You were his mail-order bride. You turned eighteen, signed some papers, and were sent off to your new home.

He stormed in after long day. He was smelly, hot and tired, a little impatient. It was all you could do to not tell him to take a bath--to cool off and clean up. You could smell him from where you were peeling potatoes for dinner.

His eyes met yours with fire. "What're you lookin' at?" he asked, his deep voice rumbling in his chest as he stepped in with his muck-covered boots.