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“We gotta run, and you can’t on the ankle.” He bent over like he did when we practiced our wife carrying technique.
“Remy, what are you thinking?”
“Hazel, do it now. We’ve trained for this. You know how to be the jockey. Keep close, and I’ll get us out of here.”
“I don’t know—”
He grabbed my shoulders and regarded me with more intensity than I’d ever seen from him. “I’ve got you. You’re gonna hop on my back, and we’ll put as much distance between us and the men with guns as we possibly can. Don’t be afraid. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
His face was so earnest and determined. And for the first time in my life, I felt truly protected.
He bent down, and I grabbed his waist, letting my legs, including my swollen, throbbing ankle, rest on his shoulders.
And then he took off. Running faster than I had ever seen him run, through the forest, over tree roots and around brambles. He was so fast and so quiet.
Shouts echoed in the distance, and Remy picked up the pace. The distinct sound of shots rang out, startling me and sending my full body into panic mode.
“Stay focused, Hazel,” Remy said, panting. “You need to hold on and work with me. We’re getting out of here.”
I tucked my head against his lower back, clinging to him with all my strength and focusing on his body, anticipating his movements and shifting my weight accordingly. When he prepared to jump over tree roots, I could feel it. Before he banked to veer around boulders or engaged his core to accelerate down hills, I could sense it. It was exactly as we practiced. Feeling his muscles move, feeling his body work.
I blocked out the sounds around us. The engines, the voices, and the gunshots. Instead focusing solely on my husband. We were a team. And we had to move as one.
Eventually, Remy slowed, and I took a few deep breaths, listening for any signs of danger.
But aside from bird calls and crunching leaves, it was quiet. We hit a few muddy spots, and some larger hills, but from what I could tell, we were alone. We had lost them.
When he finally put me down, pulling me close and kissing my head, my tears flowed freely.
“Remy,” I cried, clutching his shirt.
“Not now, babe,” he said, rubbing my arms. “Let’s get the map and figure out where we are.”
I got my compass, and he pulled the map from his pack. Together, we determined where we had been, the approximate distance we had traveled, and how far we were from the lake.
“Mathematically, we know you run at roughly a seven-minute mile pace, and we went due east off the trail and then south. So we should be about a mile from Lake Millinocket, if we continue.”
He scrunched his nose up. “How are you this good at navigation?”
I shrugged. “It’s just math, and I’m a Mainer. The woods have been my backyard for most of my life. I may not be a big tough lumberjack like you”—I smirked—“but I get by.”
“Oh, you do more than get by.”
We reached Lake Millinocket just as the sun touched the horizon. Remy used the sat phone to contact Henri, who promised they had a float plane coming to get us. Where they’d tracked down a plane was a mystery, but I wouldn’t question my means of rescue.
There was a dock on the lake with the most gorgeous view of the sunset over the dark water and mountaintops. Remy and I sat shoulder to shoulder on the wood planks, our legs dangling and his arm around me, waiting for our ride home.
And I finally let out a breath. We were safe.
I examined his profile—his sharp jaw, his thick beard, and those cheekbones, tan with a few freckles from days spent in the sun—and I was done for.
He had saved me. Protected me. And right there on that dock, the last few bricks fell, my protective walls finally crumbling under the weight of my love for this man.
Chapter40
Remy
We were met back in Lovewell by dozens of law enforcement officers and most of the town.
