𝘍𝘖𝘙𝘎𝘐𝘝𝘌𝘕𝘌𝘚𝘚 𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘙𝘌𝘛𝘙𝘐𝘉𝘜𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕 | ʀᴅʀ

Chapter Four

1888, West Elizabeth: Great Plains

Rosalie slept at the Montgomery ranch that night in their guest bedroom. As nice as it was to sleep in a real bed and room with four walls, it wasn't restful. Even with her cousin and friend peacefully sleeping down the hall, she still woke in a tangle of sheets, sweat slicking her face and sticking her hair to her forehead. Her bedding was damp and faintly smelt of her anxiety-induced night sweats.

Coming out of her drowsy and somewhat delirious panic, Rosalie slowly sat up and threw her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet resting against the floorboards. Her blonde curls were loose and tumbled down her back. She rubbed her hands against her face with a deep sigh, before looking up at the ceiling with a pinched expression and placed her hands on her knees.

She was so tired. All she wanted was a full, restful night's sleep, but even the quiet ranch located in the Big Valley couldn't give that to her. Instead, her nights were filled with dreams of torment that she couldn't even recall.

Rosalie rubbed her face vigorously. She stood from the bed and opened the door, doing her best to be quiet as she crept down the hall to the living room where there were two couches and a fireplace.

Shivering, she rubbed her arms and walked over to the fireplace to start it. There was a chill in the home from the early spring morning, and she wished she had put on some socks before heading out there, her toes cold.

Tossing some kindling into the fireplace and striking a match, she fed the small flame until it roared into a fire. She squatted and shifted the logs around with the poker, her chin in her hand and elbow resting against her knee.

Being at Isabella and Louis's ranch was nice. It made her think about how she had playfully commented to Arthur years ago about wanting to have her own.

It was just a joke then, but having a place to call home, out somewhere like the Grizzlies, away from big cities like Chicago or New Orleans seemed like a nice dream. Maybe someday, when they all decided it was enough and hit one last big score, they would each pick a plot of land and build houses next to each other.

She would make sure her house wasn't too far from Arthur's, with Dutch and Hosea's nearby, followed by Mac and Davey. Maybe John would live with her, and she would have a little bedroom just for him where he could fill it with his things. They would have breakfast together, and Arthur could come over, and they could work on the ranch together.

Rosalie bit her lip, trying to ignore the fact she was daydreaming about playing house with Arthur. The idea of them owning a ranch together, feeding the sheep, painting the house—it was stupid and unrealistic. They would probably kill each other before they had any hopes of finishing a project.

Besides, there was always the problem of Mary Gillis. That woman, while resembling a ghost over the last three years, Rosalie knew Arthur sent her letters every now and again. The envelopes with curly scrawl he would receive with sheepish smiles told Rosalie well enough that Mary was writing back.

Arthur would try to hide it from her sometimes when they picked up the mail. He'd take the letters and tuck them in his pocket to read behind his tent, or he would ride ways behind her back to camp so he could read them out of her sight. It was pathetic really. How Arthur still loved her; and how Rosalie still loved him.

She was a stupid girl.

Rosalie stood up and put the fire poker back. She folded her arms, standing close to the flames as she tried to warm up, her eyes heavy from lack of sleep.

She looked up, catching sight of what looked to be a wedding portrait of Louis and Isabella on the mantel.

Rosalie picked it up, giving it a closer look as she peered at the couple.