𝘊𝘖𝘕 𝘖𝘍 𝘙𝘌𝘝𝘌𝘕𝘎𝘌 | ᴘʀᴇ ʀᴅʀ2

Chapter Four

Rosalie had a rough night. She caught barely a wink of sleep, tossing and turning in her bedroll as a sweaty mess from the nightmares that haunted her. Images of fires roaring high, the sound of her father's coughs, and the smell of iron from his blood. These scenes of that horrible night were overwhelming, dragging her away from any hope of getting proper sleep. After she had decided she wasn't going to get any rest and that lying there was futile, she forced herself to dress in her black button-down and black pants, grabbing her father's hat before exiting her tent.

The early morning sun had barely risen over their campsite, just peeking over the hills. The clearing was still dark, the sounds of the birds just beginning to chirp as they awoke.

Rosalie sighed, glad to see that no one was awake yet. It was quiet, snores coming from Dutch and Hosea's respective tents.

While the conversation last night around the fire was nice, she didn't feel like talking much after the night she had. Endless tossing and turning left her with a terrible headache, a heaviness in her eyes as trudged across the clearing toward the waterfront at the edge of the campsite.

Rosalie sighed as she reached the beach. She set her hat down on the ground beside her and rolled her black shirt up to her elbows. Gathering water in her hands, she splashed the cold liquid against her face, rubbing her eyes in an attempt to wake herself up.

The water was nice against her skin. It was doing a fine job of making her feel more awake, but it would have been nice to get actual sleep in place of the wild tossing and turning she dealt with last night. The night sweats and dried tear tracks on her face this morning led her to think there were more nightmares than she remembered.

Rosalie rubbed a hand against her brow bone, squeezing her eyes shut as she tried to ignore the heaviness in her heart.

She missed her father so much. She would do anything to talk to him. She would be fine with having a conversation about anything, really. Even one concerning something stupid or menial; just a friendly conversation.

Maybe they would talk about the waterfront. How calm it looked just before the sun rose, birds barely making any sounds, as even nature hadn't fully risen for the day yet. She and her father were both early risers, something she came to cherish as she got older. Her father wasn't much of a hunter, but he would tell Rosalie stories of how he and her uncle Kurt would go fishing as boys. They would get up to lots of mischief, Kurt usually coming up with diabolical plans that would get them in trouble with their mother.

Uncle Kurt would still be snoring deep into the morning, though. No chance would he be awake to comment on the beauty of the early morning. But Rosalie cherished the alone time she got with her father.

Or the alone time she used to have with him.

Her heart clenched in her chest, the grief constricting her insides. It was physically painful to think about the loss of her father and uncle. It was still hard to fathom that her family members were murdered in cold blood by someone pissed off by a poker game. The entire situation felt like a sick joke.

She hoped Dutch would stay true to his promise about giving the O'Driscolls what they deserved.

Rosalie heard footsteps from behind, pulling her out of her thoughts. Still squatted on the beach, she looked over her shoulder to see Arthur approaching her with two tin cups. She hadn't spoken to Arthur much, so to see him approaching her was a surprise.

"Mornin'." Arthur greeted, his boots crunching the river rock and sand at the waterfront as he came to stand beside her.

He wore blue jeans and a dark yellow button-up, pants pulled over his black boots. His gunbelt was strapped to his waist, revolver holstered there. His pants were dirty and probably hadn't been washed for days, but his yellow shirt was clean enough, only the bottom covered in dirt, most likely from him wiping his hands off.