Romancing Olive

by Bush, Holly

  Now there was a woman in his arms in the steamy dream floating through Jacob’s head. She was nearly as long as he stretched out, and rounded and soft in all the good spots. His hips were pounding into female flesh and his mind drifted to the place of semi-consciousness that overtook him when he was near completion. But a voice broke through the sexual haze and when recognition occurred he stopped instantly.

  “Mr. Butler!”

  Jacob jumped back on his elbows and feet like a great crab on the sand. He flew back, arms and legs flying until his head hit the table and he knocked over a chair.

  Mary sat up, her face sleepy and tousled. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “Nothing, Mary, go back to sleep. Mr. Butler ah . . . ah had a nightmare,” Olive said.

  Thankfully, Olive’s vision was poor enough that she was unable to see his revulsion. She looked at him and blinked and he stared back. Jacob stood, righted the chair and opened the door, allowing for his escape and the cool night air to run along Olive’s back. She lay awake, watching the dawn arise. Her heart, so happy as she fell asleep, was torn from her chest in the rays of the new day. Olive was certain her feelings for Jacob had not emerged to intimacy or romance. Whatever intimacy feels like, she thought. But nor was the emotion so shallow that she did not feel his reaction to the depths of her soul.

  Chapter Five

  Jacob did not go into the house for breakfast or dinner. He stared into the rounded backside of his plow horse and fought the images in his dreams. He was embarrassed, confused, frightened, repulsed and attracted all at the same time. How in God’s name did I end up rubbing on her backside like that? She was bossy and even manipulative on occasion. Certainly not qualities a man looked for in a woman. But yet she was gentle and kind and thoughtful with the children and soothed them in a way, which he knew he never could. But I’m not looking for a woman or a wife, Jacob thought and shook his head. She’s too tall, too thin, too Olive for his tastes, as well. Her hair was nice, he admitted to himself and when she was not dressed like a schoolmarm, very pretty. Olive was a lady, that Jacob knew for sure, and he dreaded facing her at supper.

  * * *

  Every time a porch step creaked or the children shouted, Olive’s stomach rolled. She would calm herself by talking her way through the previous night’s episode. Close quarters had naturally made her available. Oh, no, available, sounds as though I’m waiting by a saloon door. Not available, within reach. Well, her sewing basket had been in reach as well. Jacob was surely mortified that he had reached for her of all women to scratch the itch. Scratch the itch. Now there’s a strange thought, she mused, as she stirred Mary’s stew. Florence had used the phrase at the church social when she had been talking about her husband Bill. And in retrospect, Olive understood the expression much better. One would have thought a swarm of bees had nested in Jacobs’s pants, the way he gyrated. The door flew open and the children shouted and ran to their father.

  “Miss Wilkins.”

  “Mr. Butler.”

  They both nodded and made brief eye contact. Olive’s face grew warm, and her eyes lowered down Jacob’s body and to the crotch of his pants. Yee Gads, she thought and turned away quickly, imagining his hips in motion.

  “Mary made stew for dinner. We’re ready to eat.” Olive said. She had just begun to relax when Luke asked if she would be able to read that evening. John was nodding and smiling as he stuffed his face.

  “Can we sleep in front of the fire again?” Peg asked.

  “Will you make hot chocolate again?” Luke asked.

  Mary stood to carry her plate to the dry sink. “Well, I don’t want to sleep on the floor again. It’s too hard.”

  Peg giggled. “My bum hurt today, but I don’t care. I want to sleep there again.”

  “We won’t be sleeping on the floor tonight, Peg,” Olive said.

  The little girl looked at her quizzically. “Does your bum hurt too, Aunt Olive?”

  Olive looked at Peg. She heard Jacob cough. “That is inappropriate language for the supper table, Peg.”

  “What should she say?” Mary asked. “My Pa said ‘ass.’”

  “Or ‘butt’,” Luke said and he and John huddled together and giggled.

  “That’s enough, children,” Jacob said.

  “Mary, would you begin the dishes. I want everyone else to work on their primers. Mr. Butler, would you step outside with me a moment?” Olive said.

  Jacob nodded and followed her out the door. Olive squared her shoulders and opened her mouth, only to stop and pinch her lips. She snorted, twitched her nose and faced him.

  “About last night, Mr. Butler,” Olive began and looked into his eyes. What long lashes he has, she thought, and shook her head. “About last night. I understand . . . I have been told that, well, men, occasionally have . . . needs, that left untended, may well grow, may build,” Olive stopped. So far, so good, she thought. “And that sometimes whoever, oh, excuse me, whomever might be there may be mistakenly . . .” Olive stopped again and looked at Jacob and she saw that he was fighting a smile. “Really Mr. Butler, I see nothing humorous in this situation.”

  “I’m sorry Olive, I don’t mean to laugh. It’s not a laughing matter, but listening to you try to talk about it, is.”

  “In any case,” Olive continued, “whomever may be, what word shall I use, handy, might be the mistaken object of your affection. Considering you were sleeping.” There, she had said what she needed to say.

  * * *

  Olive had no idea how beguiling, how bewitching she was right now, Jacob thought. Stumbling and snorting and trying to talk about something she had no idea of.

  “If that was the case, Olive, I’d hardly ever leave my mare alone when I slept in the barn,” Jacob said.

  Olive’s eyes widened. “Well, hopefully, you can tell the difference between me and your horse. Either that, or you’re a lot itchier than Florence said.”

  “Itchy?” Jacob said.

  Olive’s face colored to Jacob even in the dim twilight.

  “Well, yes, that was the word that Beth and Florence used. Even though I rarely approve of slang, I find that the word is, well, appropriate.” Olive finished and looked away.

  “The three of you were discussing me? And the word used was itchy?” Jacob asked.

  Olive nodded once.

  Jacob sat his hands on his hips. “In the first place, women aren’t supposed to talk about that sort of thing. And in the second place, well in the second place, I can tell the difference between you and the mare,” Jacob finished with a shout.

  Olive’s mouth dropped. “Well you would have never known it the way you nearly tore the house apart trying to get away from me.”

  “Is that what you think, Olive? That I was trying to get away from you?” Jacob said.

  Olive granted him a thin smile. “Well, I didn’t see your mare in front of the

  fireplace,” she said.

  Jacob shook his head and let a rueful laugh. “Olive, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “In any case, Mr. Butler, I think we can both continue on in a mature fashion and dismiss the entire episode.”

  Jacob grabbed her shoulders, turning her to him. “Wait a second, Olive. Remember what you thought about your brother Jimmy and his farm. You didn’t know anything about that and you couldn’t have been more wrong in your silly notions. You sat in your house in Philadelphia, you said so yourself, and made up some fancy story about the life your brother was living. Well, that should have taught you something.”

  “What do my misconceptions regarding James have to do with this?” Olive asked.

  “You don’t know anything about what goes on between men and women. Don’t pretend that you do. Sometimes the want is so strong that nothing can stop it.”

  “That is a fine conclusion in general terms, but has nothing to do with the specifics of our case,” Olive said sharply. “There is no ‘want.’ There was an awkward moment, a mistake. I am not the ki
nd of woman or the age for that matter, who inspires ‘want.’”

  She was so sure, so certain that she was uninspiring. But yet as he held her and listened to her argue and watched fire grow in her eyes, he knew she could not have been more wrong. For whatever reason, he could not resist looking at her lips as she bit out her last words. And it was his undoing.

  * * *

  Olive watched as Jacob brought his face closer and closer to her. She swallowed and awkwardly looked away. His hand released her shoulder and he gently touched her chin, pulling her face back to his. He spoke, she knew, but as his eyelids lowered and she felt his breath on her face, she was mesmerized, not with his words but with his look and touch.

  “This is want, Olive,” he whispered.

  Jacob’s lips touched Olive’s and her eyes fluttered closed. His growl into her mouth tightened her throat and made her heart skip a beat. Jacob’s large rough hand trembled as he cupped her face. That fascinating smell of his filled her head and her shoulders drooped as her head tilted back.

  When she awoke, her lips were still lightly touching Jacob’s. His eyes were closed and he was panting softly. Olive’s thoughts were a shambles. Embarrassment, confusion, and if she were honest with herself, pleasure. She shook her head, wiggled from Jacob’s hold and ran into the house.

  * * *

  Jacob drew in a breath as the door slammed and wondered aloud what he had been thinking. When Olive swayed into him, Jacob wound his fingers into her tight mass of hair and heard pins hit the porch. His tongue snaked its way into her mouth and he pulled her roughly, tightly against him. No thoughts of right or wrong, spinster or widow had entered his head. Only that woman, with skin as white and soft as corn silk and hair heavy enough for him to drown in.

  I kissed her and I would kiss her again. What had happened the night before could be explained away with a hundred excuses. But he was not sleeping or dreaming on his porch right now. How did her apology or explanation end up in a kiss? She was not Margaret. But yet when he kissed her, he felt for the first time in a year, with certainty, he was home. Damn her, he thought. Even wrapped up, chin to shoes in black fabric, hair pulled tight, she was meant to be kissing him and it felt right, was right. Jacob’s mouth pulled into a grim line, knowing and hating himself for it, that he would remember and replay that kiss as clearly as the first time he had kissed Margaret.

  * * *

  The rest of Olive’s evening was a blur as her mind reviewed every word she and Jacob had spoken. She helped Peg dress for bed and wondered if something she had said or done had misled Jacob. Mary eyed her quizzically and she turned from the girls regard. Did he think I wanted him to kiss me? Does he know I’ve never been kissed, not really kissed? Did he think I had some grand design or scheme coming west for these children that included him?

  Olive dropped down on the bed and stared out the window at the full moon. But how could I have known he was waiting at the end of my journey. Well, maybe not waiting, Olive thought, but here all the same. This is heartache, she said to herself. I will file this sensation away with all the new and wondrous and troublesome feelings I’ve had since coming to Spencer.

  And perhaps it was time to go. Perhaps the children were ready. Perhaps if she didn’t see Jacob Butler every day she wouldn’t dwell on what she had purposefully missed. Her mind cleared and she relaxed squirreling away these thoughts for future review. But soon her eyes closed and she felt Jacob’s breath on her face and the light touch of his lips on hers. This is ‘want’ as well, Olive admitted, and brushed her hair one hundred and twenty strokes.

  * * *

  Jacob announced at breakfast that he would begin planting that day. “Luke and John, I’d like you to help me.” The children nodded and Jacob caught Olive’s eye for the first time that morning.

  “I’ve been lax in attending the laundry, Mr. Butler. Do you have a large wash tub?” Olive asked.

  “I’ll start a fire on the side of the house, so you can wash outside. There’s a spot set up for a kettle,” Jacob said. “I was thinking I might turn over a small piece of ground out back. Maybe get a vegetable garden started. Then we’d have something to can in the fall.”

  Olive looked away quickly, picking up dishes and turning to the sink. Jacob wondered why and when he began to think of a future and the time in between now and a harvest that included Olive.

  “That would be nice, Mr. Butler. I don’t imagine John and Mary and I will be here for the canning but I’d be happy to help get your garden started,” Olive said.

  So this is how it will be, Jacob thought. Just as well that the Spinster Wilkins leaves soon. Jacob rose, thanked Olive for the meal and motioned the boys to follow.

  * * *

  “When’s the fall?” Peg asked.

  “What do you mean, Peg?” Olive asked.

  The girl’s lip trembled. “Is that when you’re leaving us? And taking John and Mary, too?”

  “Oh, Peg,” Olive said. “We can’t live here forever. This is your home. Mary and John are my responsibilities. My home and theirs too, is back in Philadelphia.”

  Olive sat down and pulled Peg into her lap. The little girl cuddled against her and Olive continued, “Your father, someday, will meet a nice woman and fall in love. A young woman and then maybe you’ll have more brothers and sisters.”

  Peg’s eyes darted. “But I don’t want more brothers, I want you and Mary.”

  Olive rocked Peg slowly. “Well enough of this. We’ve got lots of laundry and since I don’t have any idea of what to do, you’ll have to help me.”

  “Ya never done washin’?” Mary asked.

  “No, Mary. I sent my soiled clothes to a woman down the street and she returned them clean.”

  Mary and Olive carried the dirty clothes outside and filled the kettle with water.

  “What if me and John want to stay with Jacob?” the girl asked.

  “John and I,” Olive replied

  Mary huffed and asked again. “What if John and I want to stay with Jacob?”

  Olive stirred the clothes in the hot soapy water. “I’m hoping that soon, very soon actually, you’ll want to return with me to Philadelphia.”

  Mary was quiet as she dumped more dirty clothes in the water and retrieved clean ones from the pot. “Why can’t you stay here with Jacob? He doesn’t beat you or nothing.”

  “It isn’t proper or right, Mary, for us to remain together unmarried. Mr. Butler has been kind allowing me to stay this long,” Olive said.

  “Marry him then,” Mary said.

  “I can’t just marry him. Marriage is sacred and requires both parties to love and be committed to each other. Mr. Butler and I don’t love each other,” Olive said.

  Mary stared at Olive openly. “I saw him kissing you last night. My Ma kissed lots of men but she only kissed my Pa like you was kissing Jacob.”

  Olive’s face fell and turned three shades of red. “Mary! I . . . I . . . that’s not . . .you shouldn’t have been . . it was a mistake . . . I”

  Olive’s fluttering fell silent as Peg pointed to a man on horseback approaching the farm.

  Olive squinted as the man came closer and Mary edged up to her. Olive looked down to Mary’s face and saw wide eyes and fear. “Do you know this man?”

  Mary nodded and the rider dismounted. Olive watched him limp and the filthy clothes he wore shed dust. His battered hat shaded his face and Olive swallowed nervously at the grim, despicable picture he made.

  “Good morning, sir,” Olive said.

  The man eyed Olive from under the brim of his hat, rolled a lump of tobacco from one cheek to the other and spit a long stream of juice.

  “Ya look just like that lying, cheatin’ lazy piece of crap that Sophie got herself hitched to.” The man turned his regard from Olive to Mary. “Come on girl, git yer brother. There’s crops to be brung in and your grandma needs help with the cookin’ and such.”

  So this was the man the sheriff had warned her about. The same man, Olive
realized now, that had stared so menacingly at John the day they had gone to town for supplies. Olive reached her arm around Mary and could feel the terror emanating from the child. Peg was wrapped in Olive’s skirts and her dark eyes were as round as saucers. “Just a moment. She’s not going anywhere,” Olive said.

  “That so,” he said and spit again.

  Olive eyed the wet spot on the ground where he had spit inches from her skirt. She had no idea what she would do if this man decided to take Mary by force.

  “I’m Sophie’s daddy and I needs the youngins’. So git the boy and do it fast. I ain’t in the mood for no lip from some schoolmarm,” Jeb Davis said.

  “You said in your letter there was no one to care for these children. I’m her Aunt and I intend to raise her and her brother. Mary, take Peg and go in to the house,” Olive said.

  Mary looked up at Olive and back to her grandfather. Her face was white. “I ain’t getting my stuff. I won’t go with him. I’ll run away.”

  Olive smiled confidently although her stomach churned. “Of course not, Mary. You and John are not going anywhere. Go into the house.” Olive said again to Mary, but her eyes did not leave Sophie’s father’s face.

  Olive felt Mary back up and Peg turn out of her skirts. The two inched backward till their legs hit the landing and they turned and scurried across the porch. Thankfully, Olive heard the bar drop across the door.

  “That weren’t too smart. Them kids is my girl, Sophie’s. I told ya I need the help. They’re mine, by rights. Not git outa the road,” he said.

  Olive stepped between him and the porch. “Those children don’t belong to anyone. Not you or me or anyone. And certainly they were not meant to be your plow horses. Now, get off of this property.”

  Olive never saw the fist coming. Only knew when she hit the ground that he had punched her. Her ears rung and her glasses flew and she felt blood trickling from her mouth. She pulled herself up on all fours and felt blindly for her glasses.

  The man stood above her, laughing, as Olive ran her hands through the dirt. He pulled his leg back and stopped when a voice came from inside the house.