« Get up, » she told him, hauling on the collar of his sheepskin coat with both fists.
« Get up, you great lump, I can’t carry you. I’m 38 years old and I’ve got a bad back and you weigh more than my mule. »
The man in the snow groaned. He was long and lanky, covered in white, and one leg lay out at an angle that made Frieda’s stomach turn over.
Thirty yards back up the trail, his shivering horse held one foreleg off the ground.
« Ma’am, » the man said faintly. « I believe I’ve busted something. »
« I can see that. Can you stand on the other one? »
« I can surely try. »
Even half-frozen and in pain, he managed something almost like a grin with his very blue eyes.
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