Mail Order Bride Leah: A Sweet Western Historical Romance (Montana Mail Order Brides Series Book 1) by Rose Jenster
Authors: Rose Jenster
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studying it.
“No, it isn’t,” she said, shocked by her own courage.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’ve come two thousand miles with all my books and tablecloths and I’d like a proper kiss now, please,” she said with a giggle.
Henry looped the reins on the dash to stop the horse and turned on the seat to face her. He looked at her in disbelief for a moment, surprised that she would offer him this favor, that she trusted him this far. He set his hands on her shoulders and then changed his mind. Reaching for her chin, he untied the burgundy ribbon there and her bonnet fell back, no longer shading her face. Blinking at him, Leah smiled encouragingly. He touched her cheek lightly with his fingertips and kissed her on the lips. She felt warm and happy, and had to stifle a laugh of pure joy as her arms went around his neck. When she smiled, he nipped at her lips until she gasped in surprise. She had no idea that people kissed like this, that her breath would come so fast and her pulse would race. Henry caught her in his arms and held her as her head fell back over his arm, her mouth ready for his kiss. Henry drew back, remembering himself.
“I’m sorry. I got carried away, Miss Weaver,” he said.
“You can’t call me Miss Weaver after you kissed me like that,” she protested, blushing.
“I took liberties you didn’t intend. Forgive me.”
“I’ll forgive you if you’ll kiss me again,” she said, astounded by her own wantonness.
“I think that’s a bad idea,” he told her with regret. “I’m trying to be a gentleman and I’m not doing a very fine job of it. It would be best if I get you back to Mrs. Hostleman’s now."
He took the reins and turned the buggy around. Shortly, they were back on the good woman’s doorstep, and Henry kissed her hand.
“Now you see why I do this,” he said with a wry smile. She nodded, smiling herself.
Henry lit the oil lamp at home and took up the book of sonnets she had lent him. Reading over it, he set it aside, finding that every line, every word reminded him of Leah. He was reluctant to commit, he knew, because his heart had been broken before. The last time he was so taken with a woman, the last time he allowed himself to dream of a wife and a family, he had been cruelly rejected. It was difficult, even after all these years, to let himself trust any woman.
He held the small cloth-bound book in his big hands and looked at it seriously. This woman had brought poetry back into his life, had given him her friendship and patience. She deserved to know where she stood with him and if she should expect a proposal of marriage. Still, he hesitated. If she were not what she seemed, if, like Melody, she turned out to be a woman who could not respect him, could not truly love him—he wasn’t sure if he would survive a second heartbreak.
He could see himself becoming a bitter, lonesome man who trusted no one, a misanthrope who chased the neighbor kids away from his garden. He had a choice and this one chance. Henry knew he would have to be stronger than his doubts, his fears, if he were to claim this woman for his wife. What good was this life and all he had achieved, without a good woman to share the burdens and joys?
* * *
Leah wrote to Jane, a letter full of her love for Henry and his goodness and honor. She detailed the inn, the stables, even the hunting dog, and told of their buggy ride and the talk of books they shared. She did not mention the kiss but she felt like singing at the memory of it. What would it be like, she wondered, to know she had a whole lifetime of those kisses ahead of her? She asked Jane confidentially for advice. How might she make him comfortable, help him overcome his reserve and seeming hesitation? Was there some womanly way to encourage an engagement without being forward or immodest?
She knew that the decision must be made before the letter even reached her sister-in-law, and any reply would be far too late, but it comforted
“No, it isn’t,” she said, shocked by her own courage.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’ve come two thousand miles with all my books and tablecloths and I’d like a proper kiss now, please,” she said with a giggle.
Henry looped the reins on the dash to stop the horse and turned on the seat to face her. He looked at her in disbelief for a moment, surprised that she would offer him this favor, that she trusted him this far. He set his hands on her shoulders and then changed his mind. Reaching for her chin, he untied the burgundy ribbon there and her bonnet fell back, no longer shading her face. Blinking at him, Leah smiled encouragingly. He touched her cheek lightly with his fingertips and kissed her on the lips. She felt warm and happy, and had to stifle a laugh of pure joy as her arms went around his neck. When she smiled, he nipped at her lips until she gasped in surprise. She had no idea that people kissed like this, that her breath would come so fast and her pulse would race. Henry caught her in his arms and held her as her head fell back over his arm, her mouth ready for his kiss. Henry drew back, remembering himself.
“I’m sorry. I got carried away, Miss Weaver,” he said.
“You can’t call me Miss Weaver after you kissed me like that,” she protested, blushing.
“I took liberties you didn’t intend. Forgive me.”
“I’ll forgive you if you’ll kiss me again,” she said, astounded by her own wantonness.
“I think that’s a bad idea,” he told her with regret. “I’m trying to be a gentleman and I’m not doing a very fine job of it. It would be best if I get you back to Mrs. Hostleman’s now."
He took the reins and turned the buggy around. Shortly, they were back on the good woman’s doorstep, and Henry kissed her hand.
“Now you see why I do this,” he said with a wry smile. She nodded, smiling herself.
Henry lit the oil lamp at home and took up the book of sonnets she had lent him. Reading over it, he set it aside, finding that every line, every word reminded him of Leah. He was reluctant to commit, he knew, because his heart had been broken before. The last time he was so taken with a woman, the last time he allowed himself to dream of a wife and a family, he had been cruelly rejected. It was difficult, even after all these years, to let himself trust any woman.
He held the small cloth-bound book in his big hands and looked at it seriously. This woman had brought poetry back into his life, had given him her friendship and patience. She deserved to know where she stood with him and if she should expect a proposal of marriage. Still, he hesitated. If she were not what she seemed, if, like Melody, she turned out to be a woman who could not respect him, could not truly love him—he wasn’t sure if he would survive a second heartbreak.
He could see himself becoming a bitter, lonesome man who trusted no one, a misanthrope who chased the neighbor kids away from his garden. He had a choice and this one chance. Henry knew he would have to be stronger than his doubts, his fears, if he were to claim this woman for his wife. What good was this life and all he had achieved, without a good woman to share the burdens and joys?
* * *
Leah wrote to Jane, a letter full of her love for Henry and his goodness and honor. She detailed the inn, the stables, even the hunting dog, and told of their buggy ride and the talk of books they shared. She did not mention the kiss but she felt like singing at the memory of it. What would it be like, she wondered, to know she had a whole lifetime of those kisses ahead of her? She asked Jane confidentially for advice. How might she make him comfortable, help him overcome his reserve and seeming hesitation? Was there some womanly way to encourage an engagement without being forward or immodest?
She knew that the decision must be made before the letter even reached her sister-in-law, and any reply would be far too late, but it comforted
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