"Part of the year. Patrol season. The rest of the time I work trail maintenance out of Durango." He sat on the other chair, close enough that the blanket covered both their legs. Heat moved between them in slow increments. "This place belongs to the Forest Service on paper. Old temporary shelter from the thirties, built when they still thought a man with a saw and a mule could outargue winter. They let patrol use it when the weather turns like this."
"And tonight it turned."
"Tonight it turned," he agreed. He sipped the tea and grimaced politely at its weakness. "I saw your tracks going up after the visibility dropped. One set. No return line. That's the kind of arithmetic that gets me out of a warm truck."