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There's something about seeing the gentle green curves of the Blue Ridge Mountains shouldering themselves out of the Shenandoah River Valley that makes her think John Denver really just got it. As much as she enjoys the bustle and life of a city, she loves this place; the oaks and chestnuts lining the ridges, the river curling below like a lazy snake.
She hadn't given Bucky any details about where she was taking him and he hadn't asked, but now, as the Quinjet swoops low over the woods surrounding the house, she wonders if maybe she should have just given him a heads up.
She sets the Quinjet down in a grove of birch trees about five hundred yards from the house itself and leads Bucky along the neatly maintained path. From this distance she can hear the musical gurgling of the stream another few hundred yards below the house as she takes a deep breath of the crisp mountain air. Songbirds chirp and twitter; leaves whisper a soft susurrus in the light wind.
There's no one around for miles. He'll be safe here, for a little while.
As the trees thin, a large brick house comes into view. The garden's grown slightly wild, she notes, and the porch swing and Adirondack chairs are still tucked away in the shed, but the place looks good.
Of course, she's a little distracted by Steve Rogers doing his best to pace a hole into her white stone driveway, a motorcycle parked nearby. When he sees them, he stops and stares.
"Hey," she says. Damn, she's going to need to break out the good liquor tonight. "We made it."
She hadn't given Bucky any details about where she was taking him and he hadn't asked, but now, as the Quinjet swoops low over the woods surrounding the house, she wonders if maybe she should have just given him a heads up.
She sets the Quinjet down in a grove of birch trees about five hundred yards from the house itself and leads Bucky along the neatly maintained path. From this distance she can hear the musical gurgling of the stream another few hundred yards below the house as she takes a deep breath of the crisp mountain air. Songbirds chirp and twitter; leaves whisper a soft susurrus in the light wind.
There's no one around for miles. He'll be safe here, for a little while.
As the trees thin, a large brick house comes into view. The garden's grown slightly wild, she notes, and the porch swing and Adirondack chairs are still tucked away in the shed, but the place looks good.
Of course, she's a little distracted by Steve Rogers doing his best to pace a hole into her white stone driveway, a motorcycle parked nearby. When he sees them, he stops and stares.
"Hey," she says. Damn, she's going to need to break out the good liquor tonight. "We made it."
