Perhaps the mountain man had been willing to marry her for companionship.
Work.
A household.
But not attraction.
The thought hurt more than she expected.
She stood near the chair.
He continued arranging blankets.
“Why did you marry me?”
He stopped.
“We discussed that.”
“No.”
“We discussed practical things.”
“You wanted a wife.”
“Yes.”
“You paid debts.”
“Yes.”
“You brought me here.”
“Yes.”
“But you won’t even sleep beside me.”
His expression changed.
The widow’s voice trembled despite her effort.
“Do you find me repulsive?”
The mountain man went completely still.
“No.”
“You don’t need to lie.”
“I’m not.”
“Then look at me.”
He did.
She almost regretted demanding it.
His eyes traveled over her face.
Then her shoulders.
The burgundy shawl.
The long ivory nightdress.
He looked away first.
Not disgusted.
Embarrassed.
His cheeks reddened.
The widow stared.
“You’re blushing.”
“No.”
“You are.”
He turned toward the fire.
“I’m warm.”
She almost laughed.
“Your ears are red.”
He touched one automatically.
That made it worse.
The widow’s fear shifted into something stranger.
“Do you think I’m beautiful?”
His back remained partly turned.
“Yes.”
The answer came too quickly for dishonesty.
Her heart began beating harder.
“Then why are you afraid of me?”
He turned.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“You’re sleeping on a floor to avoid touching me.”
His jaw tightened.
“That’s different.”
“How?”
He looked toward the door.
Then the fire.
Anywhere but her.
The widow’s frustration broke through years of learned shame.
“Can you make me feel pleasure tonight?”
The question left her mouth before she understood that she intended to say it.
The mountain man went pale.
Actually pale.
The enormous man who trapped wolves, crossed mountain passes alone, and carried her trunk like a basket took one full step backward.
The widow stared.
He looked terrified.
For several seconds, only the fire spoke.
Then:
“I don’t know.”
The widow’s anger disappeared.
“What do you mean?”
He swallowed.
“I don’t know if I can.”
She stared.
He continued with visible difficulty.
“I’ve never…”
He stopped.
Her eyebrows rose.
He tried again.
“I’ve never been with a woman.”
The cabin seemed to shrink around them.
The widow had expected many explanations.
Not that.
“Never?”
He shook his head.
“You’re thirty-two.”
“I know.”
“You lived in town before?”
“Until thirteen.”
“And after?”
“Mostly here.”
“You never…”
“No.”
He looked embarrassed enough to leave his own house.
The widow slowly sat.
He remained standing.
She almost smiled.
Not mockery.
Tenderness surprised her.
This giant man was afraid of disappointing her.