Jarret, although he held to his promise of not making allowances for Rennie, was more inclined to ask rather than order. Rennie rode abreast of him often, no longer wary of interjecting the occasional question. The journey had become something to be shared and would never be remembered from the framework of a single person's recollection or viewpoint. They rode on opposite sides of a narrow, rushing stream with the packhorse following Jarret. The run of icy water was a steady and pleasant whisper in their ears, interrupted only by the crunch of snow beneath the horses' hooves. There was almost no wind. The air was dry and bitterly cold, and the sun offered light, but little in the way of warmth. By the time Jarret decided to stop for the afternoon meal, Rennie felt as if she'd been riding for days. They sought shelter in the shadowed adit of an abandoned mine. Icicles hung like a fringe of crystal beads from the entrance beam. Rennie ducked beneath them to enter; Jarret broke them off.
