Bluebells on the Hill (4 page)

Softly she sang the words to the tune, over
and over. That would have to do until she could put it down
permanently on paper.

As if awakening from a dream, she stopped
suddenly and took stock of where she was. She had wandered a long
distance from the highway. Directly before her was another bridge,
a wooden one this time. It looked old and somehow not substantial
enough to bear any weight. She climbed up from the stream bank to
stand on the planking. The road leading to it was graveled, not
paved.

Oh, oh, she thought. From behind her came the
roar of a familiar engine.

Resignedly she stood her ground as the old,
gray pick-up rounded the bend, slowing to a stop at the bridge's
edge.

'You're trespassing,' came a voice she
knew.

Walking up to the window on the driver's
side, she replied, 'I know. I was following the stream up from the
highway. No harm done.'

The green eyes studied her. His jaw had not
relaxed. Amanda's spirits sank.

'I didn't bother anything,' she said
quietly.

'Never said you did,' was the reply. 'Get in
and I'll take you up to the house. I have something to talk to you
about.'

Why not? She walked around to get into the
truck. It might be interesting to see where the dreaded Mac lived.
She smiled at her fancy. Dreaded Mac indeed. He was only a
bad-tempered, cross old man. Well, she corrected herself, not so
old either, maybe thirty-five or so.

She slammed the door and they started. The
bridge creaked ominously to Amanda's ear, but Mac seemed
unconcerned. Once safely across, she looked eagerly about her as
the drive continued through the forest, climbing gently.

'You on something?' he asked.

'What?' She swung her gaze to him.

'Meth users and drug addicts wear sunglasses
all the time to protect their eyes from the sun.'

'Well, I'm not on anything!' she snapped.
'Millions of people also wear sunglasses just to cut the sun's
glare.'

'Yes.' He did not sound convinced.

Amanda gave him a hard look. Gone was the
tranquility, the exhilaration she had felt on her walk, the delight
with the new song. Oh, drat the man, he was irritating!

The truck ground up a final, steep rise,
coming to rest on the plateau before a large house.

Amanda sat spellbound. The house was
rambling, with lots of glass. There was no question why: the view
was breathtaking. The land fell away on the far side of the house,
to open up the vista for endless miles. Tree-covered mountain after
tree-covered mountain rose in the distance, a bluish haze blurring
their outlines, blurring, but by no means obliterating. In the far
distance, lofty snow-capped peaks raised their heads, gleaming
brightly against deep blue sky. Amanda was breathless with the
beauty of it.

To the right, some distance from the house,
were stables and corrals. Horses raised their heads to look at the
truck. But she didn’t notice, she was fascinated by the setting of
the house.

'Come on in, I'll get you a drink or
something.' Mac got out and waited in front of the truck for her to
join him.

Amanda reluctantly opened her door. She would
much rather just drink in this view. It was fantastic! She had
heard the Sierra Nevada range was considered one of the loveliest
mountain ranges in the world. Vistas like this one would certainly
reinforce that opinion.

Meekly she followed Mac into his house,
vaguely aware of music as they approached the door. Opening it, Mac
muttered something and strode in ahead of her.

It was the first time outside of a rehearsal
hall or review session that Amanda had heard herself sing on a
record. She cocked her head, smiling, listening. It wasn't bad.

'Shut that thing off!' Mac roared, slapping
his hand on one of the doors leading from the main room.

Almost immediately, the sound diminished.
Diminished, but was not extinguished.

Amanda looked at Mac with surprise. Was it
the song he disliked, or music in general? Maybe just the volume.
It had been loud.

Mac continued to the back of the room,
pausing to glance back at Amanda still by the front door.

'You can move, you know. What do you want to
drink?'

She bristled at his comment. Graciousness
obviously was not one of his traits. 'Coke,' she replied.

When he left the room, she exhaled a sigh of
relief. Why was she so uptight in his presence? Granted, he rubbed
her the wrong way, but that was no reason to let him get to her.
Get hold of yourself, girl, she admonished.

Refusing to let his remark rankle, she moved
slowly into the living room. It was casually furnished, with good
quality, rugged pieces. The upholstery on some of the furniture was
bold and distinctive, vibrant blues and golds contrasting with the
dark, natural wood. It was pleasant and inviting. Amanda thought
someone other than the disapproving owner must have decorated
it.

She was drawn to the window on the left wall.
It was large, wide, overlooking the view she had seen from the
truck. Amanda stood in awe. The distant mountains rose to the sky,
acres and acres of trees blanketed the nearer ones. From this
vantage point, she realized the land did not drop off abruptly on
the far side of the house, but rather gradually descended until it
again met the forest. Two fenced fields with horses dozing in the
afternoon sun encompassed most of the grassy area stretched out
behind the house. To the far right, she could glimpse the barn.

She heard the firm stride of his step as Mac
returned. Turning from the window, she moved to the sofa quickly
sitting, watching him warily as he entered the room.

He had a Coke can and glass in one hand, a
beer in the other. Seeing her, he raised an eyebrow.

'We're inside now, no sun.' He looked
pointedly at her glasses.

Raising her hand, Amanda pushed them firmly
up on her nose, not tempted by his taunt. The door on the opposite
wall opened and a tall, lanky teenager emerged. Faint strains from
another of her recent records wafted out.

'Turn that thing off, can't you?' Mac growled
out.

The boy looked at him and smiled
cheekily.

'Yeah, but when it's finished. Who's this?'
He turned to Amanda. He was tall and very thin, with reddish hair
and pale blue eyes. Amanda judged him to be near sixteen years of
age, but couldn't be sure. She was not particularly good at
guessing ages.

'I'm Mandy Smith.' She stood and held out her
hand. Would he recognize her from the CD cover?

'Probably made up,' he replied, winking at
her, grasping her hand in a firm handshake.

'Is that what you think?' Amanda was
surprised. Good heavens, he was as bad as Mac!

'Not me,' he protested laughing.

Amanda spun to Mac. 'Is that what you think,
then?' When he made no reply, she continued, 'At least I gave you a
name. I don't know yours.'

'You do, you said it the other day at
Cora's.'

'Mac, that's all, and I guessed that. Don't
you have another? A first, or last?'

'Oh boy, that's good! So much for teaching me
manners, Dad,' the boy jeered.

Dad! This was certainly a day for surprises.
Amanda looked from one to the other. Father and son. They didn't
look it, except for maybe height. Mac was much more substantial,
more rugged. The boy's features, while still youthfully immature,
were more finely drawn. She wondered how old Mac was, she would
have to revise her estimate. He didn't look older than thirty-five,
yet to be the father of this boy ...

'My apologies, Miss Smith. I'm John Mackenzie
This is my son, John-Michael,' Mac replied in an angry voice.
Turning to his son, he continued, 'Did you get the stable mucked
out like I asked?'

'Yeah, it's done. I'm going to get a Coke.
Don't let my old man bully you, Miss Smith.' He smiled at her,
swung wide when passing his father, headed to the kitchen.

Mac put the drinks on the table before the
sofa. 'Want a glass?'

'No, the can is fine. Do you have any other
children, Mr Mackenzie?'

He smiled sardonically. 'Mac'll do. I have no
intention of calling you Miss Smith for the short time we'll know
each other.'

She took a long drink of the Coke, letting
the provocative remark slide. What did he want? Why was she here?
She glanced at him again, glad for the sunglasses sheltering her a
little from him. His presence was overpowering. She needed all the
defenses she could muster.

Mac removed his hat, tossing it on a table
near the door, running the fingers of his right hand through the
flattened copper-colored waves. Amanda felt an involuntary stirring
of interest. He was devastatingly attractive. She hadn’t noticed
his hair before because of his hat. What a striking combination
with his tanned skin and green eyes. Did the man realize it? Was he
aware of the sheer animal magnetism he radiated?

Amanda didn’t like him, but couldn't help
herself wondering what it would be like to be kissed by him, to be
held in his arms . .. Stop it! She took a long sip of Coke, forcing
her eyes away, forcing her thoughts elsewhere.

He sat in a chair near the sofa, motioning
her to resume her seat. Gingerly, she sat on the edge, conscious of
the rising tension in the room.

'I won't beat about the bush. I want your
property. I thought Cora had let you rent it to torment me, but on
checking with Martin and verifying it in the county records in San
Andreas, I find the property now belongs to you. I want it. How
much?'

Amanda took another sip. 'It's not for sale,'
she said quietly.

John-Michael entered the room with the loose-
jointed gait peculiar to teenagers the world over. He paused,
looking at his father, then Amanda.

'Did I interrupt something?'

'No.' Amanda took a final sip, putting her
can down. 'Your father wanted to talk about buying my land. It's
not available, so end of conversation.' To Mac she said, 'Thanks
for the drink. See you.'

She rose and smiled at John-Michael. 'I love
your taste in music,' she said with secret delight. She was
chancing recognition but she couldn't resist.

Mac also rose, but no smile crossed his face.
'Is that your final word? Not for sale?'

She nodded.

'I think you should reconsider.' Was it a
veiled threat?

'You have such a way with words, Mr.
Mackenzie. Is that a threat?'

'No, just advice.'

'I'll keep it in mind. I'm going now. Thanks
again for the Coke.'

Amanda moved determinedly to the door. So
much for the MacKenzies. She knew he wanted the land, now he knew
it was no more available to him than it had been under Cora.

'Goodbye, Miss Smith,' John-Michael
called.

'Bye.'

Amanda was a hundred yards down the drive
before she realized she hadn’t met Mrs. Mackenzie. Nor, come to
that, even heard her mentioned. Was she away? Or was there no Mrs.
Mackenzie? She shrugged. What did it matter? She would probably not
see much of her new neighbors.

She paused once again to let her eyes take in
the beautiful view, a quick glance at the modern house, before
setting off for home, drawing peace and strength from the serenity
of the land she was passing through. Soon the words to the song
crowded her mind again. Amanda quickened her step. She wanted to
write them down before they faded away.

CHAPTER THREE

Amanda strummed the chord again; again. Now
from the beginning. She played the melody more confidently this
time, sang the new words softly, under her breath. No, this part
still wasn't quite right. Still didn't flow as well as the rest.
She tried another string, another chord. She could hear it in her
head, why couldn't she get it right on the guitar? It was
frustrating.

'Hello.'

Amanda looked up from her concentration to
see a horse and rider on the main drive. John-Michael Mackenzie,
mounted on a large chestnut horse.

'Hi, come on over,' she invited, putting the
guitar aside. She pushed her glasses on her nose, turned the paper
over and watched as John-Michael rode up, dismounted and tied his
horse to a post of the railing.

'I didn't know if you'd be home or not,' he
said, joining her on the deck. He was already over six feet tall.
Amanda wondered if, when he had filled out, he would approach his
father's size.

'Especially to a Mackenzie,' he added with a
grin.

'Why not to a Mackenzie? I only know two of
them and one I think I could like.' Amanda smiled. 'Have a
seat.'

'You play the guitar?' he asked, picking it
up and strumming a few times.

'Yes, do you?'

'No, I don't play any instrument. I'd like
to, though. I can sing a little. Is it hard to learn?'

'No, it's not. I could start you off, if you
like. Much of it’s self-taught, if you stick with it, practice
every day. Do you have a guitar?'

'I could pick one up in town. When can we
begin?' He strummed again, then looked up eagerly.

'Now.' Amanda rose, came around and stood
behind him, positioning his hands, placing his fingers in the
correct position on the strings.

'These three fingers on these three strings,
thus,' she pressed the fingers, 'are the C chord. Now strum.'
John-Michael did so several times, nodding his head.

'Now,' she rearranged the fingers, 'try that;
it's G.'

He did, his face lighting up with pleasure.
'I can hear the difference. I'm playing!' He continued to play C
and G, alternating back and forth, strumming fast, now slowly, a
look of pure happiness on his face.

Amanda sat back and watched him, remembering
when she’d first learned, the excitement she’d felt, the joy of
actually making music. She still experienced some of that each time
she played and sang. Love of music was not something one
outgrew.