He took the empty cup from her, replaced it on the Thermos, and set it back in the floor of the car under his feet. Fumbling in the rear, without looking in the direction where Hamish always seemed to be sitting, he could feel the fringe of his rug, and he set that in his seat as well.

Going back for the woman, he asked, “Can you walk as far as the car?”

But she was looking back down into the darkness. “My horse-we must do something-I see him there-”

“I'm afraid the horse is dead.”

“Oh-a pity-” She went with him docilely then, and with his help was able to lift herself into the high seat. Her own rug was damp with snow, but he left it around her, and added his to cover her.

Hamish said, “She's lost more warmth than she can make.”

It was true. Rutledge gave her a little more of the tea, and finally, with great difficulty, got her into his arms, and himself into the passenger's seat.

She lay against his chest quivering, and he could see the tears of pain running down her face.

“I must get you somewhere with a fire. I don't know how far that will be. But first, we've got to make some headway in warming you up.”

It took another ten minutes to stop the most violent shivers, and then she seemed to fall asleep against him. He woke her, urging her to fight the cold.

More tea, and then he set her back where she belonged, and took off the brake.

“We can't wait any longer. Talk to me,” he commanded. “I don't care what you say, nonsense if you like. Verse. Songs. But talk. Concentrate on that, not the pain.”

“I never knew it could hurt so to breathe,” she said finally. “I can only-”