He had not been able to vanquish the vision of Olive in his arms, even as Jack had droned on and on about her house as he helped his friend hitch his wagon. Jacob closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep, when a picture of Olive, slowly revealed itself. He squirmed, as the image formed, wondering if she had the long thin legs, he envisioned. Her skin would be the milky color, maybe even paler, of her face and he knew it would be as soft. She had full breasts, he could tell, as he held her against him and he swallowed, thinking those breasts, high and soft, rose tipped, he imagined, were just feet away, covered in thin cotton. Jacob ached as he laid still, and the throbbing beat a drum roll to his head. He stood slowly, to not wake the children and padded softly to the kitchen. He knelt in his long-john bottoms and reached under the sink to a bottle of whiskey he hadn’t touched since Margaret’s death. As he knelt and held the bottle, his thumb moved slowly over the faded yellow paper of the label.
