circulation.”

“One cigar a day?”

“I know, I know, she says she doesn’t inhale, but that’s a crock, and you know it. If she’s breathing the smoke that comes out of the cigar and her mouth, she’s inhaling, hon. Do you know how many years I harassed Monty to give up his pipe?”

Relieved, Jama engaged in the conversation that would keep them both occupied for the next few minutes. Fran had strong feelings about smoke, and she might have some good suggestions about staffing the clinic that should already be staffed. Jama took the reprieve gratefully.

Doriann sneezed, coughed, sneezed again, covering her mouth to keep from making noise. She’d slid to a stop at the bottom of the bank. Dirt covered her, filling her nose and mouth.

She spat and blew her nose into the mud. All kinds of bacteria were now inside her, maybe making their way to her brain.

She tried to get up, fell against a bush, scraped her arms, smacked her elbow on a rock and bit her tongue to keep from crying out.

She scrambled to the nearest tree and held her breath. She expected to hear the rustle of brush, the sound of footsteps, angry voices, and then to see Clancy and Deb peering over the edge of the bank at her.

Nothing.

For forever, she couldn’t bring herself to move from behind the tree. What if she was being tricked? Maybe the goons were just out of sight, rubbing their hands together, waiting for the right moment to jump out and then kill her. And they would probably torture her first.

How could Clancy and Deb not have heard the bank collapsing? She hadn’t screamed, but she’d coughed and choked and sneezed. How could that not have been heard?

For another few seconds she listened. She heard the trickle of a stream emptying into the river and the movements of a squirrel in the branches above her. As she continued to listen, she thought she heard Clancy’s angry shout in the distance, up the hillside.

Wow. Okay. So the sound of her fall hadn’t reached them. How implausible was that? Implausible? Yes, that was the word.

She turned to look out across the river, the bank only a few feet from where she stood. The water was light brown with mud this time of year from flooding in other states. Logs and limbs floated in it. All Doriann had to do was find someone on the river to call to, or to follow the river downstream to a town. If only Clancy hadn’t taken her cell phone, she could’ve used the GPS system and gotten out of here easily.

She knew that the forest along this part of the river didn’t have a lot of people living in it-Grandpa had said so, and he hunted in these forests.

Carefully, she wiped more mud from her face and out of her nose and mouth, then she crept through the trees toward the river’s edge. She stopped at a little stream that connected with the river and plunged her hands into the icy water. She splashed her face and rinsed her mouth, numbed by the coldness. She even snorted some up her nose. It stung and made her eyes water, but she felt cleaner.

Of course, Aunt Renee said there were all kinds of bacteria in the groundwater, too, so it was probably just as contaminated as the dirt, but at least it would wash the grit from between her teeth. Ick. Besides, she’d already been plunged into swamp water, so this couldn’t be any worse.

By the time Doriann stepped to the edge of the Missouri River, she realized something was missing. The Katy Trail. On this section of the river, the railroad that had been converted to a biking/hiking trail-stretching nearly all the way across the state of Missouri-was on the north side of the river, and it often appeared between the highway and the river. Mom and Dad brought her down to the trail a lot, when they could get away from work, and Doriann knew it well.

Unless the truck had plunged across the Katy Trail, it would be just on the other side of the highway that Doriann had managed to lose. But the sun was out, and she could search and find it.