𝘊𝘖𝘕 𝘖𝘍 𝘙𝘌𝘝𝘌𝘕𝘎𝘌 | ᴘʀᴇ ʀᴅʀ2

Chapter Eight

They set up camp that evening near the river. Rosalie didn't hesitate to press the bar of soap into John's hand and push him in the direction of the waterfront once they had pitched their tents and began to set up a fire. He didn't throw a fit about it and grabbed a change of clothes, running off towards the river. He reeked and probably hadn't been given soap to bathe in a long time from his shocked reaction when she handed it over.

In the meantime, Hosea was grilling fish over the fire, the smell of the flaky meat filling the air. Dutch thumbed through a poetry book, leaning against the log Arthur was perched on, a book in hand as he sketched.

Rosalie had seen Arthur with the journal propped against his leg, pencil moving fluidly against the page on many occasions over the last two weeks she had spent with the group. He never left it unattended, almost as if he was afraid of someone taking it and looking at the contents. She was curious about what was inside, but she would hate to infringe on his privacy, so she never attempted to sneak a look or even ask. Neither Dutch nor Hosea ever seemed to comment on what he put on the pages, so she didn't think she should either. Maybe she would ask if she got a bout of courage.

For now, while John was bathing and Hosea was cooking dinner, she took the liberty of grabbing her rifle and setting up a few glass bottles ways out from camp. She was still within visible distance of their campsite, but she made sure to put enough distance between herself and the group so as not to bother them with the sounds of her rifle.

Rosalie was not impressed with her aim. She thought she was a fine shot, but when they ran into those O'Driscolls, it was painfully obvious that she was a lousy shot. She was determined to fix that.

Rosalie lay in the grass, peering down the sight as she eyed the bottles from a distance. Finger on the trigger, she tried to play her father's voice in her head when he taught her to fire a gun for the first time.

Henry's hands were warm as he hovered behind her, mirroring her stance as he held his hand under the barrel and the other at the butt of the weapon.

"Don't think too hard about it. Look down the sight at your target with it tilted up just a bit... and then let the gun do the rest." He muttered, his voice gentle, but knowledgeable. "You'll be a lousy shot at first, but the more you practice and get used to holding it, the better you'll be."

Rosalie's pudgy, twelve-year-old face was squished in concentration as she held the gun that looked much too large for her. Henry grinned, unable to help the amused smile at the focus she held. Listening to her father's instructions, she tilted the gun up and pulled the trigger.

There was a loud bang and her body jerked with the weapon. The glass bottle across the field shattered as the bullet hit its target.

Rosalie laughed, lowering the gun. "I did it! I hit the bottle!" She cheered, holding her hand up that wasn't clutched around the rifle.

Henry grinned and grabbed her by the shoulders. "Great shot!"

Rosalie pulled the trigger, the bullet flying straight past the green bottle glinting in the sunlight. She sighed and hung her head, hiding underneath her hat in pure embarrassment.

If her father saw the way she was shooting now he would never have let her hear the end of it.

"That was a lousy shot," Came a voice from behind her.

Rosalie looked over, scowling at the sight of Arthur, who was squinting at the bottle across the field under his hat. He had his journal tucked under his arm and pencil in his fingers, the other hand placed against his waist.

"Can I help you?" Rosalie gave him a not-so-nice look. "Go back to drawing if you're gonna just be annoying." She turned back to her rifle, peering down the sight as she aimed for the bottle again.