Tom quickly gathered a few of his belongings and decided to stay at that old house until he had time to clear his head.
After driving nearly 45 minutes, he pulled his vehicle down the long drive until he came upon a huge pasture on his left. The house couldn't be seen from the gravel road due to the trees that lined the pebbled drive. The old white house sat back from the road and a white picket fence surrounded the green premises.
Tom grabbed his bag from the trunk of the car and began to walk past the barn which used to house Grace's two horses. One horse he had remembered was named Lightning...after Louise's horse.
He took a moment to stand at the corral and imagine the horses galloping freely in the wind. The smell the recent rain stirred up the sweet fragrance of summer. It reminded him of his childhood memories and better days. Wind blew through the trees and swayed the flowers that were planted along the long path.
As Tom had reached the steps leading to the front door of that old house, he suddenly stopped as if he felt a chill run up his spine. Looking down, he noticed the hairs on his arms standing on end. This sensation struck him as odd.
The breeze of the wind picking up startled Tom. It was almost as if something was begging for his attention. He turned around and focused his attention down that long drive. With the summer heat leaving a trail of sweat on his brow, he began to squint. Almost like a mirage, he could envision a horse drawn carriage coming down that same drive.
Tom shook his head and wiped his brow as he tried to shake his uneasiness. He reached inside his pocket and pulled out the brass key that Grace had once given him. As he slowly opened the door he realized that he would no longer see the happy face that had always been there to greet him.
Tom was beginning to feel apprehensive for the first time.
The smell of Grace's perfume seemed to overwhelm him as the door began to creak open. It was nice to feel the coolness of the old house. Although the house obviously was in need of some care, the place was relatively well maintained throughout its history.
The living room was grand and welcoming and was illuminated by a large bay window. Tom was standing in the parlor as another flashback had hit him hard. He could hear the music of the organ and gentle laughter in the background. Grace had told him stories of all the social events that were held at the home.
Tom was beginning to think he was crazy. He felt as though this old house was trying to talk to him. He knew that there was so much history underneath the ground he was walking on. He supposed he hadn't come to appreciate it until Grace's passing.
Tom placed his leather bag at the base of the stairs and put his hand on the railing of the banister. He noticed the fine and fragile wood of the banister was well polished and shined as if it has just been carved yesterday. Step by step he walked up the poorly lit stairwell. He had just reached the top when he noticed a light peeking through the bottom of a door at the end of the hall.
This struck Tom as odd. To his knowledge the house had been locked up since Grace had moved into the nursing home. He proceeded to walk toward the door. With each stride, the floor boards squeaked under his feet. Tom stopped at the door and had second thoughts about opening it. It was Grace's room.
The room was filled with fine furniture, each hand-carved with perfection. Straightaway, Tom's eyes caught glimpse of the old corner desk.
Grace was always particular and tidy. Every item she ever owned was always in its proper place. As Tom started to walk over to that desk, he mindlessly started to catalog her belongings.
He couldn't remember the last time he was in this room. Grace had always deemed it "off limits" for Tom. Sure, he recalled the several thunderstorms he would crawl into bed with Grace and all those late night storytelling sessions they used to have. Grace's had also been known to start a pillow fight or two.
A thought had occurred to Tom in that moment. Out of all those years he had spent with Grace, he never once thought to ask her why she never had any children of her own. Grace came into Tom's life when she was well into her 60' and she always seemed so happy. He supposed maybe that was the reason why he never asked.
Tom was pulled out of his reverie when his eyes were drawn again to that old corner desk. He had a nervous feeling come over him as he began to pull out the chair out from underneath the desk. The chair was upholstered with a deep burgundy fabric. Like much of the house, it was worn, but still had its intricate beauty.
He couldn't shake the feeling that something, or perhaps someone, was drawing him to the desk. As Tom began to sit down into the chair he could sense the history of all the joys, pain and tears this desk had seen.
Maybe it was Grace's passing that brought all of the feelings and emotion out. Maybe it was the recollection of all of her far-fetched stories that had attracted him to find out more. Tom couldn't figure out why he was so infatuated with this house...this desk.
In all of the years he lived in Grace Donovan's house, Tom had never felt the way he was feeling in the moment. It was almost a feeling of gravity's attraction; A pulling sensation that Tom couldn't otherwise describe.
His eyes surveyed the desk wondering where to begin his search. His search? Tom didn't exactly know what, if anything, he was looking for. He just knew he couldn't resist finding out more about Grace and her past. She was indeed a mystery. He admitted to himself that she wouldn't have been such a mystery if he had only bothered to ask her about her life.
In his state of distraction, Tom didn't think much of the source of the room's light. He now realized that the light was coming not from the electric ceiling light, but rather, an oil lamp from atop the desk. "What in the world?" Tom said to himself as he touched the lamp.
The lamp itself did not feel hot to the touch. He thought for a split second that the flame was not real and in fact, was electric. But that was not the case. Looking closely he could see a small trail of black smoke coming from the flame.
Tom quickly dismissed any thought he had about the lamp when his gaze was captivated by a rather odd looking item. Tom picked up the old hairbrush. It was no worse for wear as it was an over-sized hairbrush with bent metal bristles.
He knew this was Louise's hairbrush. The one his grandmother had said she used to brush her long brown hair at night.
Tom's fingers traced the lettering of the name "Lou" written on the antique, golden brush handle. His feelings of closeness to Louise was growing as he held a part of her history in his hands. He knew that Grace had always held Louise in high regard. Louise was always in 'celebrity status' in Grace's mind.
Carefully placing the brush in its proper place, Tom's eye caught a glimpse of a little drawer that was underneath the hutch. His hands began to shake as he pulled on the tarnished knob. He was gentle so that he wouldn't harm the desk.
As he opened that drawer, he was surprised as to what he found. An single ivory envelope lay flat in the drawer with the words 'Kid' written on the front.
Tom's heart began to pound with excitement and eagerness as he held the brittle envelope in his hands. There was no postage. No last name. No address. Just the simple word 'Kid'. Tom knew exactly who Kid was. Grace didn't speak much about Kid specifically, but he was always intertwined in a story about Louise.
Tom debated whether or not to put the envelope back into the desk drawer. He couldn't explain it, but even though he was alone in the house and Grace was no longer here, he still felt like it was an invasion of her privacy.
Against his better judgement, Tom started to gently open the flap of the envelope, which was tucked, not sealed. Inside, he pulled out the brittle ivory stationary paper which matched the envelope. Being careful as to not tear the delicate pages, Tom proceeded to open the letter.
His excitement was hardly contained when his eyes gazed upon the beautiful handwriting. He initially had difficulty tracking each line because his eyes were busy soaking it all in. He had to force himself to concentrate. So at the top of the page ... he began to read.
June 30, 1862
My sweet Kid ...
A/N
As always, thank you for reading! Please stay tuned for Chapter 3! This story isn't perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but it has been fun to rewrite. I had contemplated having a beta review, but decided against it. Maybe down the road I will reconsider as I become more familiar with this site navigation.
It is a story that was written around 1998/99 but was never completed. It was posted under an assumed name on my YR fandom website, "Just Kiddin' Around". Although writing was always a hobby of mine, I was never confident enough at that time to post it under my real name. This story is still ever evolving to build a stronger plot line and to correct grammar, but the roots are still there.
'The Young Riders' fans are the absolute best and I have nothing but the fond memories of the friendships I have had back then. The untimely death of Yvonne Suhor had ultimately led me to re-watch the series, which in turn, got me reading the fan fiction again. There are so many great stories out there and I am so happy that people are keeping this series alive. I just hope everyone is able to enjoy this story as well. Please reach out to me as I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas!
Shannon