Montana Bride by Joan Johnston

He reached out and cupped her cheek, smoothing his callused thumb over the blush that had risen there. She felt caught like a fish on a hook, desperate to escape, but held fast by the look in his serious brown eyes. Finally he said, “The time will be right when you tell me it’s right.”
    Hetty heard herself swallow loudly over the painful knot in her throat. “You’re leaving the decision up to me?”
    “Entirely.”
    He turned her by the shoulders, gave her a friendly pat on the rump, and said, “Now go get ready for bed.”

Karl lay stiffly on his back on his side of the bed, so he wouldn’t accidentally touch his brand-new wife. It had taken a long time for Hetty to fall asleep. Even so, she wasn’t sleeping restfully. She tossed and turned and made soft, anxious noises. Conscience bothering her, he supposed, from all the lies she’d told.
    Some wedding night. Not at all what he’d hoped, especially considering the fact that he wasn’t marrying a woman who could be expected to have the normal fears of an unbroached bride. Pretty disappointing, actually.
    The more Karl thought about it, the more he questioned why a girl—Hetty could only barely be called a woman—as beautiful as Hetty had been so willing to travel so far to marry a stranger. He felt sure she could have had her choice of men in Cheyenne, someone who would have provided a comfortable home for her and her children.
    Why had she chosen to become a mail-order bride? What demons had forced Hetty to leave Cheyenne? From what—or whom—had she needed to escape? What had happened to the two different men he was more and more certain had fathered her two children?
    Hetty must have been very, very young when she’d borne her daughter. And the boy must have gotten all his looks from his father, since he bore no resemblance whatsoever to his mother, or to his sister, for that matter.
    Karl wished he wasn’t so analytical. A really smart man would close his eyes to all the anomalies he’d found in his bride and simply enjoy her. Karl couldn’t do that. Especially when it was so obvious that his bride found him wanting.
    He’d felt her resistance to his kiss. It had been devastating. It had seemed wiser—safer for his ego—to back off than to continue. She’d agreed so quickly to postpone their wedding night that he hadn’t tried to persuade her otherwise.
    Karl knew he could please his wife in bed, given the chance. He’d had a good teacher, an older woman who’d tutored him in all the ways he could bring exquisite pleasure to his partner. But he wasn’t going to force Hetty to accept his attentions. She’d clearly been reluctant even to kiss him, let alone venture into the sort of touching required to consummate their marriage.
    It was true they barely knew each other. The few letters they’d exchanged had only given him a suggestion of what she might be like, and he was sure the reverse was equally true. A wedding night could be daunting even when the parties were well acquainted.
    But Hetty was no virgin bride. She’d been married before. She wasn’t unaware of what a husband might expect from her. Shyness he would have understood and respected. But Hetty’s behavior had gone a step beyond that.
    Karl hated to attribute her recoil to his looks, but that seemed the most obvious answer to the way she’d flinched from him. He knew physical attraction was a big part of sexual desire. How could he expect someone as beautiful as Hetty to find someone like him to her liking?
    The problem was, there was nothing he could do to change his appearance. It was what it was. His only hope was to show his wife that he had other attributes that would make him a good spouse. To have her learn to like and, if possible, love him, so that his looks became irrelevant.
    Karl made a disgusted sound, then looked at Hetty to see if he’d woken her. Looks were never unimportant, at least, not until old age. He and Hetty were both young, and she was even