crushed her—because she longed to have it too. “I think I need to start with finishing this race. It’s a dream I have chosen to pursue, and if we can accomplish what we set out to do when the odds seemed so against us in the beginning . . . well, that will give me hope. That maybe other things will turn out okay too.” Angela bit her lip at the implications.
She studied him. How she longed to trace the contours of his face with her fingers, draw him close, feel his lips on hers.
But one thing at a time.
“And then? When you’ve finished it?”
“I don’t know. But . . . I’m hopeful. For the first time in a long time, I can see that maybe dreams don’t have to end in disappointment.”
35
The Long March was aptly named. The team was only on mile twenty of fifty. To Eva, running seemed like a distant memory since they’d mostly walked today.
Actually, slogged seemed a more appropriate term.
The fading light of day as they crested a hill was proof of their slower pace, but they could make it up by continuing on through the night if need be. Based on Marc’s tightened features, Eva wasn’t the only one concerned about their slower speed.
And it was mostly her fault. Okay, all her fault. Funny, since at the start of all this it had seemed like Angela would be the one to hold them up. But Eva’s dumb ankle had given her a run for her money—no pun intended. Last night when she’d taken off her tape, she’d discovered her ankle swollen to nearly triple its size. Elevating and icing it as usual hadn’t seemed to keep her from discomfort all night long. And this morning it had looked just as bad, if not worse.
Now Eva couldn’t control a wince at the pain that ricocheted when she nearly tripped over a rock despite her death grip on her trekking poles.
“Whoa. You okay?” Marc steadied her, his brow knit together.
“Yeah. Fine.”
“Eva.” Angela stopped, so Eva and Marc were forced to as well. “Let me check your ankle.”
“We can do it at the next checkpoint.”
“That’s not for another four miles.” Marc squeezed her elbow. “It won’t take her long.”
Groaning, Eva lowered herself onto a large boulder. “All right. But quick. We’re already behind.” They were still in the mountains, and the terrain had grown quite rocky, not much plant life sprouting along the trail. Supposedly a valley with beech forest flats was coming up, but they had to fight their way to level ground first.
And then there was the sky. Ironic how it looked perfectly clear—in the opposite direction. They were headed right into a storm.
Angela squatted and rolled up Eva’s pant leg, pushing and prodding with care, asking Eva questions and then going silent. “We need to get ice at the next checkpoint. In fact, I’d suggest resting there overnight.”
Not what Eva wanted to hear. “I can keep going if I get a good icing.”
“That’s not how it works.” Angela pushed down Eva’s pant leg. “You’ve got to give your ankle adequate time to rest.”
Eva read between Angela’s words—that they never should have done this. When Eva got injured, she should have canceled the race.
But she never would have forgiven herself for the missed opportunity. And she knew that, despite the odds, Angela felt the same way. It had simply taken her sister-in-law longer to come around to the idea.
They may have started out doing this for their husbands and family, but somewhere along the way it had also become about them. About fighting for a new life that didn’t have to end with the tragedy that had overtaken them. About finding joy in the journey.
But for them to find all of that, they had to finish. Quitting now would be like seeing a vibrant new vista on the horizon but never climbing to the zenith.
“How about we see how Eva is doing at the checkpoint and decide then?” Marc eyed the sky. “I have a feeling the ankle is not going to be our only challenge tonight.”
Just then a raindrop hit Eva’s forehead. She nodded, then stood.
They started walking again in a light drizzle that soon became a torrential downpour. Eva drew her beanie down over her ears and tugged on a pair of black fleece gloves. The rain kept coming. Funny how the steady pounding that she would have considered rhythmic and soothing if she were inside her tent now felt like knives