He carried her inside and laid her on his bed, the only bed, near the fire. Her clothes were stiff with ice. Her skin was so cold it made his hands ache.
He set another log on the fire and watched the flames catch, then he knelt by the bed and pulled off her boots.
Or tried to.
They were frozen tight, leather stiff, laces crusted. He worked them loose carefully, because her feet looked like river rocks—icy and mottled—and he didn’t want to tear skin that already seemed too close to breaking.
When the boots finally came off, he wrapped her feet in a blanket and rubbed her toes through the fabric until he felt the faintest hint of warmth returning.
She stirred.
A soft sound in the back of her throat.
Eli reached for a kettle and poured water, set it on the fire. Broth would take longer, but water was faster. Warmth was the first fight.
He glanced back at the girl.
Her dress was soaked through, heavy with melted snow, clinging to her like wet hide. That kind of cloth would steal heat faster than the wind.
