He knelt and wrapped her ankle with a strip of clean cotton from the first-aid kit he kept on the shelf above the stove. His hands were careful, the sort of careful that came from years of doing this for strangers on steep snow. He checked the pulse at her foot, asked her to flex, watched her face for the flinch that would tell him more than any answer.
"Do you rescue women every Christmas?" Ellen asked.
Ray, with a hint of a smile: "Mostly moose. You're more polite."
She laughed—a short, surprised sound that loosened something in the cold air—and pulled a tiny wrapped gift from her pocket. The paper was crumpled from the fall, silver foil with a thin red ribbon that had gone damp and dark.