"Stay closer," I tell her, my voice rough. "The trail gets narrow up ahead."
We push forward into the teeth of the storm. The snow is coming down so hard now that I can barely see the familiar landmarks I use to navigate.
The old lightning-split oak that marks the halfway point appears out of the white like a specter, its bare branches reaching toward us like gnarled fingers.
"Stay right behind me," I call back. "Don't deviate from my path."
Every few steps I hear her breathing, the whisper of her movement through the snow, the occasional soft sound she makes when she has to push through a particularly deep drift.
The trail dips downward here, following the curve of a frozen creek bed. In good weather, it's an easy walk. In this storm, with ice hidden under fresh snow and the wind trying to push us off balance, it's treacherous as hell.
I take each step carefully, testing the ground before committing my full weight. Behind me, she mimics my movements with surprising grace for someone who clearly doesn't belong out here. She's learning, adapting, which is smarter than I expected.
"There's ice under the snow here," I warn, feeling my boot slide slightly on a hidden patch. "Watch your—"
The warning comes too late. I hear her foot hit the same slick spot, hear her sharp cry of alarm as she goes down hard. I spin around to find her on her hands and knees in the snow, her camera flung to one side, dark hair spilling from beneath her wool hat.
"Shit." I'm beside her in two strides, my hands on her shoulders before she can try to get up on her own. "You hurt?"
She pushes herself up to sitting, wincing slightly as she tests her weight on her left wrist. Snow clings to her coat, her jeans, the side of her face where she hit the ground.
"I'm okay," she says, but her voice shakes slightly. "Just bruised my pride more than anything."
I help her to her feet, my hands spanning her waist as I lift her easily from the snow. For a moment she's pressed against me, her body soft and warm despite the cold, and I have to force myself to step back before I do something stupid like pull her closer.
"Can you walk?" I ask, scanning her for signs of real injury.
She takes a tentative step, then another. "Yeah. I'm fine."
Her camera lies in the snow a few feet away, and I watch her face crumple slightly as she sees it. The lens cap has come off, and snow is already beginning to accumulate on the exposed glass.
"My camera," she whispers.
I retrieve it for her, brushing off the snow and checking for obvious damage. The body seems intact, though I can't speak to the electronics. "Looks okay. But we need to get it dried off."
She takes it from me with hands that are definitely trembling now, cradling it against her chest. "Thank you."
The wind howls through the trees above us, shaking loose more snow and ice. A branch cracks somewhere in the distance, the sound sharp as a gunshot. The storm is getting worse by the minute, and we're still ten minutes from the cabin.
"We need to move," I tell her. "Can you make it the rest of the way?"
She looks up at me through snow-crusted lashes, her dark eyes fierce despite the exhaustion I can read in every line of her body. "I said I'm fine."
I turn back toward the trail. "Stay close. We're almost there."
The last stretch is the worst. Snow whips horizontally through the trees, stinging any exposed skin and making it nearly impossible to see more than a few feet ahead.
When the dark outline of my cabin finally emerges from the swirling snow, I actually hear her sob with relief.
"There," I say, pointing through the storm. "That's home."
She looks up at the rustic structure and for the first time since I found her, she smiles.
"It's beautiful," she breathes.
The porch steps are already buried under drifting snow, and I have to kick through it to clear a path to the door. Behind me, she stumbles slightly as she climbs the steps, and without thinking, I reach back to steady her.
This time, when my hand closes around her arm, I don't let go.
