Six months ago, if someone had told Sarah she would end up a mail order bride, she would have laughed in their face and called them ridiculous. Yet here she was, three hundred miles away from home and standing in front of an unfamiliar farmhouse in a state she didn't know. Waiting for a man she had only ever seen photographs of. Shifting from foot to foot, Sarah knocked against the hard wooden door. And waited. After a few seconds she wondered if he had heard - after a minute, she wondered if anyone was even in. Green fields stretched in every direction, cows grazed, but there was no sign of a human being. At least there wasn't until there was a scuffle from inside the house, a scramble for keys. Then the door creaked open - God did it need oiled - and a familiar face peered out at her. Thick, dark hair framed an angular face dashed with freckles, clear blue eyes, sharp cheekbones led to a strong chin with a few day's of stubble. John Crowe was beautiful in those grainy black and white photographs - but in person, he was stunning.