“I do not need your help.”
Even as the denial left her lips, she knew it was untrue. She had pushed herself too far in conditions that were too dangerous. She knew it, and Callum knew it.
Summoning every last drop of her strength, she wrenched one foot free of snow and placed it in front of her. All she had to do was repeat this process until she reached the shepherd’s hut, looming atop the hill she had so recently tumbled down.
“Stay clear of the ice,” Callum shouted.
She did not have the breath to vocalise her instinctive, angry response. Perchance that was a good thing. Beneath Frida’s wounded pride was a growing recognition that, without Callum, she may indeed come to harm. When she felt his hand on her back, steadying her, helping her, she did not allow herself to flinch away.
Slowly, laboriously, they managed the ascent. Callum went ahead of her to unfasten the door of the hut and haul it open. Despite herself, Frida was glad, for all feeling had left her fingers and she did not think she could have managed it.
Silently, he stood back to let her pass inside. It was such a relief to be inside, away from the falling snow and gusting wind, that Frida felt she may weep.
“Take off your cloak,” he ordered.
Her first instinct was to argue, but dimly she recalled the sense of his instruction. It was dark inside the hut, with snow piling up against the window and blocking out the one source of light. With fumbling fingers, she attempted to untie her laces whilst Callum strode over to the narrow store cupboard.
She couldn’t manage it and a wave of frustration almost brought her to tears. Callum was busying himself at the low wooden table, so he didn’t see her wobbling lip. Finally, a flare of light indicated he had found a tinder box and lit a taper. She breathed in the sharp scent with relief.
But her relief turned to embarrassment when he came over to her and untied the laces of her cloak in one quick movement. Her heavy cloak slumped to the floor and Callum handed her a coarse blanket.
“Dry yourself.”
His orders were delivered in the tone of a man to servant, and Frida bristled.
“I know well enough what to do,” she snapped, pulling the blanket over her shoulders. “I am not a child in need of constant instruction.”
He regarded her for a moment in the flickering candlelight, the shadows jumping between them.
“Very well,” he said.
Before Frida could react, Callum had walked over to the narrow door and disappeared out into the snow. She gazed at the spot with disbelief.
He had left her.
Her heart thudded with a mixture of adrenaline and disappointment.What should I do now? she wondered, before shaking the thought away and gathering herself up.
She must dry her hair, which was sending cold drips of melted snow down her neck and back. She must find out how many more candles were inside the cupboard. Mayhap she could even make a fire. She must somehow get herself warm and wait out the storm.
I do not need a man. Not even one called Callum Baine.
The hut smelled musty and the acrid smoke from the tallow candle made her eyes water, but Frida told herself this was comforting. Better by far than the disorienting torrent of white snow and icy wind outside.
A torrent which Callum was battling against right now.
So be it. He had left their shelter of his own volition. Perchance he was even now back at Ember Hall, warming hishands by a roaring fire. She pursed her lips at the thought, still unable to believe that he had left her here, alone.
She had told him that she did not need his help. But that didn’t mean she didn’twanthis help.
They were two different things, she realised, as she rubbed at her hair. And perchance she should have been more gracious towards him.
When she saw him next, she must thank him.
A commotion by the door made her startle. Callum barrelled through, looking like some great half-frozen man made of snow. In his arms he carried a small, bleating bundle.
“Gertrude!” Frida exclaimed, rushing forwards to take the lamb from him and wrap her in the blanket.
“Rub her all over,” Callum ordered. “She’s half frozen.”
