Makin' Miracles (4 page)

She sat back down across from Zola. “I figured it was better I told you than to let you go up there and come across it on your own with no warning.”

“Do you know who lives there?” Zola bit her lip anxiously.

Nana shook her head. “No. There wasn't anyone there the day Wayne hiked up, and when he got too close to the house, a dog set up to barking. So, he came on back down here. But he did say they've not torn the land up real bad. Tried to keep things more natural-like, he said. That's a blessing, I suppose.”

Zola had trouble concentrating on the rest of the conversation she shared with her grandmother before she finally left to walk back to her own place. She kept thinking about Raven's Den. And, admittedly, grieving about Raven's Den being sold. It was her special place, and she never imagined anyone would buy it.

As she walked back home, with Posey tagging along behind her, she kept looking up toward the mountain that stretched high above the Devon Farm. Like many farms in this part of the country, the Devon Farm lay in a valley laced with creeks. The farmland spread between mountain ridges on both sides.

Jonas Creek Road, which ran alongside Jonas Creek, was the main road that cut through the valley. The two-lane road wound its way from a larger street off the parkway behind Gatlinburg to snake through the rural countryside behind Piney Butt and Cove Mountain until it drew close to the side boundary of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Over the years, as the Smokies became a well-loved recreational area, more and more roads began to climb up Cove Mountain from Gatlinburg until they reached the higher ridgetops. Chalets and vacation homes now dotted the landscape on the Gatlinburg side of the mountain, but Zola had never imagined they'd begin to creep down the north side of the mountain toward their farm. The terrain was so rugged and rocky there. So steep.

“Let's be honest, Zola,” she said out loud. “Because you laid claim to Raven's Den as a child, and because you could see it from your bedroom window and hiked up to that rocky point so many times, you just thought of the place as your own.”

She kicked at a pinecone in the pathway in front of her. “I really hate whoever built there, Posey. It's such a beautiful, natural place. They should have left it that way.”

Coming out of the woods behind her house, she glanced up the mountain once again. She couldn't see the new house from down here. But she could feel it there now that she knew about it.

“I'll have to go up,” she told Posey. “I'll have to go see what they've done to it.”

She felt a shiver go up her spine. “And I'll have to see if they've torn down my place.”

T
he morning after the episode with Leena Evanston, Spencer was up—and out of doors—early with his camera. Early morning and evening were the best times for professional photography. He took pictures of trees today, still stark from the winter but beginning to bud, and he snapped frequent shots of birds. They seemed especially joyous to see a warm day and signs of spring after the long winter. Spencer had slept fitfully last night, but being out of doors on this brisk, sunny morning soon brightened his spirits. Nature always spoke to him and soothed his soul.

When he returned, he whistled for Zeke. The dog needed his morning walk, and Spencer didn't usually take him on his early morning photo shoots. Zeke's scent spooked the wildlife, even though he was obedient to Spencer's commands when they were in the wild together.

Dog and man walked out across the ridgetop now, heading west. Spencer had discovered a woods trail winding away from his land and out across Shinbone Ridge during the fall. Over the months since, Spencer had cleared the trail more thoroughly when he found the time. This hike up the ridge, to a rocky overlook high on Shinbone Ridge, had become a favorite of his and Zeke's for their morning walks.

Back at the house, after Zeke's walk, Spencer decided to take his lunch, some animal snack bait, and his camera down to the old hut. If he sat quietly for a while, put out some treats and shared his food, he might get some good shots of the birds and squirrels that frequented the feeders. The day was cool yet, but not cold, and the sunshine drew Spencer out of doors. Besides, he needed the therapy of nature after yesterday's events.

He sensed the girl before he saw her as he wound his way down the trail to the hut perched on the rocky ledge. Spencer felt a prickling up his spine as he drew closer to the hut.

Rounding the corner, he saw her—standing by the wall of the natural shed, looking down over the valley. Hearing his steps, she turned. To Spencer's surprise, it was the girl from the shop in Gatlinburg. Tears were streaming down her cheeks in rivers, and he saw her wrestle to stop the flow of her emotions.

Spencer waited, dropping his cooler to the ground beside him and giving her a chance to wipe her face and collect herself. She was obviously upset. However, he saw the moment when she recognized him amid her crying.

“What are you doing here?” She gave him a puzzled look through her tears.

“I live here,” he said quietly, spreading an arm around in a broad gesture. “This is my property—about four miles in each direction, maybe a hundred acres at best.”

She followed the gesture of his arm, her eyes widening as he spoke. “You didn't take my hut down.” She put a hand to her heart. “I could hardly believe it was still standing when I walked up here.”

The tears flowed again. “God bless you for that. Truly. God bless you for sparing it.”

Her voice was filled with passion, and before Spencer realized what she was doing, she sprinted impulsively across the few yards between them and threw her arms around his neck. When she pulled back to smile up at him in pleasure, she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him full on the mouth.

Spencer couldn't recall if he'd ever received a spontaneous, happy kiss like this before in his whole life. Without thinking, he slipped his arms around her waist and let himself sink into her warmth, kissing her back. She tasted like cherry ChapStick and smelled like fresh apples and apple blossoms. Spencer's spirit soared. It was a moment to remember—like an unexpected photo shoot caught just as the sun came up at the crest of dawn.

He snapped the shot into his mental memory, even as he let his hands slide up to tangle in the wild mane of curly black hair that blew around her face in the breeze. Seeming to merge into his haze of pleasure, she pressed against him, letting her hands wrap themselves around his back. Spencer closed his eyes in delight. Life hadn't brought him many spontaneous, warm moments of sheer, genuine affection. And he savored this one.

Her hands patted him fondly as she stepped back from him. He looked down at her, into warm brown eyes flecked with gold from the sun. Her olive skin glowed. She was much more beautiful than he remembered.

She pushed out her bottom lip in a pout then. “Just because I'm pleased with you for not tearing down my hut doesn't mean I don't hate you for buying Raven's Den. It should have been kept natural and wild. There's something special about this place, you know.”

Spencer smiled, knowing the truth of her words.

The girl studied him. “You're aware of that, aren't you? You sensed it when you first came here. This place called to you.”

Spencer rolled his eyes and shook his head back and forth. “No more of that fortune-telling, island girl. I had enough of that yesterday.”

She paused at his words and seemed to shift gears. “I'd almost forgotten about that in our moment here.” She stepped back. “You were rude to me yesterday.”

He laughed. “And you were polite to me?” He knew his words sounded sarcastic.

She frowned at him, and Spencer regretted causing a cloud to pass over her pretty face.

He held out a hand to her. “I'm Spencer Jackson. I don't think we've been formally introduced. I've lived here in the area for five years. Before that I lived in Savannah.”

She looked thoughtful. “You're Spencer Jackson of the Jackson Gallery?”

He nodded and watched her face light up again with that spontaneous glow. “I'm Zola Devon.” She slipped her hand into his, and he fought wanting to caress it. She had an odd impact on him, this peculiar girl.

“I own the Nature's Corner store in the same mall with your gallery,” she told him. “I've had it for three years. I bought it after the former owner, Eleanor Taylor, died unexpectedly. I guess you remember her.” She grinned at him. “Small world, huh? I can't believe we've never met!”

Spencer shrugged. “I don't work in the gallery much. I spend my time out in the field and I travel a lot. Aston Parker runs the store for me.”

She interrupted him in an enthusiastic rush. “I know Aston Parker well, and Clark Venable that works with him, too. It's just amazing that we've never met.”

“Well, we've met now.” He put a hand to her face and leaned toward her again, remembering how good the kiss had felt earlier, wanting to experience it again.

She stepped back from him, evading the kiss. “Don't make more of that earlier hug than it was, Spencer Jackson. I was enjoying a happy moment when I came up here and found my hut still standing. I'd expected it to be torn down.”

Zola walked back toward the natural structure. “I'm so relieved and happy you didn't take this little place down. I know it doesn't look like much, but it has been a very special haven to me.”

“You built it?” Spencer asked, picking up the cooler to carry it into the hut. He sat it on the rustic table inside.

She nodded, looking around the little structure fondly. “I built it over the years of my childhood, here a little and there a little. I have a lot of memories about every stick and rock, every wind chime and bird feeder here. Even about each piece of furniture I dragged up here.” She pointed down toward the valley. “The trail is steep that goes down to my place below. It wasn't easy getting boards and chairs up here.”

He stepped up beside her to look down the hillside with her.

“That gray roof there—on the hillside in the little clearing in the trees.” She gestured toward it. “That's my family's place. It's my place right now. My father's in Mooréa all of the year except for an occasional holiday in the States to see his parents and family.”

“Mooréa?” Spencer struggled to pull up his geography facts. “That's the island next to Tahiti in the South Pacific, isn't it?”

“It's forty minutes on the ferry across the ocean from Tahiti to Mooréa.” She smiled. “Less if you have your own boat. My family lives near Temae on Mooréa, but the whole island is only ten miles across, so it's not far from any one point on Mooréa to any other. If you were born there as I was, and grew up there, every inch of the island feels like home.”

Spencer's stomach growled, reminding him of the time. “I brought lunch down here. Have you eaten? If not, I'll share with you. I brought a lot, expecting to feed the squirrels and the birds. I hoped to get a few shots of them while they were occupied with food.” He gestured to his camera, draped around his shoulder.

“No, I haven't eaten lunch yet.” He watched her consider his offer.

“And I'd like to stay a little longer before I walk back down the mountain. What did you bring to eat?”

He opened the cooler. “A few fried chicken legs left over from a run to the Colonel's place down in the Burg yesterday, some smoked gouda cheese, a couple of apples, bottled water.” He grinned at her. “Plus fudge from the candy store down by the gallery.”

“From the Sweet Shop?” She grinned back at him. “That did it. I'm staying for lunch.”

He laughed, enjoying her spontaneity again.

She explored around the hut while he got the food out. He divvied it up onto plastic plates he'd stuck in the top of the cooler. Spencer often fed the animals with the scraps left from his lunches, putting them out on the rock wall shelf to try to lure the wild creatures in.

“You've added two rocking chairs,” she said from behind him.

“Did I ruin the place by adding them?” He turned around to hand her a plate.

“No,” she said, considering it. “They fit right in.” She sat down in one and leaned back to rock gently, balancing her plate on the arm of the rocker.

Spencer watched the smile of pleasure spread over her face.

“Nice.” She looked up at him, her eyes still half closed. “I could never have dragged rocking chairs this large up here. And I love to rock. Always have.”

“Me, too.” Spencer sat down beside her in the other chair. “My mom once said it was the only way anyone could get me to sleep when I was small. Rocking chairs have always drawn me like a magnet.”

She bit into a chicken leg, obviously hungry.

He sat his water bottle down on the ground and attacked his own food. “How far is it from your place up here to Raven's Den?”

“One and a half miles, but it feels like more going up. It's a steep climb after you cross Buckner Branch, and you have to work your way up through the rocks when the trail switches back along the stream later. There's a nice cascade where the stream drops down over a high rocky hill. Have you been there?”

Spencer nodded.

“It's a great place. I like to swim in the pool below the cascades in summer.” She finished off the chicken leg and popped a piece of cheese in her mouth. “The downhill return is easier. If you ever come down to the farm, you'll have the hike in reverse. You'll get the hard part coming back.”

“I'm in pretty good shape.”

She cast a glance over at him. “I can see that.” Realizing she'd given him a compliment, she blushed prettily.

They ate in silence then, enjoying their food and the beauty of the day.

Leaning forward, Zola bit off a few pieces of her apple, put them on the rock wall shelf, and began to make crooning, chattering sounds. Spencer soon heard a rustling in the trees above her. He sat totally still in his seat, watching. In a few minutes a gray squirrel came scurrying down a limb, stopping to look at them.

Zola made a few more sounds and talked to the squirrel softly. “Well, little friend, I see you're still around. And that you made it through the hard winter. Look and see what I've brought you.” She put a few more pieces of apple out.

Seeming to understand her words and invitation, the gray squirrel scampered down the tree and leaped off a low branch to land on the wood shelf. He stopped and began to eat the apple, obviously comfortable with Zola but keeping a wary eye in Spencer's direction.

Spencer's hand went automatically to the camera around his neck.

Zola shook her head. “Don't try to photograph him this time, Spencer. He doesn't know you yet. Wait until he's come and been fed by you a few times, until he comes to recognize you and knows you're not a threat. Then the little noises of the camera and your movements won't frighten him off. If you try now, you'll only get one shot in before he's gone—if that. He's a fast one.”

“You recognize him?” Spencer said softly, still not moving.

Zola chattered at the gray squirrel again. “Yes. I know this one. See that little kink in his tail. I think he got into a skirmish with something once in the past. He's always had that.”

“How long have you been feeding him?”

“This one?” She thought about it. “Three years, I think. He's lucky to have lived that long. Squirrels can live six years in the wild but their lifespan is much shortened when they live in more urban areas.”

“This is hardly an urban area.” Spencer frowned.

“No. But the lure of the tourists and all the food they put out, or throw away, at the chalets and rental houses on the mountain are a big temptation to squirrels. Also where there are people there are cars—one of a squirrel's most dangerous predators.”

Spencer laughed.

As they finished their lunch, he watched with increasing delight as Zola drew in squirrels, birds, and even a lizard to the hut.

“You have a way with animals, Zola Devon. I envy that.”

She turned to lay a hand on his knee. “So do you, Spencer Jackson. If you did not have a gift for them, they wouldn't come while you're here.”

“You think so?” He liked that idea.