𝘍𝘖𝘙𝘎𝘐𝘝𝘌𝘕𝘌𝘚𝘚 𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘙𝘌𝘛𝘙𝘐𝘉𝘜𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕 | ʀᴅʀ

Chapter Nine

TW: Mentions of suicide 

1890, West Elizabeth: Big Valley

John and Mac took Louis' body back to the ranch. They buried him beside Isabella's grave, the night somber and full of pregnant silence. No one knew what to do or how to react to the terrible scene they came across outside of camp, the funny stories and boisterous drinking were long gone, even for the following days after the event.

While the others thought of Louis' death as a terrible thing to happen, a tragedy to become of the Montgomery couple, to Rosalie, it was the nightmare that haunted her every waking second. Even when she closed her eyes, she couldn't escape it, Isabella's bloody body in Louis' arms, followed by her revolver in his hand before pulling the trigger. It was horrifying—all of it.

After her sobbing hysterics in Arthur's arms, she had passed out from exhaustion, it being the first time she had slept through the entire ordeal. He put Rosalie to bed in her tent, tucking her into her cot, and there she stayed for days, barely moving or eating a thing.

It was reminiscent of when she killed Cormac, but much, much worse. At least then, she drank and maybe stumbled around a bit to amuse herself somewhat. This time, she barely moved, her tent seemingly empty until taking a look at her cot, where she laid with her back to the tent entrance.

There were a couple of times that those who came to check on her thought she may have even been dead, the only clue that she was still alive was the slow, shaky rise and fall of her back.

John was taking it hard. He was much older than the last time this happened, but it was still not easy for him to see Rosalie wasting away inside her tent, barely moving or giving signs that she was still alive.

He would stand in the entryway, his expression pinched, unsure what to say or do, before someone would come over and usher him away to do something else so he didn't stare for too long.

It wasn't until two and a half weeks went by that John really said something to someone else about it, fed up with how things were carrying on.

"Are we really jus' gonna wait around till she bounces back?" John asked Arthur at the edge of camp. "Because at this rate, I don't think she's gonna."

Arthur sat at the base of a tree as he sketched. He looked up at John's question with a frown, before returning to his drawing. "I ain't sure what else to do. Dutch n' Hosea ain't got a clue either. She ain't drinkin', so that's the only good thing outta this."

John scoffed and threw his hand up as he cast a glance over to Rosalie's tent. "Well, I almost wish that she were. I don't like it, Arthur. She ain't movin', speakin' or gettin' up to do anything. Hell, I barely see her leave her tent to take a piss."

Arthur stopped sketching with a deep sigh. He dropped his pencil against the page, defeated. "I don't know, John. She saw her cousin shoot himself in the head. That ain't somethin' you can jus' bounce back from."

John didn't like that response. He wanted more effort than that.

"Have you talked to her at all?" John asked. "I tried, but she won't respond. Miss Grimshaw and I have been bringin' her meals, but it's lucky that I come back to see any of it eaten."

Arthur grimaced and looked off to the side, a bit ashamed at his answer. "No. 'Sides when I held her while she was screamin' her head off n' put her to bed, I haven't." He admitted.

John scoffed again. "You can't be serious. Am I really the only one who's tried to talk to her? Me, outta everyone?" He asked.

He was baffled that he seemed to be the only one with some semblance of emotional intelligence right now, and that was saying something, since he usually never had a clue what was going on with feelings. The working girls he fell for at the saloon could vouch well enough for that.