Ulric heaved a sigh and rested his forehead against the rough wood of the barn door. What was wrong with him? Why had he said such awful things? Nora was right; he wasn't the only one suffering from Father's loss.

Perhaps he ought to apologize. He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a minute and searched for the right words to express what he wanted to say accurately, but ultimately, he decided against it.

His emotions could not be trusted right now. Breaking down in front of them was the last thing he wanted to do. Maybe later, when his grief wasn't so close to the surface, he'd give it a try. With the matter settled, he rolled the barn door open but froze after only stepping inside. Prickles of warning danced across his skin.

A lantern on the work table at the back of the barn glowed. Ulric frowned, positive it hadn't been there earlier. Wasp, Barnaby, Toots, and Father's painted gelding named Bart poked their heads over their stall doors and stared at him. However, instead of greeting him as usual, they were abnormally quiet and still.

He took a few steps into the building and glanced around, taking a mental inventory of the barn with each step. Was there anything out of place? Could one of his brothers have left the lantern in the barn? A frown creased his brow when he stopped at Toots' stall, barely within the outer reaches of warm amber light cast by the lantern.

Everything appeared to be in its proper place, yet the hairs on the back of his neck remained prickled in unease. He returned to the front of the barn, put the shovel away, and hung the ropes up, taking care to make as little noise as possible. Where did the threat hide?

The wind howled outside with greater intensity, rattling the window panes and blowing shards of ice and snow through the open door. Ulric pulled it closed to minimize the outside noise and prohibit whatever was hiding from escaping.

Five minutes passed before his patience was rewarded by hay rustling near the back, followed by a soft sniffling cough. Frowning, he crept soundlessly past the horses to the only empty stall and stared at the woman huddled in the corner, attempting to stand on wobbly legs.

There was only one woman he'd ever had the misfortune of meeting who had pale blonde hair the color of silver moonlight. Like a soft beacon in the dark, it glowed and proclaimed her identity even with her face hidden in shadow.

His heart thudded against his ribs and constricted painfully before racing at the sight of her. He'd honestly believed he would never see her again. Were his grief and loneliness causing a hallucination? Was he that desperate?

Torn between wanting to turn and run or go to her and plead she give him a chance to prove that, just like his brothers, he was worthy of love; he stared at her. The pain of her rejection crippled him the longer he stood there, remembering their passionate kiss at Briarwood. Holding her in his arms for those few moments had given him a glimpse of heaven, an experience he yearned to have again.

But he wouldn't beg for affection from a woman who had no desire to bestow it upon him, and he absolutely would not show how deeply Ingrid had wounded him.

He crossed his arms over his chest, braced his feet wide, and demanded with an unyielding tone, "What are you doing here?"

She took two halting steps toward him, "Help me..." The words slurred their way past frozen and cracked lips while shivers wracked her body. She wore what appeared to be the same nightgown, albeit more stained than he remembered it being the night they'd met at Briarwood, and ratty old shoes that had seen better days.

The tattered and billowy sleeves reached to her elbows, the neckline hung low and crooked, exposing her right shoulder, and the torn hem hung heavy with mud. Altogether, it was inadequate protection against the frigid winter conditions she had been subject to since running away.

She reached out toward him, swaying and bumping against the stall wall as her heavy-lidded eyes met his gaze, "P-please... h-help..." The last word stumbled free of her mouth, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed.

Ulric rushed forward and knelt at her side, pressing fingers under her chin. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs, and breath lodged in his throat until he found her weak but steady pulse. A ragged sigh escaped his lips; however, worry over the coldness of her skin quickly dampened his relief.

Muttering a curse under his breath, he ran to the nearest one of Mother's storage trunks lining the far wall and threw it open. He tossed several old pots aside and continued digging until he found a quilt at the bottom. He tucked it under his arm, picked up one of the wool saddle blankets from the workbench, and wrapped them around Ingrid before picking her up.

He must get her to the house as quickly as possible. Esmund would know what to do beyond getting her warm; he was forever reading one book or another. Surely, somewhere along the way, he'd read what to do in a situation such as this.

Ingrid mumbled unintelligibly as her head lolled against his shoulder, but she didn't wake.

"Don't you die on me," Ulric mumbled, racing to the door. He adjusted her within his grasp, used his foot and right shoulder to push it open, and then skidded to a sudden stop with a curse.

Hopefully, everyone else had already made it back because the storm he'd seen coming had arrived sooner than he'd thought and turned into a full-blown blizzard, hitting in full force and obliterating any view of the house.

It would be foolish to venture out—he knew of men and women who'd died while in similar conditions, but would it be even more dangerous for Ingrid if they remained in the barn? He glanced down at the unconscious woman in his arms and then back out at the swirling white void.

Hissing another curse, this one chock full of all the panic and frustration flooding him at the moment, he closed the door and returned to the empty stall he'd found her in. What was he going to do now? Over the past few days, while preparing for the funeral, a heap of hay in the far corner gave Ulric and his brothers quick access for feeding the horses; now, it served another purpose. Ulric kicked tufts of the loose stuff together and shaped it into a makeshift bed.

Next came two wool saddle blankets, which he threw over the mound before laying Ingrid down with tender care. He rearranged the quilt and saddle blanket he'd wrapped around her earlier, rushed to the potbellied stove in what served as the tack room, and stoked a warm blaze to life.

Without knowing how long the blizzard would strand them in the barn, staying warm and finding food became Ulric's top two priorities.

Glancing at Ingrid over his shoulder, he searched through each saddlebag in attendance for any morsels of hardtack and jerky he could find and dumped them on the workbench. Moments later, he viewed the pitiful provisions and clucked his tongue.

They'd be lucky if they had enough food to last through the rest of the day let alone however long the blizzard raged on. Rubbing his hands over his face, he scratched his head and blew out a frustrated breath.

Why hadn't he taken a moment to grab more substantial fare before escaping to the barn? "Because I wasn't planning on waiting out the blizzard in here." Realizing he had just answered himself aloud, he muttered another curse and knelt again at Ingrid's side.

He touched the exposed skin of her cheeks, neck, and shoulders and grew worried when she appeared even colder than before. She needed to get warm soon, or death was liable to take her before the night was through.

Ulric tucked the blankets more securely around her but pulled back with a curse. The left side of her nightgown was drenched. He growled and muttered a string of expletives as he sat back on his heels, staring at her face.

There was no doubt of what he needed to do to save her. He may not be as book smart as Esmund, but he knew wet clothes worn in frigid weather led to death if not removed quickly enough and the body warmed.

However, knowing this brought little comfort to the awkward circumstance he now found himself in. He rubbed the back of his neck and clenched his eyes shut. Why was he the one who had to find her?

What he wouldn't give to have Elsie or Nora nearby to handle this blasted situation. Ingrid didn't even like him, for hell's sake. How was she going to react when she found out he was the one who had undressed her to keep her alive? Would she scream at him? Hit him?

No. He'd only met her three days ago and already knew Ingrid wouldn't react in such a vocal way. She would say nothing and disappear once more.

He could handle the screaming and hitting—he would prefer it if he were honest. Anything was better than facing the continued disdain and silence Ingrid had shown him thus far. Regardless of her reaction, he couldn't allow the pain of her rejection to keep him at bay.

She may not want anything to do with him, but she was now his mate whether she understood what had happened between them at Briarwood. And he—Ulric took a deep breath and ground his teeth—was physically incapable of standing by and watching her suffer a second longer.

Flexing his hands before moving the blanket aside, he steeled himself against the wave of longing that gripped him when he sat her up and cradled her in his arms. His heart thudded against his chest as he removed her nightgown as quickly as the sodden garment would allow.

He clenched his eyes shut to help her maintain her modesty and preserve his sanity and wrapped the quilt and saddle blanket around her once more before gently laying her down.

That chore completed, Ulric heaved a sigh of relief and strode to the potbellied stove just to put some distance between them. He stoked the fire and added more wood, surprised to find his hands trembled.

What was wrong with him? It was a question he had repeated thousands of times within the past two months, ever since Gunnar had announced he was resigning, to be exact.

Ulric's carefully constructed world had crumbled around him with the news, plunging him into a pattern of alienating behavior toward his family to safeguard his heart. The worst part was that while Father hadn't known all the reasons guiding his actions, he'd had a rough understanding of why; now he was gone.

The only good thing about his current predicament was his brothers weren't here to witness how thoroughly Ingrid could disconcert him, even while unconscious. He closed the stove, rubbed his hands over his face and bald head, and turned to look at his mate.

How long would it take for her to get warm? Had he done enough to save her? Perhaps he ought to ensure her current situation was satisfactory. He scoffed at the weak excuse and checked on her anyway.

She didn't stir as he knelt at her side and touched her cheeks and shoulders. Her temperature proved unchanged. He lifted the bottom of the blanket and felt her lower leg. His gut twisted, his heart raced with alarm, and his mouth became dry. She was still too cold. Had his efforts been too little too late? What else could he do to warm her besides what he'd already tried?

Ulric chewed the inside of his cheek and wracked his brain. If only Esmund were here. He would know what to do to save Ingrid. Maybe, if he tried to think like Esmund, an idea would spark to life, and—and there it was. He wanted to shout in jubilation!

Until the age of fifteen, he and his brothers had shared a bed. Every morning, even in winter, they would complain of how overly warm they'd been through the night. After one too many hot nights, eleven-year-old Esmund had decided enough was enough.

Metal scraped and clanged, waking Ulric from a fitful night's sleep. Pushing up onto his elbows, he glared at the source of the clamor. "What in holy blazes are you doing, Esmund? I'm trying to sleep."

"Solving our problem," Esmund grunted, picking up a bucket packed to over-flowing with snow. Without warning, he threw the snow onto the oiled leather sheet he'd spread out in his space on the bed, "I'm tired of sweating to death."

Clumps of snow fell on Ulric's naked chest and underpants. Ulric flicked the offending moisture away and scowled, "So you decided it'd be better to fill our bed with snow?"

Esmund smiled as he surveyed his work, smoothing out the snow until it covered the leather sheet from top to bottom, "You'll thank me once you see how nice and cool we are."

"You're an idiot," Ulric grumbled, grabbing his pillow and quilt, "I'm sleeping on the floor."

Esmund's shoulders drooped. "You don't even want to give it a try?"

"No."

Gunnar lifted his head, pushing his tangled hair out of his face. "What are you two arguing about? I'm trying to sleep."

Ulric quirked a brow and pointed at Esmund, "Mr. Genius here decided he was too hot and wanted to try sleeping in the snow."

"What?" Gunnar sat up and asked Ulric, "What are you doing on the floor?"

Ulric punched his pillow twice and lay down. "Sleeping. Goodnight."

The next morning, thanks to sleeping in their cold, wet bed, courtesy of Esmund's bright idea, Esmund and Gunnar had awoken with runny noses and chest colds. Ulric, on the other hand, had been the model of perfect health and had wasted no time in rubbing it in their red-nosed faces.

However, the memory and experience served its purpose in bringing to light the solution to Ingrid's current problem. Body heat, especially that of a Berserker, was one of the surest ways to warm another person. If Ingrid needed warmth, Ulric was the quickest way to supply it.

Hoping he was correct and not just searching for a flimsy excuse to be near her, Ulric sent a silent prayer to whichever gods were listening that Ingrid wouldn't hate him for what he was about to do and removed all his clothing except his drawers.

He rolled Ingrid onto her side, facing away from him, and bit back a gasp of shock as he tucked up behind her until his naked chest and thighs pressed against her cold, bare back and legs. He cringed. The rumbling purr of his Berserker filled his ears and vibrated within his chest at the contact with her skin.

What would he do if she woke up from the racket? What could he say that wouldn't embarrass him further?

If it were possible, he'd punch his Berserker in the face, give him a real good solid thrashing, and only after the damn idiot had thoroughly apologized for ruining his life by claiming Ingrid he'd punch him in the face again to make sure he'd learned his lesson.

The thought of what a sight it would be if either of his brothers caught him trying to do such a deed brought a lopsided grin to Ulric's face. Chuckling at his foolishness, he wrapped his arm around Ingrid's waist and pulled her more snugly against him.

He would keep all personal sentiments locked away, which would be easier than he'd first believed. All he needed to do was remember he was only here to keep her alive. He could do this.

It became a litany he repeated within his mind as he adjusted the hay and blankets beneath his head. Heaving a sigh, he settled into a comfortable position and allowed his mind to drift from one scattered thought to another until his eyes grew heavy and sleep finally claimed him.