Yet he seemed frightened of physical intimacy.
He kissed her cheek.
Held her hand briefly.
Sometimes embraced her.
But when she moved closer, he often withdrew.
At first, she believed he needed time.
Then she wondered whether he was still grieving his first wife.
Eventually, she began fearing the explanation she'd heard from cruel relatives all her life.
Perhaps he liked her companionship.
Perhaps he appreciated her cooking.
Perhaps he admired her intelligence.
But perhaps he could not bear the thought of truly loving a woman with her body.
She hated that fear.
She knew it wasn't fair to assume his reasons.
But silence allowed old wounds to speak louder than the man who had treated her kindly.
By January, she could no longer bear it.
And that was how she came to stand beside the reinforced oak chair on the night the blizzard struck.
The mountain man had been sitting there for an hour.
A hunting knife rested in his hand.
He was sharpening it absentmindedly while staring toward the fire.
The woman watched from the doorway.
She wore her deep royal-blue gown, her long chestnut braid resting against her shoulder.
The stove glowed.
Snow gathered against the frosted window.
Warm lantern light moved across her husband's scarred face.
He looked tired.
Troubled.
And very far away.
She approached.
"Put that down."
He looked up immediately.
"Something wrong?"
She nodded.
"Yes."
He placed the knife on the side table.
"Are you hurt?"
"No."
His expression softened.
"Then what's troubling you?"
She took a breath.
"You."
He stared.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then she carefully settled sideways across his lap, with part of her weight supported by the wide reinforced seat and armrests he had constructed to hold them comfortably.
The oak chair creaked softly.
The mountain man went completely still.
His enormous hands gripped the wooden arms.
The woman rested one palm against his broad chest.
She could feel his heart pounding beneath the cream-colored shirt.
"Darling."
His voice was strained.
"Yes?"
"What are you doing?"
She looked directly into his eyes.
"Trying to get my husband's attention."
He swallowed.
"You have it."
She smiled sadly.
"Do I?"
His expression changed.
She continued.
"You look at me like you love me."
He stared.
"You take care of me. You worry when I'm cold. You remember everything I say."
Her voice trembled.
"But whenever I try to kiss you, you look like you're afraid."