Bessie tightened her grip beneath Amos’s arms and pulled again.
The storm swallowed every sound except the scrape of boots, the drag of Amos’s body, and the hard breathing coming from both of them. Snow buried their tracks almost as quickly as they were made.
Amos tried to push with his good leg, but the effort sent another wave of pain through him.
“Bessie,” he gasped. “You’ll kill yourself doing this.”
“Then stop making yourself heavier by arguing.”
For a moment, even through the pain, Amos almost laughed.
Then his eyes dropped to the broken rifle lashed against his leg. The binding had loosened. His shattered bone was no longer held firmly in place.
“Wait.”
Bessie stopped.
Amos pointed toward the splint. “It’s slipping.”
She lowered him carefully into the snow and knelt beside his leg. Her fingers were stiff with cold, but she worked the soaked cloth loose and rebuilt the binding with a strip torn from her wool garment.
Amos watched her in silence.
“You know what happens if that breaks completely?” he asked.
“I can guess.”
“You could lose me before we reach the cabin.”
Bessie pulled the knot tight.
“You’re not dying out here.”
It was not a plea. It was a decision.
Amos looked at her face, nearly hidden beneath frost-covered hair.
“You should have stayed inside.”
“And let the man who gave me a home freeze to death?”
He had no answer.
Bessie hauled him upright again.
The mountain seemed determined to make her pay for every yard. The slope grew steeper. Snow reached above her boots. Her shoulders burned so badly that she could barely feel them anymore.
Still, she pulled.
At last, a faint orange glow appeared through the white.
The cabin.
Bessie nearly collapsed from relief, but she kept hold of Amos until they reached the door.
She dragged him across the threshold and shut out the storm.
Inside, she worked quickly. Fire first. Then blankets. Then water warmed on the stove. Amos drifted in and out while Bessie cleaned the wound and kept the fire alive.
By morning, his fever had begun.
For three days, Bessie barely slept.
She fed him broth one spoonful at a time, changed his bandages, melted snow for water, and kept adding wood whenever the fire weakened. The same hands the miners had mocked for being too large now kept a wounded man alive.
On the fourth morning, Amos opened his eyes.
Bessie was asleep in the chair beside the stove.
He stared at her for a long moment.
Then he noticed something on the table.
The last of their flour.
There was almost none left.
Their meat stores were lower too. The storm had trapped them, and the pass would remain buried for weeks.
Amos tried to sit up.
“We need to ration.”
Bessie woke immediately.
“I know.”
“You need to eat less.”
The words landed badly.
Bessie went still.
Amos saw her expression and shook his head.
“Not because of your size.”
He pointed toward the supplies.
“Because winter doesn’t care who deserves what.”
Bessie looked at the shelves.
For the first time since arriving at the cabin, she understood the real problem.
Saving Amos had cost them precious food.
Now they had to survive the rest of the winter with a wounded hunter, dwindling supplies, and no way down the mountain.
Amos could no longer hunt.
So Bessie would have to.
The next morning, she took his rifle and stepped outside.
She had spent years being told what her body could not do.
Now the mountain was about to find out what it could.
