Ray Callahan trudged through the blizzard with Ellen Whitmore on his back, her skis clamped under one arm and her fair isle hat pressed against his shoulder. Snow came sideways in sheets, thick enough to erase the trail behind them. The red ski patrol parka with its plain white cross was stiff with ice at the collar. Under it, his grey wool sweater held what little warmth the mountain still allowed. His boots found the packed ridge of an old service path by memory more than sight. Each step was a negotiation with drift and wind. Ellen's arms were locked around his shoulders, not clinging so much as enduring, and her breath came warm against the side of his neck in small, determined bursts.
"I can walk, you know," Ellen said, her voice muffled against the fur of her white ski jacket.
He shouldered the cabin door open with the side of his boot and set her down carefully on the scrubbed pine floor. The room smelled of old cedar and cold ash. He kicked the door shut against the wind. Snow that had ridden in on their clothes began at once to melt in dark freckles on the boards.
"Not on that ankle you can't," Ray said.