Tulla Snow had three days to find a gift for the man who had carried her off the mountain, and every shop in Lonesummit had failed her. She stood on the packed snow of the town square, hands stuffed in the pockets of her blue and white jacket, and counted what she had left: a small purse, a bad idea about knitting a scarf, and no clue what a mountaineer actually wanted. Her rescuer had pulled her out of a blizzard on the highest peak two weeks ago. He had said his name once, given her hot tea, and told her to be more careful. She wanted to see him again. She could not show up with nothing. A cart of dried meat blocked the lane. She stepped around it and nearly walked into a blond man crouched beside a sled, tightening a strap with his teeth. His green eyes flicked up. A skinning knife hung at his belt, and two hares were lashed behind him. "Watch the runners," he said around the strap. He spat it out and stood. "You're the girl he pulled off the ridge." Tulla's face went hot. "You know him." "Since we were ten." He wiped his hands on his pants. "Alaric. He talks about that rescue like it was nothing. Means it wasn't." She swallowed. "I'm trying to thank him. Everything in the shops feels wrong. Rope. Gloves. He has all that." Alaric squinted at her, then at the mountains past the rooftops. "Don't buy him gear. He'll grade it and put it in a drawer." "Then what." "He climbs six days a week. On the seventh he sits in his cabin and stares at the wall." Alaric shouldered his sled rope. "There's a set of hot springs an hour east. Stone pools, quiet, no one goes in winter because the trail ices. He mentioned it last spring and never went back." "I can't give someone a hot spring." "You give him the trip. Pack a lunch. Clear the trail yourself so he knows you did the work." He almost smiled. "He notices work." Tulla thought about the iced trail, her short legs, one afternoon of light. "That's a lot for a thank-you." "You asked." She nodded slowly. It was better than a scarf. It was better than anything folded in tissue paper. "East trail. An hour." "Past the split pine. Bring a hatchet for the ice." Alaric picked up his sled handles. "And Tulla. He said your name twice when he got back. He only does that when something sticks." He walked off before she could answer. Tulla stood in the churned snow, the plan settling into her chest like a stone she could carry. She turned toward the outfitter's for a hatchet and a lunch tin. The gift was decided. Now she had a frozen trail to beat open before sundown tomorrow.