“Aye, there's only one way in,” Hamish reminded him mercilessly. “Ye saw the map for yourself.”

The urge to turn around, to go away while he could, swept over him.

Rutledge swore. He didn't need Hamish to remind him that he was a serving policeman. That there was duty to be done. God knew he'd done it in France. At what cost to himself and to others…

“I can't change it,” he said aloud. “I can't build new roads.” Swallowing hard against the panic, he told himself, Tomorrow when the sun is out, it will be different. Please God, I can carry on until then And then the rough roadbed demanded all his attention, wiping out every other thought.

He drove on, tense, watchful.

The fingerpost offering directions at the next turning had been shifted by the wind, leaning at an odd angle and pointing skyward. But instinct told him he'd found the right place. The track rose and fell with the land, forged by centuries of traffic: hooves of countless flocks, cart wheels, shod feet. He prayed the sheep had been penned up before the storm. Or were hunkered down among the rocks where they could find shelter, out of the cruel wind. They were allowed to roam freely, sometimes clogging the roads, and tonight they would be nearly invisible until he had driven straight into their midst. Even a single animal on these icy tracks could spell disaster for a motorcar.

Herdwicks were a sturdy breed, well suited to the fells, and could survive without fodder all winter, scratching for their own sustenance. Since the time of Edward I, a thriving weaving business had made the North famous. The coarse, wiry fleece yielded a variety of cloth.