“I’m not sure that’s how she’ll see it.”
Climbing back into the truck, Ford threw the engine in reverse. He preferred to do this with Athena. The draft horse’s steady strength and balance often proved a better match for this type of job. The shiny Cadillac teetered for a moment before easing back onto the roadway. He set the brake and joined Mr. Craig. “Looks like you didn’t even blow a tire.”
“That’s a relief, let me tell you.” He shook Ford’s hand, a grin spreading across his face. “Maybe we’ll salvage this day yet.”
The rest of the group crossed the road to join them, with the little girl clutching Margie’s fingers.
Margie smiled. “Are you done already? We were having a wonderful time.” She bent down next to the child. “Can you show Ranger Brayden what you have?”
The girl’s blond curls bounced as she opened her fist and displayed a yellow flower crushed in her palm.
He’d never had much luck talking with women; little girls were even more of a puzzle. “A flower, eh?”
“What kind is it, Mary?” Margie touched the child’s chin.
She screwed up her face. “A…a glacier lily.” Her eyes brightened as she remembered the name.
Her brother jerked his chin upward. “I was going to say that. And Miss Lane said she shouldn’t have picked it, but since she already had, she could keep it. And I’ve got a fir cone!” He held out his prize.
Mrs. Craig laughed, the gentle trill a welcome change from her earlier complaints. “Very good, children. Now say thank you to the nice ranger for helping with our automobile.”
Mary broke loose from Margie’s grasp and threw her arms around Ford’s leg. “Thank you, Mr. Ranger.”
Margie waved as the visitors rolled back toward civilization. “What a sweet family. I’m so glad we got to meet them.”
He shook his head. Perhaps Margie had a few talents after all. She did pretty well with those kids. “I just hope they stay on the road from now on.”
“I’m sure they will.” She smiled, her optimism spilling over.
“With that ice patch he spun out on, it’s a miracle we weren’t scraping them off the rocks down at Christine Falls. Another ten feet and this story could have had a different ending.”
“God was watching out for them, I suppose.”
“Or sheer luck.” People were far too quick to attribute good outcomes to a higher power. He’d seen too much evidence to the contrary to buy into that sort of talk.
She picked her way through the snow-covered roadside to a clump of trees near the edge. “Isn’t it fascinating how the composition of the forest changes from the higher elevations at Paradise as you move down toward Longmire? This roadway is like a lesson in forest science. Is that a Pacific silver fir?” Margie reached for a limb, sloping down toward her like a dripping ice-cream cone.
“No, don’t—”
The wet snow and ice slumped from the tree, knocking the woman off balance and pitching her over the embankment.
“Margie!” Ford bolted to the edge. Harry had left her here for one day and already…
Margie slid to a halt fifteen feet later, loose ice and rock rattling down the hillside toward the river far below. She coughed, digging her toes against the rock face.
Ford scrambled down the slope, careful not to dislodge more ice. “Are you all right?” He grabbed her outstretched arm and hauled her up to a more stable perch.
“I—what happened?” She pressed a gloved hand to the side of her head, an angry red mark on her temple suggesting a bruise to come.
He forced himself to look away from the precipitous drop she’d somehow avoided. “You don’t walk under trees when they’re practically leaning with snowmelt. Don’t you…” know anything? He bit off the words, his heart hammering in his chest. “Are you hurt?”
“I don’t think so. I didn’t expect it to come cascading off like that.”
What else didn’t she know? Predators, avalanches, rock slides, exposure—so many dangers. This is why the park service didn’t hire women. Or at least, they didn’t used to. He pushed up to his feet, brushing the ice from his knees and eyeing a path back to the road. “If you’re going to make it out here, you’d better watch yourself.”
Because I can’t protect everybody.
Margie’s legs still shook hours later as she maneuvered through the large cobbles littering the banks of the Nisqually River, a heavy knapsack balanced on her back. How could she have been so careless? Everything had happened in a blink, and seeing the steep ravine stretched below her had left her heart little more than a quivering lump. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for this job.
The ranger had been quiet during the remainder of their drive. He’d also wasted no time dropping her off at the cabin, as if glad to be rid of her. He’d probably like nothing better than to see her packing.
Unfortunately, going home wasn’t an option. Philip had never failed at anything in his life—he didn’t allow it. And his cold eyes as he’d walked away told her she hadn’t seen the last of him.
Margie scooped a stone off the bank and cast it into the river. She preferred giant rodents and slippery roads to facing any more of Philip’s retribution. And being free of his suffocating control was like breathing for the first time.
Margie put away the dark memory. Right now, she needed to focus. The event at the Paradise Inn was less than a week away. With only a few remaining hours of daylight, she hoped the mountain would inspire some grand thoughts.
The rushing cascade roared in her ears, the ruckus matching her unsettled heart. After wobbling over a few more stones, she sat down on a large boulder overlooking the frothing water. Pulling the knapsack into her lap, she waited for the peace she usually sensed in nature.
A few days? It simply wasn’t enough time to prepare for the biggest moment of her life. Mr. Johansson had been kind to offer her the opportunity to speak at the banquet, but whatever could she say to encourage the audience to see the significance of this place? Any sensible person could see it for himself. She untied the knotted drawstring and pulled out the stack of books, placing her Bible on top of the pile.
Lord, I need help. She flipped through the fragile pages, then stopped at Psalms. The book’s poetry always spoke to her soul. Scanning the verses, her eyes lit on a reference to “wilderness.” “He clave the rocks in the wilderness, and gave them drink as out of the great depths. He brought streams also out of the rock, and caused waters to run down like rivers.” She sighed. He even made the rivers flow. What were her fears in the face of such majesty?
The Nisqually drew her attention. The water thundered past, as if rejoicing in its freedom. Two deer lingered at the forest’s edge, lifting their noses to sniff at the air.
For years she’d buried her nose in books, learning as much as she could about nature and its mysteries. She’d walked the city parks, studying the insects and flowers. But to sit here at the foot of God’s mountain? It was beyond a dream. It was a gift. And yet, the image of Ford’s stern visage haunted her thoughts. Margie swallowed, tension gathering in her chest. For some reason, the idea of wearing a ranger Stetson no longer seemed quite as appealing. He obviously resented her presence, and the dour-faced man had the power to send her home.
She needed this place. As soon as she stepped foot in Longmire, its forests had wrapped around her like God’s comforting arms, hiding her from the world. Now Mr. Johansson wanted to set her on display—in front of the governor and his wife, no less. She pressed a hand to her stomach. Who else might she recognize in the crowd? And how long until Philip knew she was here?
Margie closed the Bible, reached for another book, and opened it to a map of the park. Running her finger along the line representing the nearby river, she traced it up to its source—the Nisqually Glacier. Closing her eyes, she focused on the stream’s song, imagining the course it had traveled. Water, locked for years within the glacial ice, now set loose to frolic down the mountainside. Free. Just like me.
Ford said Ranger Edwards told stories. Margie pulled out her journal and pencil. Every story needed a good beginning.
Margie turned in front of Mrs. Brown’s looking glass, tugging at the waistband of the saggy trousers. “I don’t think these will work.”
Mrs. Brown drew back and pursed her lips. “I agree. You look like a scarecrow minus the stuffing.” She tucked the uniform shirt tight around Margie’s waist. “This might do, with a few adjustments.” She reached for some pins.
“I feel like a child playing in my father’s closet.” Margie rolled the shirtsleeves up over her wrists. “I should wear my own clothing.”
“We’ll fix it up fine, honey. I’ll put in a few darts.” The portly woman folded a crease under Margie’s arm and added some pins. “Of course there’s no way Ranger Jennings will ever be able to wear it again.” She chuckled. “Good thing we have one small fellow on staff. I can’t imagine altering one of Ford’s or Carson’s shirts to fit you. We’d as soon start from scratch.”
A tap sounded from the door.
Margie gasped, gripping the loose trousers to keep them from heading south.
“That’d be Ford.” Mrs. Brown’s mouth quirked upward at Margie’s reaction before she turned toward the sound. “It’s all right, you can come in.”
“Are you sure? I can come back later.” Ford’s voice echoed from the hall. He sounded as if he much preferred to stay put.
Mrs. Brown strode to the door and pulled it open.
Ford’s frame filled the space, but he kept his hands hidden like a guilty schoolboy. His eyes searched the room until they settled on Margie.
She wrapped an arm across her midsection at the sudden scrutiny. “It’s a little large, but Mrs. Brown thinks she can alter the shirt. I’ll wear my own breeches. Or perhaps a riding skirt.” A wave of heat climbed Margie’s neck as she studied the man’s face. He must regret ever laying eyes on me. “Or…or I could just wear one of my dresses and explain to—”
“I brought you something.” He pulled a grey Stetson out from behind him, the embossed leather band catching the light.
Margie’s words turned to dust in her mouth. “For-for me?”
“A loan.” He held the hat to his chest, his voice fading. “It belongs to my dad. Or rather, it did.”
Mrs. Brown touched his arm. “You’re a good man, Ford Brayden. Your father would be proud.”
His eyes lowered. He thrust the item toward Margie. “For the dinner.”
She swallowed against a lump rising in her throat. “Are you certain?”
“I’ll reclaim it after.”
“Of course.” She closed her fingers over the solid brim, caressing the beaver felt. The mark of a hero, a caretaker of this bit of the Lord’s garden. How could she ever be worthy of such an honor?
“Put it on, dearie. We’re waiting.” Mrs. Brown steered her toward the glass.
Margie stared into the mirror. Ford’s face reflected above her shoulder, shadows deepening around his eyes. How it must have hurt to lose his father. Everything in the park must trigger a memory. She glanced down at the item in her hands—a physical link between father and son. She pressed it close, as if he’d handed her the heart of the mountain itself. How could she wear such a treasure? “I can’t. It’s too precious.”
“It’s not the crown jewels.” With a loud exhale, Ford grabbed it and plopped it over her head. The hat sank past her eyes, the crown landing with a soft clunk on her skull.
Mrs. Brown’s laugh broke the silence, followed by Ford’s quiet chuckle.
Margie pushed the brim upward, peering out from the depths. Her hair puffed out underneath. At least no one would recognize her.
The older woman tipped it back over Margie’s ears. “You look like a turtle with an oversized shell.”
Margie frowned. “It matches the baggy clothing. Everyone will know I’m nothing but an impostor.”
Ford pressed his lips into a firm line. “Give it here.”
She handed him the Stetson, but the sudden movement caused the trousers to slip. Grappling with them, she twisted the waistband between her fingers. Standing in front of all those dignitaries dressed in such a manner would be a disgrace.
Ford pulled a bandanna from his pocket and folded it into the hat’s liner.
Careful to keep one hand in control of her clothing, she edged closer. “What are you doing?”
“I saw my mother do this once. She wore Dad’s Stetson a few times.”
“I’m not sure anything will make that fit me.”
“It only has to be for one evening, right?” His gruff tone seemed to have softened. He tucked the tails of the handkerchief out of sight. “May I?” He stepped close, lifting it above her head.
Her eyes locked on his shirt buttons as the room grew stuffy. The hat settled against her hair, nicely hugging just above both ears. Her heart jumped.
Ford nodded. “Much better.”
She spun to face the mirror. “I look…I look—”
“Like a ranger?” Mrs. Brown adjusted the brim so it rested parallel to the floor. “You do, indeed.”
Ford stepped back, his expression unreadable. “You’ll fit right in.”
Saturday afternoon, Ford paced around park headquarters, fiddling with his formal uniform jacket and shrugging his shoulders until the stiff garment felt more natural. Meeting with businessmen was one of his least favorite parts of the job, somewhere beneath refuse collection and privy cleaning. And having his newest employee asked to speak pricked like a splinter. Margie had been here less than a week, but she’d already set the place on its ear. The men were skulking around, looking for excuses to assist her instead of doing their jobs. Now this fancy dinner?
Ford ran a soft cloth over his collar pin and badge. Perhaps since she came from those circles, she’d know better how to handle the dignitaries. He stepped outside and stood for a long moment on the small porch. A shroud of mist kept the peak hidden. Unfortunate. Their important guests would expect the mountain to make an appearance, but Rainier cared little for those who walked its flanks. It didn’t need their help any more than it desired their devotion.
The sound of footfalls drew his attention.
Like a deer, the young woman stole up the path, cautiously glancing from one side to the other. She held his father’s hat clutched to her chest. The altered uniform matched her curves in an uncomfortably tantalizing manner.
Ford trotted down the stone steps. “Expecting the pack rat to sneak up on you?”
She brightened. “I’m just admiring the flora. Do you think Mr. Johansson would like some ferns for the tables?”
“I’m sure Luke has that all planned out. You’re responsible for the presentation, not the decor.”
Margie glanced down, as if hesitant to meet his gaze. “I just thought some camouflage might be in order.”
Luke had no business placing this naive young woman in front of a cluster of greedy businessmen like honey before a bear. “You don’t have to do this, if you aren’t feeling ready.”
“Of course I do. I gave my word. I just hope it will meet with your approval.”
An evening of poetry and fancy quotations? Unlikely. “I’m not the one you need to impress.”
“I should have warned him—I might know some of the guests. It could prove awkward.”
“Will your father be in attendance?”
“I haven’t heard from him, but it’s possible.” A shadow crossed her face.
Ford led the way to the truck and swung open the door. “It will be fine. As you said, who’s going to recognize you, dressed as you are?” He never should have gone along with this. The poor girl wasn’t up to the task, not to mention that she looked a little silly wearing his father’s hat. This evening would send her packing faster than the encounter with the rodents.
Margie scooped up a fir cone from underneath the truck. She held it in her open palm with a smile. “For luck.”
And just like that, she sen
t him spiraling back into bewilderment. “There are millions of those lying around. How could they bring luck?”
She closed her fingers around the small object. “Every cone carries somewhere between twenty-five and fifty seeds, just waiting to spring to life. A new forest, right here in the palm of my hand.” She tucked it into her breast pocket before slipping into the vehicle. She patted the pocket flap, looking up at him with her warm brown eyes. “Perhaps luck isn’t the right word. Hope.”
Ford latched the door, shaking his head. This woman saw meaning in every twig and blade of grass. He’d spent his entire life on this mountain, but had never seen the things she caught in a single glance. Perhaps the responsibility of caring for this place had blinded him to its magic.
Tomorrow might be a good day to hike up the ridge. He was long overdue for a little quiet time. Maybe he’d give the mountain a chance to reintroduce itself.
Margie sucked in a deep breath of the icy air at Paradise. Philip doesn’t care a scintilla about nature. He won’t be here. Ford led the way to a shoveled path. At least he didn’t have her sinking to her knees through snowdrifts today.
She pulled the coat’s collar up around her chin. That day had been a test. She’d spent enough time around powerful men to know when she was being scrutinized. The number of times he rolled his eyes while she spoke suggested he found her little more than an amusement.
Hopefully this evening’s program wouldn’t confirm his suspicions. Margie paused at the massive doors, her fingers jammed into her coat pocket for warmth. No matter the weather, she’d rather hightail it across the meadows than seek refuge inside the lodge. Perhaps she could be like a pika and burrow under the snow to find a protective haven.
A surge of warm air beckoned from across the threshold, but Margie still had to force herself through the doorway. She’d rehearsed her presentation countless times during the night. Now she only had to find the courage to open her mouth and speak.
The spacious lobby yawned open in front of her, the yellowed timbers stretching upward toward the peaked roof. Clusters of people gathered around the fireplace and lounged on the log furniture.
The Road to Paradise Page 5
