Brief and friendly as it is, Maine can't help the way he stiffens at that contact. He's not accustomed to people touching him. Not outside of the few people he calls friends. Everyone else gives him a wide berth, and he likes it that way. Non-violent contact with someone he's just met is practically unheard of.

But for now, he says nothing of it. Just takes the offered mittens with an appreciative hum and pulls them on. The color is a familiar one. Reminds him of Carolina's armor...

He pulls his mind away from those thoughts. Won't do him any good here.

While Frank races ahead with the dogs, Maine follows at a more sedate pace. It's been a long time since he's seen anyone play with a dog. Longer still since he's done it himself. He's far from comfortable enough to join in, but it's nice to watch.

When he reaches the wood, Maine starts piling up another (rather large) load to bring in. He's not sure how much fuel the inn needs to have inside; from the looks of it, he's erring on the side of "too much" rather than "not enough."