For a moment, she could not speak.
Then she whispered, "Are you asking me to marry you?"
He nodded.
"Yes, ma'am."
She laughed.
Then cried.
Then laughed again.
Finally she stepped closer.
"Yes."
His eyes widened.
She smiled through tears.
"Yes, you enormous, stubborn mountain man."
He stared as though he couldn't believe it.
She reached for his face.
"And if you ever decide to give another proposal, perhaps try looking a little less terrified."
He laughed.
A deep, startled laugh.
Then he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers.
For a moment, she thought he would kiss her.
Instead, his expression changed.
Something painful crossed his face.
He stepped backward.
The woman noticed.
But she was too happy to question it.
They married in October, at a small church near the settlement.
The widow who owned the burned boardinghouse attended.
So did the blacksmith, the local physician, and a handful of neighbors.
The woman wore a royal-blue gown she had made herself.
Its bodice was beautifully fitted, with cream lace trimming, long sleeves, and a low sweetheart neckline that framed her figure without concealing it beneath painful stays.
She felt beautiful.
Not because she looked smaller.
Because she had finally stopped trying to.
The mountain man wore a clean cream shirt, a dark brown leather vest, and polished boots.
He looked extraordinarily handsome.
His thick hair had been combed back.
His beard trimmed.
Even the scar seemed less frightening in the bright autumn sunlight.
When she reached the front of the church, he stared at her.
His eyes filled.
She smiled.
"Well?"
He swallowed.
"You're beautiful."
Her cheeks warmed.
"Thank you."
They exchanged vows.
Promised loyalty.
Care.
Respect.
And a life together.
When the preacher invited him to kiss his bride, the mountain man hesitated.
Only for a fraction of a second.
Then he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss against her forehead.
The congregation smiled.
The woman smiled too.
But something inside her tightened.
She had wanted him to kiss her lips.
He didn't.
She told herself it was shyness.
Grief.
An old-fashioned sense of restraint.
Surely time would help.
But after they returned to the cabin, the hesitation continued.
He remained affectionate in quiet ways.
He brought her flowers from the valley.
Built a larger wardrobe.
Made sure their bed was sturdy and comfortable.
And treated her with unwavering respect.