Romancing Olive Read online

  “He’s Sophie’s Pa,” the sheriff explained.

  “What could Sophie’s father possibly have to say in regard to me? I’ve yet to meet him. As a matter of fact, I was just telling Mary, we’d best soon make a social call on the Davis’,” Olive said.

  “You don’t want to do that, Miss Wilkins,” the sheriff said and shook his head.

  Olive paused. “What kind of things was he saying?”

  “Things not fit for a lady’s ears. But with his last daughter running off with a traveling salesmen, he’s going to be looking to get Mary back to the farm to do the stepping and fetching. Keep your eyes open, ma’am,” the sheriff said.

  “I’ll do that, sheriff, but I hardly see what rights Mr. Davis feels he has with these children. He did after all ask me to take them in. I still have his letter,” Olive replied.

  Olive led John up the steps to the doctor’s office as the sheriff had instructed her as she was leaving his office. These accounts of Sophie’s family from the sheriff and Mary made her wonder how James had married into such a family. Surely a decision such as the guardianship of orphaned children would have never made lightly. But in his profession, the sheriff must regard even liquor talk with a skeptical eye. As for Mary’s account of her grandparents, Olive was convinced recent traumas had certainly colored her vision somewhat. The sheriff had implored her again to stay clear of the Davis farm. He had also asked her to save him a dance at the church social. Olive had rolled her eyes. Save him a dance, she thought and snorted as she opened the door on the landing.

  “May I help you?” a wizened man in a black vest asked.

  “Are you Doctor Hunter?”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “I’m Olive Wilkins. This is my nephew, John Wilkins. May we speak in private?”

  The doctor scratched his head and pointed to an open door. John’s grip dug into Olive’s hand and she smiled to reassure him.

  “Doctor Hunter, John has not spoken for some time and I would like to know if you can ascertain the reason?” Olive asked.

  White bushy eyebrows rose and the doctor looked down at John and back at Olive. “Well, let’s take a look see,” he replied. Olive lifted John onto a table and the doctor looked kindly to the boy. “Do you think I could look down your throat, son? It won’t hurt. All you have to do is open your mouth. Yes, that’s right, boy.”

  The doctor looked down John’s throat and in his ears and felt his neck. Finally, the man opened a drawer and withdrew a well-worn slingshot. He looked up to Olive and shrugged. John’s eyes widened and the doctor laughed.

  “This thing is nearly as old as me and that’s mighty old. My Pa made it for me when I was your age. Do you know what it is?” Doctor Hunter asked. John nodded. “Can you tell me what it is?”

  John looked away, trance like, as Olive had seen him do before when some one addressed him directly.

  “Here, boy, look out the window and tell me if you think you can hit the smithy’s sign if you had the right sized rock,” the doctor said and led John to the open window. He led Olive to the other side of the room as John examined the toy. “Miss Wilkins? Do you know the circumstances surrounding your brother’s wife’s death?” he asked softly.

  “Yes, Doctor, I do.”

  “Well, I’m just a country doctor, but I’ll tell you I think that boy suffers from a hysteria of sorts. Seeing what he saw happen, being unable to stop it.” The doctor paused. “Living in the house with his mother’s corpse rotting before him. I don’t think John’s problems are physical.”

  Olive bowed her head. “I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to guess. But I do admit, I wondered if John is able to talk but just . . . unwilling.”

  “Sometimes folks get through this kind of thing. Sometimes they don’t. You’ll have to wait and see. Keep talking to him, Miss Wilkins. Someday he might surprise you and talk back.”

  Olive nodded and they both looked at John as he stared out the window. “Doctor Hunter? I know it’s not my business, and you may be unwilling to answer but do you have any idea why Mark Butler is the way he is.”

  “I heard you were living out there,” the doctor responded. Olive started to speak and Doctor Hunter held up his hand to silence her. “Don’t go getting all riled. I’ve seen enough in this lifetime to know it’s not my place to judge.”

  “Yes, I am living at Jacob Butler’s farm,” Olive said.

  “Well, then I’m guessing you have some questions.” Olive nodded. “Unlike John here, Mark Butler will never get better. His mother died trying to deliver him and truthfully, I’m shocked the boy lived,” the doctor said.

  Olive tried to conceal her curiosity, but failed. “What happened?”

  “The child was too long in the birth canal, without air and I believe the lack of oxygen and the pressure of the contractions damaged his brain. Permanently.”

  The doctor wiped his hand through his hair, obviously remembering and distressed from it. “I never saw a woman struggle against death so long and so hard to save her child. It was out of my hands and in God’s but she fought for every breath, losing blood by the bucketful to deliver him. Some things you’ll never forget and I won’t ever forget the sound of Margaret’s voice begging me to save her son.”

  Olive felt a chill wiggle down her back with the doctor’s words. She watched the man’s Adam’s apple bob. “And Mr. Butler took his wife’s death very hard,” she said.

  The doctor snorted a reply. “Took it hard? My God, I never saw a man grieve and cry the way he did. I worried he’d not be fit to take care of the other children. I found him outside beating the trunk of a tree until his hands were bloody.”

  Olive pictured the tall, proud Jacob Butler and could not imagine him losing control so completely. “Is there anything I can do for Mark?”

  The doctor eyed her wearily. “No, but Jacob is determined to treat him as though he has no problems. I’d say you should follow his lead.”

  Olive thanked the doctor, gathered John’s hand and led him outside. She found the post office, mailed the letter to Theda and headed home. John sat close on the ride home and Olive bent down to kiss the silent boy’s head.

  Chapter Four

  Olive found her days melting one into the other. Hard work, uncertainty about her effect on the children and the profound change of habits made Olive wonder and pray as she wearily lay down each night. Only then did she give into the anger eating at her heart. How could James lose sight of everything he’d been taught? Did her father know how James’ family had lived? Would his killer ever be brought to justice? Would these children ever escape the horrors they’d seen? She saw subtle changes in the children though, and was convinced routine had brought them. Olive would be the steadying influence in their lives from now on. She would make the decisions, set the example and raise them.

  Saturday arrived before Olive realized and she was glad she remembered how to make her mother’s peach cobbler as an offering to the picnic. The simplest of recipes was often the best but Olive wished she had her mother’s painted crockery to hold the dessert. Olive struggled and hurried with the children and looked down at herself as she picked a spot of crust from the front of her brown dress. What a mess I must be, she thought. Olive opened the second valise, still unpacked and withdrew a chestnut colored dress. Although plain, the fabric was fine and stiffly shining and revealed a pattern in it’s weaving. A slightly scooped neck, more appropriate for evening than day puzzled Olive but she harrumphed and wondered if any one in this town would notice. Probably not. Very little respect for propriety, Olive thought considering whom she had met thus far. Peg and Mary watched Olive pull the dress over her head and Peg touched the fabric and oohed.

  “It’s so pretty,” Peg said and watched Olive pull her hair back into its tight bun. “Wear your hair like mine,” Peg added with a smile.

  “I’m far too old to wear a pony tail, Peg,”

  “Yeah, but it would be pretty pulled up with your black ribbon,” Mary said
and twisted the silk in her hand.

  “Do you think it would look nice, Mary?” Olive asked.

  “I could fix it,” Mary said.

  Olive smiled and Mary shrugged. She conceded to the girls’ ministrations and could have fallen asleep as they brushed through her hair. Mary pulled the top back and braided a thick knot with Olive’s hair. Peg ran to do Mary’s bidding, fetching combs and ties and the two girls seemed to enjoy themselves so much, Olive knew she would have worn a bee hive on her head to make them this happy. When she looked in her small mirror, it was all Olive could do to not groan audibly. She looked like a woman she knew back in Philadelphia, long past her prime, always wearing young fashions and styles and to she and Theda’s opinion, made herself look ridiculous in the process. Mary had pulled her hair loosely back and the rest lay in curly heaps on her shoulders and arms.

  “You look beautiful,” Peg said, hands clasped below her chin.

  “Thank you Peg, Mary. You’ve both done a fine job,” Olive said with a smile.

  Olive gathered her bag and heard the door open. “Come on,” Luke cried. “We’re goin’ to be late.”

  When she turned, Olive met Mr. Butler’s eyes. He was staring at her in the strangest fashion and it brought goose bumps to Olive’s neck. She rolled her eyes uncomfortably, wondering if he thought her a dolt in an evening dress and her hair down.

  “Are we late?” she asked.

  “You look so pretty,” Luke said and smiled his father’s rarely seen smile.

  John walked slowly to her and took her hand to escort her from the kitchen.

  Olive could not resist glowing in the attention, even though her admirers wore short pants. She accepted John’s hand and held her head high as she passed Mr. Butler.

  “Doesn’t Aunt Olive look pretty, Daddy?” Peg asked.

  “Miss Wilkins looks nice,” Mr. Butler replied.

  Olive raised a brow, as her hopes oddly had, that he would think she looked pretty or beautiful or attractive, but not just nice. And she fought a lump in her throat and wondered if and when her own niece and nephew would ever call her Aunt. They all climbed in the creaky wagon and set off. Near the picnic grove, Jacob Butler slowed the animals and turned in his seat.

  “Now remember what I told you.” The children nodded. He addressed them all but held Mary’s gaze. “Stay out of trouble, don’t go far without each other and if anyone gives you lip, like Bertram did, you get me.”

  The children nodded their assent and Olive stood in the wagon to view the gathering. Tables were covered with gingham checks to hold food and blankets were spread on the ground for picnicking. Olive smiled and turned to the children, telling them she had never really eaten a meal outside.

  “What?” Luke cried. “Never been on a picnic?”

  “No,” Olive laughed. Peg shook her head and bit her lip and John offered his hand to Olive.

  “I’ll help your Aunt down, John,” Jacob Butler said.

  Olive’s eyes opened wide as she for the first time was offered help from the wagon, or a chair or anything by the stone faced giant. She laid her hand in his and lifted her skirts an inch or two to see where she was stepping. Once on the ground, she looked up to his face and blinked. They stood inches apart and his eyes were boring into hers. She could smell his shaving soap and see where he had cut himself that morning. It was dreadfully intimate. And unnerving. “Thank you, Mr. Butler,” she said finally.

  * * *

  Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Who would have thought this woman had all this beautiful hair. Pulled back, soft, not severe like usual, and laying thick and rich across her shoulders. Even those silly spectacles of hers don’t look so bad, Jacob thought. And a dress to match that hair, scooped just enough to reveal soft valleys above what Jacob supposed was a good handful of bosom.

  “You may release my hand,” Olive Wilkins said.

  Jacob jumped and realized he had been drifting. He turned quickly and reached to take Mark from Mary as the girl climbed down. From the minute he and John and Luke had walked in the door of the house, Luke screaming about being late, Jacob had not been able to clear his head. Olive Wilkins wasn’t pretty. When she smiled at John as he escorted her to the wagon, Jacob realized something he’d just as well not thought of. Olive Wilkins was beautiful.

  * * *

  Olive carried her dessert to the table and cringed when she saw all the fine dishes the women had prepared. “We must look a bit weak in the cooking department,” she whispered to Mary. The girl nodded, but eyed all the goodies before her. Olive watched as Beth Steele and Florence Williams approached.

  “Olive, so happy you came. What did you make?” Beth asked.

  Olive and Mary exchanged glances. “The peach cobbler.”

  The two women turned to the table and Florence asked, “Did Jacob still have peaches put up?”

  “No, I bought them canned at the mercantile,” Olive replied.

  Florence’s eyes widened. “You bought canned peaches? They must have been dear.”

  Olive shrugged.

  “If you’re still here in the fall you come over to my house and we’ll do our canning together.”

  Olive smiled but said nothing.

  “Have you ever canned before?” Florence tilted her head and asked.

  “Well . . . no . . . I never did and I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea where to begin,” Olive said and laughed.

  The two women regarded her wide eyed and then laughed as well. They led Olive to a well-worn quilt and sat down to chat and observe the party. Mary stood shyly against the tree near the blanket.

  Florence looked up. “Come sit down Mary. You’re old enough to sit with the women. Come on.” Florence patted an empty space and Mary gingerly sat down. “When my Sue comes back, you can wander around with her for awhile.”

  Olive was grateful to the women, readily accepting Mary and they talked until Florence’s daughter joined them.

  “Sue, this is Mary. Why don’t you two go see what games they have set up for the youngins’?” Florence said.

  Sue chattered a mile a minute and soon Mary was following her. Olive listened to the fast friends as they talked women talk. Children, husbands, work, worries. Olive knew her face colored as Florence described her husband Bill chasing her around the kitchen table once the children were asleep. Beth giggled and covered her mouth.

  “Oh my,” Florence said suddenly. “I didn’t mean to make you uneasy, Olive. You not being married and all.”

  A rousing round of male laughter brought the three women’s heads around and Olive saw Mr. Butler talking to the women’s husbands while he held Mark.

  “Hmm,” sighed Beth. “That man is mighty good looking, even if he doesn’t smile so much anymore.”

  “I’m thinking he has all his parts and some to spare,” Florence added and stared.

  Olive’s eyes widened and she let her gaze dip uncharacteristically to Jacob’s crotch. One would certainly think he did have all those parts, Olive mused. He also had a magnetism that was hard to deny. Jacob Butler was the embodiment of masculinity. “What was his wife Margaret like?” she asked.

  Beth Steele’s head dropped. “She was my best friend growing up. I still miss her.”

  Florence patted Beth’s hand. “Beautiful is the first thing to come to mind, I’d say. Dark haired and small and a good wife and mother.”

  Beth lifted her head. “Everyone I know, including me, was after Jacob and who could blame them? But I can’t say I was jealous. Margaret and Jacob were a perfect match. Just perfect.”

  “Everyone thought Jacob would take a wife soon after Margaret died, three children and all, but Beth and I both think that man will never find anyone he loves as much. Or could love him as much as Margaret did,” Florence said.

  The women sat silently for a while watching the men until Florence spoke up again. “If my Bill’s any measure, that man’s got to be mighty itchy by now.”

  “Itchy?” Olive asked.

  Beth
frowned and Florence shrugged. “Oh, don’t look at me like that Beth Sinclair Steele. How long would Jack last without some loving?”

  Beth pursed her lips, but then a smile slowly lit her face. “He usually doesn’t last till bed. I swear that man gets itchier by the day.”

  Florence laughed and Olive was shocked by the conversation. What happened between men and women was never, ever brought up in conversation. It was private. Sacred. And these women, Olive could swear, acted as if a wife’s duty was . . . well, enjoyable. Since she had not married, Olive’s mother, to her obvious relief, had completely ignored the subject.

  Jacob approached the blanket, holding a sleeping Mark and Olive knew her face colored.

  “Can I lay him down here for a nap?” Jacob asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Are you having a nice time, Olive?”

  She nodded and realized that this was the first time Jacob Butler had ever addressed her by her first name. “And I think the children are having a grand time.”

  “They sure do look nice in the new outfits you made.” Jacob knelt down on his haunches. “Did I ever thank you?”

  “You made those outfits? I declare. You sew a fine stitch. I thought Peg and Mary’s dresses were store bought,” Florence said.

  “I can never get a piece of ruffle to lay like that. Will you teach me?” Beth asked.

  “I’d love to,” Olive said and smiled.

  “Jacob, we told Olive we’d show her how to can in the fall but what if she’s not here in the fall,” Florence said. “Talk her into staying and then she can teach us to sew.”

  Olive was embarrassed and stared at her hands folded in the lap of her dress. She looked up to find Jacob regarding her.

  “She can stay as long as she likes or needs to. I already told her that,” he said.

  Their eyes met and held, for a moment only, but Olive thought the skin would peel from her arms from the brief connection between them. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Butler. Jacob. I am hoping though, I can convince Mary and John to return with me soon. We’ve imposed too long.”

  “Luke and Peg will miss them. But I think Peg, especially, will miss you more,” he said.