He wanted very much to see her again. Two weeks had seemed an eternity. Unconsciously, he urged his horse on, only to ease back firmly on the reins as he felt one hoof slip on the snow. He cursed again and passed one gloved hand across his eyes in a vain effort to shake off the glare that made them ache with a sharp pain. He would be lucky to find anywhere to spend the night. He would probably be found dead of exposure a week or so from now when the snow finally melted, he thought wryly. He slid reluctantly from his horse's back and took a firm hold of the reins close to the bit. He could not risk either his horse's or his own safety any longer by riding.

The snow was disconcertingly deep. His boots sank immediately above the ankles. As he waded on, he was soon in almost to his knees. It was impossible to tell where the road was or in which direction he walked. What a fool he had been! Even if old Horace's reasoning that morning had been somewhat unbelievable, the evidence of his own senses as the afternoon progressed should have been enough. He had seen those clouds gathering, had recognized the signs. He had passed through two villages after realizing that a storm was on the way. But he had refused to acknowledge the message of his own brain. And here he was, a prize idiot, in the middle of nowhere, becoming increasingly aware of the real danger of his situation.

At the moment when he admitted this final thought, he jerked his eyes back to the spot that they had just passed. Had he really seen a light, or was his anxiety causing him hallucinations? He held on to the reins with an iron hand as his horse snorted and tried to toss its head in protest against the irritation of the snow. He narrowed his eyes and gazed intently. He sagged with relief when the light once again appeared through the driving snow, small but steady. A house. It must come from a house.