Wildflowers - A RDR story

0.4 - Friendship

-Emerald Ranch, New Hanover, December 1898-

The air is chilly, the December wind reminding me a new year is bound to start. I can't say I'm sad to let the past year go, considering how difficult it was for me. Being locked up for months for a crime I didn't commit really made me realize just how unfair life can be.

Recently, I've been busy, which isn't surprising based on the fact that I seem to accept every job that is given to me. I've assisted Cripps in setting up our revolutionary trading company, a task that has taken up much of my time and energy. One of my jobs involves skinning animals. Their pelts are particularly popular this time of year because of the chilly weather, folk use it for coats and boots. Hence, I've been deliberately avoiding Harriet, the animal protector, knowing she would lecture me about how I "brutally kill" animals.

I've also formed a good friendship with Maggie. We share similar personalities and, of course, a mutual love for moonshine that has drawn us closer together. Recently, I helped her find a new cook since our operations rely heavily on having someone skilled in the kitchen, especially after Danny-Lee decided to betray her and steal her customers. That's when I met a French fellow named Marcel. We get along pretty well, especially since we speak the same language—though his tendency to talk a bit too much can be overwhelming at times. Nonetheless, he's been doing a great job so far.

Speaking of chatterboxes, I also assisted Maggie in breaking her nephew, Lem, out of jail. To be honest, I don't think he's stopped talking since that day, though I must admit I found myself chuckling softly at some of his jokes. It's interesting how quickly these new friendships are beginning to grow on me.

As I enter the shack where we prepare our alcohol, a small cabin partially hidden in the woods north of Emerald Ranch. Keeping a low profile is crucial—making moonshine is illegal after all. I fix my hat while making my way down the stairs towards the area where we prepare the moonshine.

"Bonjour! (Hello!)" I hear Marcel exclaim cheerfully. "Qu'est-ce que je peux faire pour toi? (What can I do for you?)" he asks me, his enthusiasm unmistakable. I'm about to respond when I'm abruptly interrupted by Lem, the other professional yapper in our group.
"Good day, Marcel! Oh, hello Ms. Watson. How's it going?" It's clear he's busy, as he's holding a stack of papers in his hands, likely indicating a busy day ahead.
"I'm doing fine, thank you." I reply and smile at my friend before turning back to Marcel. "J'ai reçu une commande; une recette à la pomme rose, tu veux bien la préparer pour moi? (I received a Wild Cider moonshine order, mind preparing it for me?)" I ask the cook politely.
"Avec plaisir! (Of course!)" He turns back to the preparation counter, making sure we have all the necessary ingredients.

"You know, when you talk together like that, I can't help but feel like you're plotting something behind my back," Lem chimes in, sounding a bit left out.
"It doesn't count as back talk if you're in the room, Lem," I tease, laughing at the scoff he lets out.
"De toute façon, I got better things to do than talk about you, Lem Fike," Marcel retorts, his focus still on preparing the order.
"Thanks, you guys, you really make me feel appreciated, you know," Lem manages to say with a hint of sarcasm, though his expression shows he's half-heartedly annoyed as he glances at the pile of papers he's still holding."Anyways, I got this letter for you. Well at least Cripps said it was for you, apparently it's from one of your friends." He hands it to me and I waste no time opening it.

The letter is from Horley, instructing me to meet him and Jones in Blackwater as soon as possible. I recall meeting Jones a couple of weeks ago; the old man is certainly a funny character. He reminds me of Cripps in a way—both of them are distinctly quirky old men.
"Thanks, I gotta go. I'll see you both later," I say, waving goodbye before heading back up the stairs and exiting the dim light of the shack.