She moved around the gray steer.
Nathan stared toward the herd, then counted again.
"116."
Hannah said nothing.
Nathan pointed at her.
"Don't."
"I haven't said anything."
"Your face did."
Near noon, they found three missing yearlings in a narrow draw where crusted snow had covered a shallow ditch.
One animal had broken through and struggled until its legs were packed tight against the frozen edge.
Nathan dismounted.
"Hold the horses."
He went down.
The yearling kicked weakly.
Nathan worked a rope around its shoulders, braced both boots, and pulled.
His size was useful.
Then Hannah watched him lean his entire weight into the rope until the animal slid free and stumbled upright.
But when Nathan straightened, one hand went immediately to his right shoulder.
Hannah saw it.
"You hurt yourself."
"No."
"You're holding your shoulder."
"Old injury."
"That means yes."
He rolled the arm once.
His face changed.
Not much.
Enough.
"Let's move."
The first snow began 20 minutes later.
Not flakes.
Fine, hard grains that stung Hannah's cheeks.
Nathan looked toward the ridge.
"We're going back."
Hannah shut the notebook.
The sky had disappeared behind gray.
They turned downhill.
Within half an hour, the trail they had followed up was nearly gone.
Wind came through the trees with a rising whistle.
Nathan slowed.
"We won't make Black Pine before dark."
Hannah looked at him.
"How far?"
"Line cabin above Cottonwood Draw. Maybe 2 miles."
"Maybe if I can still find the cut."
The light faded early beneath the storm.
They rode close now.
Nathan broke trail.
Hannah followed the dark shape of his coat through blowing snow.
Twice, Daisy stumbled.
The second time, Nathan reached back and caught Hannah's reins before the mare slid sideways.
His bad arm jerked.
He sucked in a breath.
Hannah heard it.
"Nathan."
"Keep moving."
The cabin appeared so suddenly, Hannah nearly rode past it.
One room, low roof, a stovepipe leaning slightly in the wind.
Nathan dismounted and forced the swollen door open with his shoulder.
Inside smelled of cold ash, pine boards, and old mouse droppings.
But it was shelter.
That was enough.
They got the horses into the small attached lean-to, rubbed them down, and carried the saddlebags inside.
Nathan knelt at the iron stove and worked a match beneath dry kindling stored in a tin box.
His fingers were stiff.
Hannah took over without asking.
Soon, a weak fire ticked behind the stove door.
The room slowly became less deadly.
There was one narrow bunk against the wall, one chair, one rough table, two wool blankets.
Nathan looked at the bunk, then at Hannah.
"You take it."
"No."
"I'll sit by the stove with that shoulder."
"Shoulder has nothing to do with sitting."
"Your teeth are chattering."
"They are not."
They were.
Hannah removed her wet gloves and set them near the stove.
"Nathan Cole, you are 6'7" of pure foolishness."
He looked offended.
"6'7"."
"Yes, that's what I said."
"You said it like an insult."