When Time Stands Still
Chapter 5
July 1, 2001,
Dear Mrs. McCloud,
I've stared at this blank page for the longest time, wondering where to begin — wondering whether or not I should begin. I never realized how hard it would be to start a conversation with someone I've known about my whole life but never actually met — a conversation with someone I know I'll never meet.
Yet, here I am.
Never in a million years did I think I'd be back here at the ranch— back at the place where life as I know it started.
There was a time in my life where I thought running away from this place was the answer, always keeping one step ahead of the pain. It's fascinating how fate plays out in our lives, everything having a reason. That's what everyone says anyway. I suppose maybe one day I'll wake up, and all of this will make sense. In the meantime, I just sit here, pondering my life with great sadness.
Tonight, I came across the heartfelt letter you wrote to your husband — your letter that was hidden within your desk. Forgive me as I mean no intrusion, but I feel as if your letter was meant for my eyes to find.
It appears that you and I have a lot in common, experiencing loss at such a young age. After my parents died, I felt like their death followed me around like some unwanted shadow, a cloak of grief that always hung over my shoulders.
Sure, the sun would come out every now and then, offering its ray of hope and the promise of better days, but with every silver lining came that one dark cloud, leaving me vulnerable and all alone.
It's a sensation I've never been able to get rid of — a constant reminder of the lingering heartache and regrets I hold inside, the loud void that is heard when your life continues to go on without them.
I'm convinced there are mountain-top experiences in our journeys through this world, and I realize the importance loss has played in my journey — it has shown me what is precious. It has taught me about unconditional love, and for that, I guess I can only be grateful.
I suppose it is this story of love, loss, and regret that urges me to write to you tonight.
Her name was Grace.
She was a special woman — a woman who took me in when I needed a home, loved me when I needed to be loved, pushed me when I needed direction, believed in me when I didn't believe in myself.
I'd hate to think of where I'd be today if it wasn't for Grace's selfless sacrifice, something I've taken for granted all these years. If I'm honest, I don't know where I'd be today if it wasn't for you, ma'am.
It was because of you and your enduring love, that I was loved. A love that transcended throughout the generations. And for that, I am eternally grateful.
Along with your peach cobbler...I'm grateful for that too!
Sincerely,
Thomas J. Parker
Lou froze in place, her breath shallow as she held the letter in her hands. So many emotions were written across the peaks and valleys of her face — anxiety, sadness, fear — helplessness.
"2001?! What?...But how?!"
She rubbed her hand over her forehead, her brow creased together in confusion. She tried hard to focus on the letter, to steady her trembling hands but found it difficult to concentrate with the sound of her heartbeat thrumming in her ears.
She closed her eyes as a profuse feeling of nausea washed over her, the ever-present metallic taste in her mouth giving her fair warning to have the washbasin handy.
"Oh, Lord, not again."
Quickly leaning forward, she twisted her hair off to one side, trying hard not to succumb to the urge to vomit, the cold sweat making her hair stick to her skin.
Lou splashed cold water on her face, the water dripping down her wrists and forearms, making small puddles onto the vanity. She inhaled deeply through her nose, exhaling even slower, letting a controlled breath out through her mouth, repeating until the wave of nausea passed.
Holding a towel to her cheeks, she stared at the pale, thin woman in the mirror. All the certainty — all the bravery she used to have back in Sweetwater and Rock Creek had seemed to fizzle, leaving her limp and nervous.
At seeing her own rawness, her vulnerability, tears brimmed in her eyes. She tried to blink them away, but one fell, sliding down her cheek.
She listened to the low tones of the rumbling outside as she sat back down at the desk, her mind wandering to the mysterious letter, more specifically, the words that were articulated within.
The letter had undeniably left her unnerved, but the words — those formidable words rocked Lou to her very core.
"...death followed me around like some unwanted shadow, a cloak of grief that always hung over my shoulders. Sure, the sun would come out every now and then, offering its ray of hope and the promise of better days, but with every silver lining came that one dark cloud, leaving me vulnerable and all alone."
"Vulnerable and all alone."
The words resonated, stinging her with its power. So much of what the letter had said Lou had lived, observed, and experienced throughout her entire life. It was as if his words had originated from her own mind.
It took everything within her to withstand the urge to reach for her gun that was securely holstered and strapped around the bedpost. Every part of her being was telling her to lash out, defend herself, — to fight. After all, it was her privacy that had been violated.
But the letter showed no malice — no hatred or hostility. Instead, the message itself conveyed great sadness and grief, a feeling of something she herself was all too familiar with. It allowed her to soften, it drew her in — compelled her to do the unthinkable even when logic told her otherwise.
"This don't make any sense." She said, staring at a blank page in front of her, pen in hand.
"Then again, there are a lot of things in this world that don't make sense."
July 1, 1862
Dear Mr. Parker,
To say I was utterly shocked when I found your letter tonight would be a great understatement. Not many people in my lifetime have been able to render me speechless, yet you seemed to have done this with such ease.
I don't know who you are or how you could have known there was somethin' in my desk to be stolen, but you have somethin' of mine that don't belong to you, and I'd be much obliged if you would return it.
I'm hopin' when I wake in the mornin', this will all have been some strange dream. In the event it isn't, I wish to give you fair warnin' that I am quite skilled with a gun. I've killed men before, lots of 'em in fact, and if provoked, I'll have no qualms about doin' it again.
From the likes of your letter, it appears you are an amiable person — a person who seems capable, perhaps well educated. I wish to show you I can be just as accomodatin', and as long as my wishes are seen to, I don't wish you any harm.
I understand with your history of grief and loss, you may not be seein' things for what they are — perhaps this is why you possibly had mistaken me for someone else or have written the date in the letter incorrectly?
I can also attest to you with certainty that I have never known you or any woman by the name of Grace — just as any person who knows me can affirm that I can't cook!
So while you enjoy your peach cobbler, Mr. Parker, assuming that is your real name, this recipe you speak of sure as hell wasn't from the kitchen of this Louise McCloud!
Respectfully,
L. McCloud
Lou sealed the letter, placing it into the desk's compartment, concealing the area once again by sliding the drawer back into its space. She sat back in the chair, folding her hands in her lap, her fingers fighting the urge to reach in and tear the letter to pieces.
"You're a damn fool, Louise."
Looking down, she directed a casual conversation to her belly, "Pay no mind to what I said before, I think your mama might be crazy, after all."
Lou gave a heavy sigh, shaking her head as she stood from her seat at the desk. She walked over to the bureau, sliding her house robe off, replacing it with one of Kid's old blue shirts.
She always loved seeing him in this color, the way it brought out the softness in his eyes, remembering how the vivid color always set him aside from all the other Express boys, making it easy for her to spot him when he came in from a run. Lord, she missed those days.
Wearing his shirt was a last-ditch effort to feel part of him here with her, a corner of her mouth lifted, knowing it wouldn't be long before she would start to feel another part of him — their growing child.
She breathed in the familiar smell that was Kid. On any other night, the scent brought about a pleasant combination of sandalwood soap, cardamom, and horse — a scent that could calm her, make her feel as though his arms were wrapped tightly around her. But tonight, the aroma left her wanting to reel and retch, making her take the shirt off, replacing it with her own white cotton nightgown.
Lou exhaled forcefully. Exhaustion had long set in, her eyes were on fire, red and raw, burning much like embers refusing to die out. She leaned over the desk, lifting the glass globe of the oil lamp, shielding her breath as she blew out its golden flame.
The flashes of lightning outside her window served as a poor surrogate for the summer's moonlight, casting eerie silhouettes throughout the room. The sky was no longer heavy or full of anger as it was earlier in the evening, and the rain had now dissipated into a light mist.
She opened the window, savoring the breeze on her cheeks. It was cool and refreshing— nothing like the usual stifling humidity after a Virginia summer rainstorm.
Lou tried hard to let the wind carry away her thoughts, but scoffed, knowing her mind was never an easy thing to suppress.
Walking to the bed, she sat, removing her gun from its holster, her head falling back against the soft pillows, tucking the six-shooter underneath for close keeping.
Lou felt the tide of her tears rise again, threatening to take her captive, holding her hostage until her sleep came to bail her out, but she knew she wouldn't get that lucky.
She turned her head toward the empty spot in her bed, running her fingers over the cool sheets where Kid's warmth should have been, her bed never felt so empty as it did right now.
Since finding out she was pregnant, she had missed Kid now more than any other time they had ever been apart. Their unborn child was her ray of light between storms as if the hope of a baby softened the hard edges that war and life could bring. But every time she felt that twinge of happiness sneak in, something bad always loomed on the horizon.
Lou craved something tangible, anything that couldn't be taken away from her, but all she could see was her dreams of happiness and joy retreating into the distance.
She desperately wanted this war to be over, to have Kid safely at home with her. She longed for the opportunity to be able to place their child in his arms every night, to watch him grow in his new role as a father. She wanted the chance for them to give life — the chance for them to give love.
After all the pain and suffering, all the hell she's had to endure in her life, didn't she deserve at least that? Somewhere deep within her mind, she heard a small voice telling her she could be happy.
She deserved to be happy.
Tears streamed down her face, burning her cheeks. She rolled to her side, closing her eyes tightly, trying hard to rid the pain that was in her mind and in her heart. The flashes of lightning that illuminated the bedroom were now visible through her closed eyelids.
What was once bright flashes of white light, slowly became a faded amber glow — a color that was familiar, warm, and inviting.
Lou opened her eyes, gazing through her hot tears, everything liquid and shimmery. She blinked until the room came into focus, astonished when she looked up and saw the oil lamp ablaze, fully lit once again atop the corner desk.
She boosted herself upright, crossing the room in two strides. The loaded gun was still in her hands, her knuckles white as her hand clenched tightly around its grip.
"What in Sam Hill is going on here?!" She muttered under her breath, mesmerized as she watched the burning flame.
She slowly sank down into the chair, her gaze shifting to the compartment within the desk.
She hesitantly reached for the drawer in front of her, pulling it toward her cautiously.
Lou's hands began to shake when her finger found the lever, flipping the switch that opened the secret compartment. Her mind raced as she thought of the possibilities of what would or wouldn't await her when she opened the door.
A whole world of emotions skittered across her face when she saw a new letter had appeared.
She looked around the bedroom as if to make sure there were no witnesses to her derangement before reaching in and pulling out another envelope that, once again, had her name on it.
Dear Mrs. McCloud,
I've tried to imagine in my mind how all of this could have transpired, but my logical nature has only shown me the thousands of reasons how this shouldn't be possible. All I can ask of you is to believe me when I say the date in my original letter is correct, the year I live in is 2001.
The only explanation I could come up with is that for some reason the connection between us is so strong that we're able to talk to one another across the chasm of time. That's what I choose to believe, anyway.
I hope you will accept my sincerest apology as it was never my intention to invade your privacy. In hopes of making amends and showing you that I am the amiable, capable, and well-educated person you suggested I was, I have enclosed the original letter you had written to your husband, Kid.
He's a lucky fellow having someone special to care about him the way you do, and I know for a fact that your letter will boost his spirits and morale, just as receiving your letter has already boosted mine.
If I haven't utterly terrified you, please, sit at 'our' desk and write again soon.
Thomas
P.S. It's a shame if that peach cobbler wasn't yours, it's the best-tasting thing this side of the Rappahannock River.
"Our desk?..." Her heart started to beat faster, her brow knit together in confusion, perplexed by the meaning of his words. So many thoughts entered Lou's head of how this could be happening. Her eyes scanned the letter, swiftly blinking in hopes the words would just disappear from the page, only to find her eyes weren't deceiving her.
"Peach cobbler?!... What is so special about a damn peach cobbler?!" She asked herself as she peeked into the envelope, relieved to find her letter to Kid tucked within. She sat there for a long moment, pulling Kid's letter into her chest for added protection — biting her thumbnail as she contemplated what to do next.
She needed an explanation.
Dear Mr. Parker,
I appreciate your kindness in the prompt return of my letter. You can't begin to imagine what this means to me.
I can't help but feel you hold an advantage in knowing all about my life, and I know none of yours.
Who are you, and how did you come across 'our desk'?
Louise
Lou stared at the drawer and waited, biting her nail as her knee incessantly bounced up and down — tell-tale signs that her nerves were getting the best of her.
Her patience ran thin as she waited for a response.
When it came moments later, her body lunged forward, eager with anticipation.
"Who am I? I'll start by introducing myself. My name is Thomas J. Parker. I now occupy the homestead that is known as 'The McCloud Ranch' — your ranch. I acquired this house as well as the land when my grandmother, Grace McCloud Donovan, recently passed away."
Questions swirled in Lou's head. Picking up her pen once again to write:
"I'm not sure I'm following you correctly. You said Grace was a McCloud? So if Grace was your grandmother…"
"That means Grace McCloud Donovan was your granddaughter." He interrupted, waiting eagerly for her response.
But a long silence ensued.
"Mrs. McCloud?"
"I...I don't understand. How can this be happenin'?" Lou's question was timid, her concern apparent.
Thomas remained thoughtful for a beat longer, carefully choosing his words in order not to scare her away.
"Ma'am, I may not have the answers as to why or how we are able to communicate like this. Hell, I'm not sure I want to know the answers to these questions even if given the chance, but I think there is a reason we are both sitting here writing to each other tonight."
He paused.
"It's like Grace used to always say...Surrender to what is. Let go of what was…"
"...and have faith in what will be," Lou said, finishing Thomas's sentence, surprised at how easily the words seem to flow onto the paper.
"That's what Teaspoon used to say."
"Well, I'm not sure who this 'Teaspoon' is, but I'd say that is some sound advice, don't you think?"
Lou was quiet, her thoughts scattered in the wind.
"I...I, but doesn't this scare you?" She asked, her voice subdued.
"Absolutely! I think I'd be a fool if it didn't! But if I'm being honest, I think this could turn into a special opportunity, maybe even a blessing. And besides..."
He paused, letting out a breath, finding the words within him to speak from his heart, "I could really use a friend... Grace was all I had."
Lou's pen hovered over the page daring to pull away at any moment, but as the ink touched the page, her words began to flow freely, "I can't believe I'm going to say this, but I could sure use one right now too."
He cleared his throat, quickly changing the subject, "However, this presents me with a slight problem."
"And what problem is that?" She asked.
"Well, being from Virginia, I was raised to be a true southern gentleman, taught to respect my elders, always call them by their proper name — by ma'am or sir." He stated.
"Then I'd say you were raised right, although don't give yourself too much credit, everyone knows it's common sense to respect your elders. How's this a problem?" She spat, wondering where Thomas was going with this.
"Mrs. McCloud, how old are you?"
She scoffed.
"Nevermind what I just said about your manners! Don't you know it's never polite to ask a woman her age?..."
She quipped, the corners of her mouth lifting into the slightest smile as she suddenly found herself amused.
"...besides, that ain't none of your business!"
A puff of air escaped Thomas's nose, shaking his head as he could distinctly hear Grace's voice in his ear as he read Louise's words.
"My dilemma is... I'm a man in his thirties, but technically speaking, well, you're my great-great-grandmother. If we are going to continue writing as...well, as we are now, how would you suggest I address you? Mrs. McCloud? Ma'am? Grammy Louise?..." He asked, knowing darn well his question would provoke a snarky response.
"Grammy Louise?! Oh, Lord!"
She gave a lighthearted laugh, paying mind to how good the laughter felt. She paused, giving Thomas her sincere response,
"My friends just call me, Lou."