Page 4 of Marked by the Mountain Man

I take another frantic breath, a current sweeping me beneath the surface of the water for what feels like excruciating minutes. My lungs ache and beg for air. I press my lips tightly together, heart thudding.

Suddenly, the freight train roaring around me slows, and my head pops above the water. I gasp greedily, thanking God for this respite.

Violent tremors rock my core, though I’m so numb I barely feel anything. In the distance, the river chokes itself off again, tightening and accelerating. I must push to the opposite bank now, or I’m done for.

My dad’s voice fills my ears. “You’ve got this, Sunshine. Just keep putting one hand in front of the other.” I feel his strong, calming presence, urging me toward the bank.

Coughing and sputtering, I swim harder, concentrating every ounce of strength and focus on reaching the shore. I have to. The water picks up speed again, my one shot slipping through my fingers.

No, I can’t do this to Mom. I can’t go like this … like Dad.

I cling to the first branch I grasp, praising God as my body stops in the water. But it loosens under my weight as I dip lower in the current, waving like a dry leaf on a dead branch. Digging deep, to the bottom of my being, I crawl up the debris, grasping a nearby boulder and rough roots as the wood gives way, floating past.

Chattering teeth. Raw fingers. Sheer exhaustion. An unintelligible blur follows, black threatening to overtake my vision.

Until finally …finally, I lie in rough-grained sand. I inhale dirt facedown, before gathering enough energy to tilt my head to the side. A great waterlogged mass, I shiver and struggle against receding consciousness, my legs still half-submerged in the water.

Chapter Three

HUDSON

Gunfire echoes in my ears as I reach the spot in the guard railing where a great gaping hole announces my worst fear. I run a hand through my hair, staring at the raging rapids below, the Lincoln already down the river so far I can’t see it.

“Call search and rescue and the coroner’s office,” Officer Maywell grumbles to the deputy standing next to him.

Coroner’s office?The words slam around in my brain, but I can’t grasp them.

“You called in the abduction?” Maywell questions me as I eye the other guy’s name badge. Officer Brooks. Both look resigned to some obvious fate I refuse to accept.

“But aren’t you going down there? The woman,” I scream, shaking my head. I don’t know if it’s creeping cowardice or abject laziness, but their indifferent faces provide a wordless answer.

Sprinting back towards my motorcycle, I ignore their hollering. “Wait, we need to get your statement.”

“I’ll come by the office. Steph can vouch for me,” I roar, starting the engine and racing off. I need to get down there as fast as possible, mentally calculating where the car may havebeen swept by the river. A storm’s moving in with flash flooding alerts. The timing couldn’t be worse. Yet, I pray that somehow Hadleigh made it out of the car before the falls.

Pulling off at the closest trailhead, providing access to the raging river below, I grab the bugout bag I always keep with me for emergencies. Unrolling and filling it with the provisions from my saddlebags and my firearm, I sprint into the woods.

I clench my teeth as I race to the edge of the gorge, spying fast rapids below. Sheer cliff on both sides greets me as I scan the angry, gray, white-capped water. My stomach drops.

How in the fuck could she possibly survive this?

Ignoring the fatalistic thought, I follow the edge of the steep canyon downhill, scanning the water for signs of the car, the men, or the girl. Looking back over my shoulder, I visualize where they must’ve dropped down, smashing onto a bed of giant, jutting rocks before the river seized the Lincoln.

Who am I kidding? Her odds of survival are minuscule.

But I can’t stop, driven by the stunning blonde’s haunting last look through the back window of the SUV, palms pressed against the glass.

I’ve only lived in Northern Idaho for the past year, but regular forest parcours pays off as I find footing where none appears to exist, dropping into the bottom and coming to a stop a few feet from the rapids. I immediately regret the loss of my bird’s-eye view as the enormity of the untamed landscape crushes me.

Hadleigh’s a needle in a vast, unending haystack. I trek along the riverbank, surveying the surrounding landscape. I move as fast as I can, well aware that the Corsair likely barreled down this waterway at a breakneck pace, far faster than I travel. “Come on, Hadleigh. You have to make it. You have to survive.”

I’m no nostalgic fool, and I’m the last guy on the planet to believe in love at first sight. Any sentimentality that remained inme after my fucked up childhood was beaten out in the Corps and overseas.

Nevertheless, what I felt the first time I looked at Hadleigh is inexplicable yet tangible. Supernatural and otherworldly. I can’t stop until I find her.

The water slows up ahead as the river widens, and the trail I follow vanishes. I’ll have to rock climb to continue following the river, staring at the nauseating precipice in front of me. If I had the right shoes and gear, I wouldn’t hesitate. But my motorcycle boots, bugout bag, Wranglers, black, pinstriped, button-down shirt, and leather jacket? Everything about this screams disaster.

Surveying the breadth of the water, its deafening roar fills my ears as I weigh my options. I could wait for search and rescue. But the menacing storm clouds overhead tell me I’m running out of time. I could scramble back up the trail I just descended for better views of the overall terrain. But precious minutes would be lost. Or I could find a precarious vantage point to better assess my situation.

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