The Road to Paradise

by Karen Barnett

  Margie pushed the blanket aside and swung her feet to the floor. Best retrieve the dessert and toss it outside. Maybe the animal would follow. She reached for the box of matches she’d left on the bedside table after her hopeless encounter with the fireplace. Pushing open the box with clumsy fingers, she fumbled with the small wooden sticks.

  The crunching paused, replaced by the scraping of an item being dragged across the desk.

  The cheeky little devil’s absconding with the entire thing. Margie ripped the match across the rough surface, ignoring the irritating smell of the igniting sulfur. The light flared for a second before fading to a manageable level. She stood, holding the match in her trembling grip.

  A pair of beady charcoal eyes stared across the desk at her. The monstrous creature sat on her journal, its girth nearly covering the book’s length, her favorite fountain pen clutched between its front paws.

  Margie shrieked as the flame died.

  Ford jerked upright in the darkness. A mountain lion? His pulse quickened as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. He jumped from the bed, taking a moment to yank a pair of trousers over his wool union suit before shoving his bare feet into the waiting boots.

  He grabbed the rifle from the pegs over the door and paused, listening. He didn’t mind the big cats, but this one sounded too close for comfort. When the second shriek split the air, the sound ricocheted through his cabin. Not cougar—woman. His throat clenched. He’d rather face the cat.

  Ford retrieved a flashlight from the shelf and raced for the door. Throwing it open, he clomped down the steps. The light split through the darkness as he swung it in a slow arc. Mrs. Brown? Or that new city girl? He opted for the latter.

  He hurried to Miss Lane’s door and hesitated. Quiet, whimpering cries reached his ears. Ford’s stomach twisted, and cold sweat formed between his shoulder blades. He tucked the rifle under his arm and rapped on the door. “Miss Lane? You all right?”

  A soft gasp was followed by a short, choking cough. “Yes, come in, please!”

  He swallowed, glancing behind him. He turned the knob and pushed the door inward. “I thought I heard—”

  “Over here—on the desk. The light, please!”

  The beam washed across her figure as she hunkered beside the bed, her hand gesturing to the desk. He swung the flashlight about, pointing it in the direction she’d indicated. A stack of books lay on the desk beside a half-eaten cookie. He aimed the shaft of light up and down, searching the corners of the room, unsure what he was looking for.

  She took a long breath. “It’s gone.” Miss Lane bent down, scooping up a pile of matches scattered across the wood floor. “Where’s it gone?”

  “What?” Ford frowned, turning the light back to the woman. “What could possibly be so frightening that you’re screaming like a banshee?”

  Miss Lane straightened, her face drawn. She folded both arms across her midsection and scowled. “It was the largest rodent known to man. Now, shut the door, you’re letting all the cold air out.”

  Ford rubbed a finger across his eyes. He must still be asleep. “You mean in. I’m letting cold air in.”

  “It’s colder in here, don’t you think?” Little puffs of condensation rose from her mouth as she spoke.

  Ford glanced at the fireplace. “Looks like your fire went out. You need to bank it better.”

  She pulled a quilt from the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Actually…” she sighed, sitting down on the mattress with a thud. “I never got it lit. Maybe the wood was too green.”

  A smile pulled at his mouth. “You don’t know how to light a fire?” Didn’t everyone?

  She struck a match and touched it to the wick of the oil lamp sitting on the small table. “I understand the basics. The wilderness survival manual explained it.” She shrugged, replacing the glass chimney. “But we had a maid who always took care of the fires.”

  Ford hovered in the doorway. Enter a woman’s room alone in the middle of the night? What would the men think? He leaned the rifle against the wall, leaving the door open wide. Jamming the flashlight in his pocket, he strode to the fireplace. “Toss me the matches, would you?”

  She stood and carried them the handful of steps to his side. “Bless you.”

  Crouching down, he began to rearrange the logs. When they resembled a log cabin, he tucked some slivers and crumpled paper into the center and touched a match to the paper. As the flames crept upward, the heat prickled against his face.

  Ford closed the matchbox and held it out to Miss Lane. “When that’s good and hot, add some bigger pieces. But don’t smother it.”

  Her icy fingers brushed against his as she took the container.

  He frowned, fighting the urge to take her hand in his and rub some warmth into her skin. “You’re cold. Come closer to the fire.” He backed away so she could take his spot. Reaching for the desk chair, Ford noticed the fountain pen lying askew on the floorboards. He scooped it up and placed it on the desk next to her cockeyed pile of books. A line of crumbs trailed off the edge of the wooden surface. No wonder she was attracting rodents. The place was a mess.

  He dragged the chair to the hearth. “Best not keep food sitting around like that.”

  Miss Lane covered her mouth with a hand as she yawned, the firelight silhouetting her slight frame. “I didn’t intend to. But I also didn’t realize you grew rodents out here the size of Massachusetts.” She sank into the seat.

  He frowned. If she couldn’t handle a little deer mouse, she wasn’t going to be staying long. “Part of the territory, I’m afraid. You’re in their home now.”

  She pulled the quilt tight about her arms, the pink fabric matching the flush in her cheeks. “I understand. It won’t happen again.”

  “Yes, it will.” Ford slung the rifle over his shoulder. “But next time you won’t scream and wake me up. Not unless it’s a bear or a mountain lion.”

  She struggled to her feet, the quilt puddling at her heels. “That’s—that’s not likely, is it?” The flickering light exaggerated the shadows in the room.

  Forcing himself to look away from the woman’s nightclothes, he hurried to the doorway. “Out here? You never know who’s going to come knocking.” Ford pulled the door closed behind him, the image of her pale face making him smile. She’d be packed by morning. Maybe then things would return to normal.

  Ford gripped the coffee mug with both palms, willing the hot brew to give him some strength. The sound of Miss Lane’s scream had triggered the familiar nightmares, images of his father’s climbing accident haunting him until the wee hours of the morning. This time she’d encountered a mouse, but what if something worse happened? A single woman shouldn’t be living alone here. He glanced around the long table at the four men shoveling scrambled eggs and pancakes into their mouths.

  Jennings leaned forward, grasping a fork. “So, what’s she like, this woman? I missed supper last night, didn’t get a chance to say hello.”

  Ford grunted, staring over the rim of his cup. Morning conversation was best limited to the day’s itinerary.

  Carson smirked, fiddling with the silver park-service pin on his collar. “She’s a tomato, that’s what. Wouldn’t mind having a girl like that to keep me warm.” He reached for another strip of bacon.

  The room silenced as Mrs. Brown marched in from the kitchen and plunked a steaming pot of oatmeal onto the table. “There’ll be none of that kind of talk in my dining hall, Ranger Carson. Miss Lane is a lady and will be treated as such. About time you fellows learned a little culture. You’re like a pack of wolves.”

  Carson licked grease from his fingers. “More like bears after a long winter.”

  Ford lowered the cup. “You heard her, Carson.”

  The man scowled. “I wouldn’t think you’d be excited about this bird waltzing in and nicking one of our jobs.”

  “Miss Lane’s here as a favor to the superintendent. She’s not replacing anyone.” Ford reached for a spoon. He might be the youngest
man in the room, but since he’d served in his father’s post for two years now, the others had grown accustomed to deferring to his authority. “And she’s a bit nicer to look at than your ugly mug.”

  The door swung open. Miss Lane stepped inside, her cheeks pink, eyes downcast. “I apologize for being late. I’m afraid I overslept this morning. It won’t happen again.”

  Ford pushed to his feet, the other rangers following his lead.

  Mrs. Brown rushed to welcome the newcomer. “Don’t worry, we’re very casual in the mornings. You come whenever it suits you.” She tilted her head toward Ford. “Though the boss may disagree.”

  “We won’t be leaving for another twenty minutes or so anyway.” Ford’s breath wedged in his chest as he caught a clear view of her attire. “What kind of—” He swallowed, then gestured at her clothes. “What exactly are you wearing?”

  Miss Lane closed the door behind her. She lifted her chin, brushing a gloved hand across her slim legs. “Not unlike what you are wearing, I believe, Ranger Brayden. Riding breeches.” Her long forest-green coat did little to obscure the tan trousers and glossy boots.

  “We’ve got a truck, Miss Lane. We’re not going on a fox hunt.”

  She settled a hand on the tailored waist of her coat. “I saw a photograph of a lady ranger in Yellowstone. She wore a standard issue uniform, complete with badge and Stetson.”

  Carson chuckled. “This ain’t Yellowstone.”

  Ford cleared his throat. “I don’t think breeches will be necessary for your duties. You’d probably be more at ease wearing something less”—he tore his attention from her well-defined legs—“less unusual.”

  Jennings pulled out a seat for her. “It makes sense, if you ask me. You can’t expect her to plow through the woods in a skirt, now can you?”

  Miss Lane beamed. “I’m quite comfortable, thank you.” She sat in the offered chair.

  Ford pushed himself back into his seat, suddenly anything but comfortable.

  The other men made swift work of their remaining bites and rushed to excuse themselves. Within minutes, the room had cleared, a strained silence lingering in the air. Ford itched to join them, but he’d told their visitor he’d escort her up to Paradise this morning.

  Buttering a slice of toast and nibbling at its golden-brown edges, Miss Lane didn’t seem to notice his discomfort. She hummed a familiar tune under her breath. A hymn?

  Ford scraped his spoon across the bottom of the bowl for a last mouthful of oatmeal. “Yellowstone has lady rangers?”

  The woman raised her head, eyes lighting up. “For several years now. And Yosemite, too.”

  Ford’s dad had hired a young woman to work at the Nisqually gate back during the Great War, but only to issue entry permits. Rangers were expected to be big men who could fight fires, cut trails, fell timber, and apprehend poachers. How could a lady do any of that? “A few of the men’s wives help out from time to time.”

  Miss Lane sipped her coffee. “I hope to do more than help out. I’ve dreamed of working here my whole life.”

  “All—what? Seventeen years of it?”

  She straightened. “I’ll have you know, I’m two decades, plus three years.”

  Two decades…Ford did the math and frowned. That made her only three years younger than him. Then again, it seemed he’d aged a lifetime in the past couple of years. “Why were you so set on working on the mountain?”

  Her lips pressed together. “God led me to this place, Ranger Brayden. The beauty of His creation speaks of the Father’s love. If I can get one person to see God at work in nature, my mission will be complete.”

  “One person?”

  She set down the cup and folded her hands. “Yes.”

  He swiped a napkin over his mouth. “We’d better get to it then.” With all the eccentrics visiting the mountain lately, she was sure to find someone to listen to her spiritual claptrap.

  Any sensible fellow could see the majesty of the place—but a show of God’s love? A single careless step on this mountain would teach you how little attention God paid to the humans who walked its slopes. His father was proof of that.

  Margie choked down her toast as Ranger Brayden reached for his hat. He’d promised to take her up the road to Paradise today, and her spirits rose like the thermals. Hopefully the few bites of food would last her until the noontime meal.

  She pushed back her chair and stood, retrieving the camel-brown hat she’d chosen to complement her forest-green jacket. She’d rather wear a Stetson like the men, but the cloche would have to do until she could prove her worth.

  Mrs. Brown bustled into the room. “Everyone done already? I swear, these men eat faster than a flock of scrub jays. And about as neatly, too.”

  Margie paused. “Should we stay and help you clean up?”

  The portly woman clucked her tongue. “Of course not, dearie. You two young folks go do what you’re being paid to do. This is my lot in life. I’m too old to go traipsing through the wildflowers. Though I had my day.” She laughed. “Me and my Harry used to walk those meadows hand in hand, back when we was youngsters. Don’t tell him I told you.” Her skirt swished as she bent over the crumb-strewn table. “Never dreamed I’d grow so old and creaky.”

  Ranger Brayden touched Margie’s arm, jerking his head toward the door.

  Margie set her plate back on the table. “Thank you for the wonderful breakfast, ma’am. It’s most kind of you to feed us all.”

  The woman laughed. “You are a sweet thing. No one ever stops to thank me.” She paused, a stack of dishes balanced in one arm. “You’re going to be a good influence on these men; just wait and see.”

  Margie followed the ranger outside, pulling the door shut.

  The man strode toward a dusty Model T truck. “If we’re heading to Paradise, we shouldn’t delay any longer. I know it’s June, but there’s still plenty of snow at that elevation. Are you going to be warm enough?”

  Margie trotted to match his long gait. “Yes, I think so.” She’d had the coat made out of the finest merino wool. “What will we be doing when we get there?”

  “There won’t be many visitors around, so I’ll give you the tour. Show you around the Paradise Inn, the Guide House, and the ranger station. That sort of thing.”

  Margie’s heart skipped, and she fought to keep her feet from doing the same. She waited as Ranger Brayden opened her door. Margie climbed inside and reached as though to tuck in the edges of her skirt, a lifetime habit. She settled her hands atop her knees as the door slammed shut.

  The ranger took the spot behind the steering wheel, and the seat springs squeaked under his weight.

  Margie tilted her head to examine the driver as he guided the vehicle onto the road. She’d told him her age, but she could only guess at his. Ranger Brayden’s unlined face and thick hair suggested he was younger than many of his coworkers. And yet, Superintendent Brown had introduced him as chief ranger over the park. Either the man had started his career at an unimaginably young age, or he’d shot through the ranks. Or perhaps he was just a good example of Mendelian genetics. Without meeting his parents, she’d never know. Margie tucked her fingers into her coat pocket. “Do you spend much time at Paradise, or do you primarily serve at Longmire?”

  He seemed to inspect her for a brief moment before returning his attention to the road. “I do a little of both. I go where the visitors are, so in the summer months that tends to be at Paradise. I make visits to our other stations too—Carbon River, White River, Mowich Lake, and some of the fire lookout towers. The rangers who work the more remote outposts live most of the year by themselves. I spend the winter months catching up on things at Longmire.”

  “And what happens to the Inn during the winter?”

  “We have a live-in caretaker who keeps an eye on things. But the place can be buried to the roof peaks sometimes.”

  “Have you ever wintered there?” Margie closed her eyes for a moment, imagining a quiet, snow-covered scene.

&n
bsp; “Not for the whole season. A little too desolate for my tastes.”

  Margie sat back, watching the scenery slip past. “Sounds like heaven to me.”

  He chuckled. “You might not say that after a few days of isolation. It’s complete silence except for the roof timbers creaking under the weight of the drifts and the mice scurrying about in the darkness.”

  She buried her fingers in her pocket. It would take some time to live down her reaction last night. “The animal in my room was not a mouse. I checked my guidebook.”

  He cocked a brow. “What do you suppose it was, then?”

  “I believe it was Neotoma cinerea.”

  “Care to translate?”

  The man rose to the post of chief ranger without understanding basic Latin names? “Bushy-tailed wood rat.”

  A grin spread across his face, a dimple showing in one cheek. “A pack rat, you mean?” He laughed, swiping a palm along his jaw. “No wonder you looked so alarmed. Those critters can get pretty big.”

  A smile tugged at her lips, but she tucked it away. “I tried to explain that to you. I checked my book this morning, and the author described what I witnessed as a wood rat. I remember the beast having a hairy tail, not those naked rat tails people typically describe.”

  “Welcome to forest life. Missing any jewelry?”

  Margie touched the spot under her coat where her pearls normally resided, but she’d placed them into her trunk for safekeeping. “No, I’m not much for ornamentation. But I did find my fountain pen out of place. I think that may have been its intended target.”

  He nodded. “Best stash it in a drawer. Those pack rats are known to make return visits.”

  Margie wrinkled her nose, burying her fingers in the wool collar as a prickle ran down her arms. She’d hoped for intimate views of wildlife, but she hadn’t anticipated her first encounter being Rodentia. She didn’t care for the idea of a whiskery roommate. “Perhaps I can discover some way of discouraging him. Find his entrance and block it.”