The mountain was finally thawing; the fluffy snow condensing down into wet, icy slush. The road was mostly visible now, though the snowmelt and horse piss had immediately turned it to mud. It was ankle deep in some places, and the sucking filth had almost claimed more than one boot. The massive icicles that jutted from the rooves were constantly dripping, and a few times a day they'd crack off, skewering the ground below. One had narrowly missed Micah's foot yesterday, and his violent cursing echoed through the whole camp for at least ten minutes. Karen suspected she wasn't the only one who wished it'd found its mark.
They'd be leaving soon, though for where she had no idea. All their money was gone, at least for now, and there was an ocean of lawmen between them and the open country. She'd be glad to leave, though, no matter where they went next. Her breath crystalized in front of her as she stared out the window, watching the boys mill around doing next to nothing. Her leg bounced irritably, and her fingernails bit into her palms as she kept her hands clenched tight. Grimshaw had kept the girls doing mindless busywork, while the menfolk, and Molly, were free to idle away the hours how they pleased. It made her seethe.
In the past three days she, Tilly, Abigail, and Mary-Beth had melted pounds of snow for laundry water, washed every scrap of clothing not being worn, mended jackets and boots, and taken turns watching little Jack. She didn't really mind spending time with the boy, he was a good kid, but everything else made her want to blow her own brains out with a shotgun. She'd screamed herself hoarse fighting with Grimshaw this morning, refusing to pick up that damn sewing needle one more time, and gotten smacked upside the head for it. She'd probably have been dragged back by her hair if the old shrew hadn't been visibly exhausted as well.
Not helping matters was the fact that her flask was dry, and her cigarette box empty. She was restless, angry, and becoming a terror to be around. She could tell even Mary-Beth and Tilly were tiring of her attitude, and truthfully she hated snapping at them. They were the closest thing she had left to sisters. She wanted something to do, or someone to rob, but Dutch hadn't seen fit to take her on the only job they'd had since Blackwater. Most of the boys had ridden out hours ago, leaving only Hosea, Pearson, and Charles behind. They were robbing some train, on the tip from that O'Driscoll they'd captured.
She took in a harsh breath, hissing it out between her teeth as she pushed herself to standing. Tilly glanced up from her spot by the fire, where she sat patching Bill's extra socks.
"You alright, Karen?" She asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Fine," Karen said. "Just gotta get the hell out of here for a second."
"Whatever you say," Tilly shook her head, returning her attention to her work. "Just don't go lettin' yourself freeze, now. We're almost outta this mess."
Karen waved her off, tugging her coat higher on her chest and pushing out the flimsy door. The light outside was tinged blue, and too bright, reflecting off the snow. She blinked, letting her eyes adjust and staving off the ache that pulsed behind her forehead. She needed a damn drink.
As she had this thought, Pearson meandered past nursing a bottle. It was that vile rum he was always sipping on, but the sight of it still made her fingers twitch. Before she'd thought it through, she was trekking through the slush, following him into the makeshift kitchen. A fire crackled in the middle of the shack, and the remains of the deer Arthur and Charles had shot were strung up on the wall.
"Well hey there, Mr. Pearson," she said, leaning herself next to the fire. "How you gettin' on?"
Pearson started, spinning to face her before cracking a smile.
"Miss Karen! What are you doing out in this cold? You should be inside, you'll catch your death out here."
"I couldn't spend one more minute sewing socks today, truth be told," Karen scoffed. "You mind topping me off? Just a bit."
She pulled her flask from her skirts, unscrewing the lid and tipping it upside down to emphasize its emptiness. Pearson's glad smile wavered a bit, and she thought she saw his fingers tighten around the neck of his bottle. Of course, the man was always pleasant until you came for his liquor. She suppressed the urge to roll her eyes, instead plastering on a sweet, slightly seductive smile.
"Oh, I don't know," Pearson's expression was a guilty one now, and he shifted from foot to foot. "This is my last bottle. You're welcome to a sip, of course."
A sip wouldn't do much for her, but she wasn't about to turn it down. She batted her eyelashes, sauntering over to him slowly and taking the bottle from his hands. She raised it to her mouth, conscious of how Pearson's eyes tracked her movements, and the way his throat tightened when she wrapped her lips around the bottle. The taste was disgusting, but the burn an undeniable relief.
"Are you sure you can't spare just a little bit more?" She said, glancing up at him through her lashes. She allowed a huskiness to color her voice. "I'm sure we could work out a... trade of some kind?"
Pearson's eyes lingered on her lips, and she watched his resolve waver. Then, there came the crunching of boots from behind them and he jumped back, snagging the bottle from her hands and clearing his throat. His gaze bounced around the room, not locking on anything. She huffed a breath and turned, annoyed, to see Arthur standing in the open doorway.
He took up the entirety of the frame, his broad shoulders brushing either side of it. He had to duck his head a little to enter the space, making the small room seem even smaller.
"Hey, Pearson. Miss Jones," Arthur nodded at each of them. "Just got back from that train job, made off with some railroad bonds. Came to see if you needed me to go out huntin' again."
"Arthur!" Pearson grinned, walking over and slapping Arthur on the back. "Good to see ya. No sir, no need for more meat today. You and Charles did us right."
"Well, I think I'll just excuse myself, gentlemen." Karen made for the door, slipping past Arthur. She brushed his arm on the way by, and was momentarily distracted by the solidness of him.
He tipped his hat to her, their eyes locking for a moment as she slipped back outside. Suddenly, the cold bite of the air was a welcome refreshment. She took measured breaths, making her way across the road to find a place where she could get a moment to herself. A cigarette would be better, but she supposed beggars couldn't be choosers. She found a rock to perch herself on, rubbing her numb hands together.
Hardly a minute had passed, though, when Arthur emerged from the building. He cast his eyes around, as if looking for something, before his gaze caught on her. He tromped through the snow, giving a small wave when he saw he had her attention, and settled himself on the rock beside her.
"You following me, Arthur?" She listed her head, smirking playfully. "I assure you, I ain't all that interesting."
He chuckled; a warm, gravelly sound that shook his shoulders. Digging in his pack for a moment, he brought out a cigarette, then propped his boot on his leg and struck a match against the sole. He lit the paper, and her jealousy spiked as she expected him to take a drag, but instead he just deftly handed it off to her. She took it eagerly, inhaling deep and breathing out with a groan.
"Damn, you really know how to treat a lady, don't ya?" She nudged him with an elbow, drawing another smile to his lips.
"I heard you and Miss Grimshaw goin' at it this morning," he said, arching an eyebrow at her. "Figured I ought to spare the camp some of that fiery wrath of yours. Much as it may seem otherwise, it is in our best interest for her to make it out of here alive."
Karen couldn't help the sneer that painted her lips at the mention of Grimshaw. Rolling her eyes, she took another drag off the quickly depleting cigarette.
"Don't suppose you picked up any booze off that train you boys hit today?" She asked, hopefully. Arthur furrowed his brows. "And don't tell me I should lay off the bottle, I ain't had a sip in three days. Aside from that nasty rum Pearson's been hoarding."
"Ah, I'm not gonna tell you what to do." Arthur waved a hand in the air, brushing off the statement. "I do have a little something on me."
He opened his satchel and removed a small, decidedly ornate bottle of gin. He pressed it into her hand with a nod.
"Just don't go making yourself sick, alright?" His eyes snagged on hers again, and in the sun they were the bluest blue she'd ever seen. "I don't wanna see you get hurt."
"Your concern is touching, Mr. Morgan," she laced her voice with sarcasm, unscrewing the bottle and taking a heavy swig. "But I'm a big girl, I can handle myself."
"I do not doubt that, Miss Jones." His voice was surprisingly soft, absorbing her derision and reflecting none of it back.
He patted her shoulder, and again she was sure she could feel the heat of his hand through all the clothing that separated them. Pushing himself off the rock, he bowed his head to her again before trudging back across the road, this time toward his own cabin. Her fingers tightened around the bottle, feeling the weight of it in her hands. She took in a deep breath, tilting her chin up to the sky, then screwed the top back on and let her head fall into her hands. She stayed there a long moment, before forcing herself to stand and make her way back inside, where she'd sit down and pick up a damn sewing needle.