A narrow stairway led up to what must be a small loft. The ranger’s office, perhaps? The building seemed cramped for park headquarters, but perhaps these men didn’t spend much time indoors.
She wandered over to the hearth, running her fingers across the smooth gray stones. Volcanic andesite, probably hewn straight from the mountain, like Ranger Brayden himself. Doubt curled around her heart. Who was she to think she might belong here? Mama had argued against Margie’s decision, and running home would only prove her right.
She lowered herself into one of the waiting rockers, the chair creaking as she sat. She’d do whatever it took to prove herself worthy of this position.
After all, going home was not an option.
“Harry, she won’t last a day.” Ford dug his fingers against the weathered porch rail.
“Lower your voice; she’ll hear you.”
Ford spun, grinding his heel into the floorboards. “I don’t care what she hears. What were you thinking?”
Superintendent Brown raised his hands. “Give me a minute to explain.” He pulled off his large hat, smacking the brim against his palm. “I know you’re not going to approve, but frankly the brass don’t care. We’re struggling to make ends meet. The feds make the rules, but they don’t like to pay the bills.”
“What do bills have to do with this woman?” A twinge pulled at his neck, already sore from poring over the ledger books. He didn’t need Harry to tell him they were in trouble.
Brown stepped close, glancing toward the doorway before returning his attention to Ford. “Her daddy’s Senator Thomas Lane. When a wealthy tycoon with Washington connections asks you a favor—”
“And greases your palm?”
His boss scowled. “Let’s say, a few donations crossed my desk. Not for my pocket—for new park facilities. We’re stretched thin after putting up the new community center in the campground. And you still want that administration building by next year?”
Ford lifted his head, staring up at the moss-blanketed roof. The building wasn’t that old, but it had been poorly planned. His father had dreamed of erecting a two-story log building with a wide porch designed to welcome weary travelers. If only they had the money. “What are we supposed to do with her?”
Brown folded his arms across his ample girth. “She’s working for you, even if her father is paying the bills. She can make nice with the visitors, teach them about the flowers, the trees. The senator assures me she’s very knowledgeable.” He grunted, jerking his chin toward the small parking area. “She can give Jennings a hand with the naturalist programs. Let her give some talks, show people around. Quote poetry.” He rolled his eyes. “Trust me—I heard plenty on the way up here.”
Ford pinched the bridge of his nose. “How long? And where’s she going to stay?” A young, dark-haired beauty living among his men? It sounded like a recipe for disaster.
“You’ve got empty quarters, and I’m betting she’ll be ready to return to civilization in a few weeks. But Ford, don’t do anything to hurry things along. We don’t want her running home to Daddy in tears. Understand?”
As a Douglas squirrel chattered in a nearby tree, the sound rattled in Ford’s head along with his boss’s demands. “This scheme is doomed and you know it, Harry. I’m not the man for this job—entertaining little rich girls? I’m not cut from that sort of cloth.” His mouth went dry. “It’s bad enough we have to pander to the townsfolk who come out on the weekends—now they can demand work?”
“You want to keep your job? Continue living here in the park?” Brown’s bushy eyebrows folded inward. “Find a way to make it work. Show her a good time.” He snorted, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Who knows? Maybe she can turn you into a gentleman.”
Ford gritted his teeth. “Unlikely.”
Ford hoisted the lady’s trunk from the rear bumper of the superintendent’s vehicle. The weight caught him off guard, and the box slid from his grip, dropping into the dirt. Muck splattered across his boots. “What have you got in this thing? Granite?”
Miss Lane blinked at him with deep brown eyes. With the hat framing her pale face, the woman resembled a cornered barn owl. “I wasn’t sure what I would need, so I erred on the side of caution. Likely as not, I overpacked. I usually do, I’m afraid.”
He reached around the box with both arms, grasping the leather handles before heaving it to his shoulder, smearing his uniform with mud. “I didn’t know dresses weighed so much.”
The woman laughed, her lips forming an impish smile. “Not dresses. Books. I brought Forests of Mount Rainier National Park, The Glacier Playfields of the Mount Rainier National Park, Features of the Flora of—”
“I see. Well, there’s only so much you can learn from books.” Ford turned and plodded down the path. She may be well read, but he guessed she couldn’t tell the difference between a raccoon and a spotted skunk. Might be fun to find out.
She caught up a moment later, her short legs matching his stride. “That’s why I was so eager to come and study with you.”
“Study…with me? I’m no teacher.”
“Not with you, exactly. But someone like you. One who speaks the language of creation—who can hear the whispers of the waterfalls, see the secrets hidden in the soulful eyes of the black bear…” she lifted her hand to gesture to the surrounding forest. “To sit at the feet of a master.”
What kind of fairy world had Margaret Lane dropped out of? He looked her up and down. Clearly, she’d never been in close quarters with a bear. Ford turned away, the weight of the box crushing against his shoulder.
Ford’s mother had passed when he was just a boy, and he’d spent precious little time with women since. He vaguely remembered her bedtime stories of forest sprites, but this was the first time he’d met anyone meeting their description.
The woman’s skirt swished as she trotted at his side. “I’m determined not to waste a minute of this opportunity. I shall soak in the timeless wisdom of the forest primeval.” She beamed. “And I shall endeavor to live up to your expectations, just like any other ranger.”
Ford halted a few feet from the cabin door. “You are not a ranger. Is that what Harry told you?” The twinge in his spine grew talons.
She took a step back. “Not in so many words. But Superintendent Brown said I’d be working for you, so I assumed—”
“You assumed wrong. A person—a man—has to earn the right to that title. We don’t just hand out…” Ford caught himself, Harry’s warnings still ringing in his ears. “You’re not a ranger. Just a—a naturalist. And here on trial, at that.” Ford tromped up the cabin steps and dropped the box at the door. The sharp sound echoed through the stillness.
Margie stared at his back. “A naturalist.” The word coursed out from her heart to her fingertips, like a flower unfurling in the morning light. She clutched the small leather bag containing her journal to her chest. She couldn’t wait to record the day’s events on its crisp pages. The first thing she’d do would be to inscribe her name on the inside cover. Margaret Lane, Naturalist.
She hurried up the steps, her foot slipping on the damp, lichen-crusted wood. Thankfully, the ranger’s eyes were focused on the open door. She recovered and joined him in the doorway, peeking around his arm.
A musty scent hung in the still air, the chill of the room untouched by the filtered sunlight outside. A narrow bed and spindly three-legged table sat in one corner, while a bookshelf, desk, and a shabby bureau lined the opposite wall. Wooden shutters covered the lower reaches of the windows, casting shadows across the colorless room. Margie swallowed. If Mama could see this cabin, she’d demand the superintendent’s immediate resignation. Good thing she’d never deign to visit.
He grabbed hold of the wooden trunk and dragged its muddy base across the floor. “These quarters haven’t been used in a while. Sorry if it’s not what you’re accustomed to.”
Margie took two steps and turned a slow circle. If she aired the room, swept the floor, spread
her pink quilt on the sagging mattress—it would still be a hovel. But surely, Thoreau had known worse. “It’s quite cozy. Rustic.”
His brow lifted. “That’s one way of putting it.” He glanced at the fireplace. “I’ll let you get settled in. Do you need me to light the fire for you?”
“I’m sure I can manage.” How hard could it be? Even cave men could build fires. She scanned the room. “Where do you keep the wood?”
“There’s a pile out behind headquarters. I’ll have one of my men bring you some.”
“And—and for cooking?” Margie’s stomach twisted. In her urgency, she hadn’t thought through all this adventure might entail. Was she to cook over an open fire like a pioneer? Her parents had always employed both a cook and a housekeeper.
“Mrs. Brown cooks for the men at the community kitchen, two doors down. Just listen for the dinner bell.”
The stitch of tension in Margie’s shoulders eased. “Ah, I see. Good. And when should I report for duty?”
The man scuffed the toe of his boot across the mud tracks as if seeing them for the first time. He pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his short hair, setting it on end. “Tomorrow morning, eight o’clock. We’ll head up to Paradise, take a look around before any visitors arrive.”
Chills crept up Margie’s arms. She’d been to the Paradise Inn once as a child and had dreamed of little else since—a carpet of meadow flowers stretching up to the flanks of the peak, a mountain of impossible grandeur dominating the skyline. She sucked in a quick breath. How would she ever sleep tonight? “ ‘The mountains are calling, and I must go.’ ”
His forehead furrowed. “What?”
She swallowed. Quotations had a way of springing to her lips before she could stop them. “So said John Muir, the great naturalist.”
“Oh.” He swiped a hand across his chin. “All right, then. Dress warmly, it’s still snowed in.”
“I’ll be ready.”
He gave her a sharp nod, shoved his hat back over his hair, and turned for the door. “Dinner’s usually around six-thirty. You can meet the men.”
“I’ll be changed by then. Thank you.”
He hovered in the doorway, mouth open. “We don’t…” His Adam’s apple bounced. “We don’t dress for dinner. Nothing special, I mean. It’s just supper.”
Margie smiled. His awkward fumbling with words was endearing. “I understand.” Did he think she was going to show up in an evening gown? She just wanted to put on something warmer than this thin dress. Margie shivered, drawing the sweater snug around her sides.
As the door closed behind the tall fellow, Margie glanced about the stark room, a far cry from her parents’ grand home overlooking Commencement Bay. She’d grown up seeing Rainier framed by her bedroom window. Now she’d live on the mountain itself—who cared about the state of the housing? It was a dream come true, regardless of the real reason she came.
She folded back the wooden shutters and stared out at the hemlocks and firs, their supple limbs nearly brushing the glass. Pushing on the casing, she jarred the swollen frame upward. The sweet smell of damp forest flooded her nose, chasing away her doubts. The air might be chilled, but at least it was fragrant.
Margie turned and faced the room. A well-worn broom stood in the corner. She might have been raised with housemaids, but a broom didn’t seem too difficult to decipher. After a little effort, she kicked up a choking cloud of dust and succeeded in driving most of it toward the door. The rest escaped through the cracks between the floorboards. An old handkerchief from her trunk proved useful for wiping down the desk and shelves.
Margie tucked her neatly pressed garments into the aging bureau, then hung a few items on pegs embedded in the log walls. Drawing her favorite quilt from the box, she buried her face in the soft folds, losing herself for a moment in the scent of home. She spread the quilt over the bed and topped it with a plump feather pillow.
The room already felt more welcoming. Margie dug into the depths of the box and retrieved handfuls of books. She stroked a finger down each well-loved spine before finding honored places for them on the lonely shelf. She set her three favorites—Our Greatest Mountain, Flowers of the Sub-Alpine, and Wildlife Encounters of the West—on the small desk, ready for an evening read. She added her Bible, caressing the leather cover before placing it on the wooden surface. At last, she retrieved her satchel, lifting out her journal and the pen and pencil set from Daddy. She placed it on the stack, like the cherry atop an ice-cream soda.
Margie studied her new home. Above her roof were tall, stately fir trees. Inside she had her quilt and books. What more could she need? And best of all, she was miles away from Philip Carmichael. She shivered at the thought. If deer could conceal themselves among the trees, so could she.
Scooping up the journal, she went outside and sat on the stoop. After flipping to the first open page, she sketched a tiny image of her new home and inscribed her favorite Bible verse underneath: “But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”
Margie paused and listened to the sounds—wind toying with the evergreen boughs, a squirrel chittering a complaint, the faint buzzing of an insect—the heartbeat of the forest. She closed her journal, sighed, then stood. A playing card dropped from one of the pages, fluttering to the step. Scooping it up, she recognized the distinctive goldfinch pattern from a deck her father kept in his study. He knew how much she loved the design. Had he tucked it in her journal to boost her spirits? She ran a finger across the sweet yellow bird before flipping it over.
Philip’s even handwriting across the front of the ace of hearts made her heart stutter.
“Margaret, I hold all the cards.”
As Ford pushed away from the table, the red ink in the ledger books seemed to mock him. He hadn’t signed on to be a ranger to worry about money. He closed his eyes, letting his thoughts drift back to hiking the Tatoosh Ridge with his dad four years ago, watching his father point out each of Rainier’s rocky crags in the distance. “It’s God’s mountain, son. We get the honor of watching over her and protecting her.”
No one had protected him, two years later.
That climb. A cold sweat tracked across Ford’s skin at the memory, his throat closing. I should have stopped him. The mountain cared for no one. Not even its staunchest defender.
Ford clutched his half-empty cup and wandered over to the open door. The late-afternoon sun dropped to the edge of the treetops. High over Rampart Ridge, the white dome of Rainier glowed in the light, and the long shadows accented the texture of its crumpled glaciers.
His father’s mountain.
Harry chose the wrong man to fill his dad’s boots. Ford wasn’t cut out to protect a mountain any more than he could safeguard the people who roamed its flanks.
Ford glanced across the meadow to the ramshackle cabin perched at the far end. His mood lightened as he remembered the woman’s dismay at seeing the shack. He’d intended to have the old place pulled down this summer, since they’d built new housing on the other side of Longmire. Hopefully its lack of creature comforts would shorten her stay.
He leaned against the doorframe and sipped the lukewarm coffee as the early evening chill sent shivers across his arms. The last thing he needed was one more person to keep watch over.
Margie burrowed deeper under the covers, the icy air stealing her breath. The wool stockings did little to stave off the chill. She’d already pulled two sweaters over her nightgown, in addition to the wool blanket and quilt. If the stack of wood in the fireplace had cooperated, this wouldn’t be a problem. Instead, her palms stung with splinters, and the hearth remained cold.
She blew against her fist, the warm air bringing momentary relief. The cabin might be frostier than an icebox, but at least Philip didn’t know where she was. She wouldn’t let his menacing words ruin this first night in her mountain hideaway.
A
rattle in the darkness scattered Margie’s thoughts. She lowered the quilt below her nose and peered into the gloom as weakness spread through her arms and legs. Someone’s in here.
As if in response to her thought, something skittered across the floor.
A mouse. Tiny. Harmless. Margie yanked the covers over her head. She could probably survive a prowler of miniature proportions.
The claws scrabbled through the cabin, pausing every few seconds. The more she tried to ignore the disturbance, the harder her ears labored to locate its position. What if it came up on the bed? Did mice climb? Jump? She hadn’t bothered to study the smaller creatures inhabiting the park. Margie rolled to her side, hauling her knees close to her stomach. She’d read up on them tomorrow.
The scratching noise moved again. Was there more than one? She jerked upright. Perhaps if she made some racket, the creatures would leave.
“Go…” Margie’s voice faltered. She cleared her throat. “Go away. This is my home now, and I’m trying to sleep.” She clapped her hands together, the sharp sound cutting through the stillness.
The rustling halted.
The night air penetrated her wool sweater like frosty fingertips. Margie yanked the sweater tight around her arms, shoving her hands under its folds. “Thank you. Good night.” Her voice echoed off the log walls.
She flopped back on the bed, gripping the patchwork as a shield against the darkness. I’m talking to a rodent. Wiggling her numb toes, she tried not to think of her warm bed at home. Tomorrow she’d find every crevice and stuff each one with rags to prevent nighttime visitors. That might prevent her from freezing, as well.
The skittering renewed, clawing at the corners of Margie’s consciousness every time she drifted off. She groaned, folding the pillow around her ears. The padding did little to muffle the new sound—crunching. Mrs. Brown had insisted she take an extra cookie, even though Margie had already eaten enough to feed a whole logging camp. No wonder the mouse had come inside. Who could resist a good snickerdoodle? The men at dinner had carted off handfuls of them.
The Road to Paradise Page 2
