Their grief. Margie lifted the brim of her cloche, letting the air cool her neck. Ford’s father must have viewed the park staff as family, perhaps more than his own son even. Her father was much the same. His devotion to his constituents bordered on obsession.
And now her father had granted Philip control over his next campaign. The thought constricted her lungs like a spreading vine. He’d taken Philip under his wing years before, at Margie’s request—one she’d long regretted.
Why was Philip at Longmire, anyway? She should have confronted him rather than allow the specter of his presence to cast a pall over the day. Margie drew a deep breath of the mountain air, like a tonic to her raw soul. Thirteen miles on the trail would surely chase away her worries.
With such a day under her belt, she might actually be able to face the likes of Philip Carmichael.
Ford glanced back as Margie paused and stooped over another fern, running the delicate fronds between her fingers. It looked just like the past three ferns she’d halted to examine. He chuckled, allowing the quietness of the day to settle into his chest. He’d needed this more than he’d realized. Normally when he headed out on the trail, he burned up the miles under his boot soles, intent on achieving some type of remarkable distance worthy of his time. This day was all about Margie.
Seeing her discover new plants was like watching a child opening gifts at Christmas. Or how he imagined it, anyway. He didn’t have any nieces or nephews, so the holidays had turned into rather lonely affairs the past couple of years. A family of his own seemed like a far-fetched dream. What sort of woman would agree to live way out here?
Margie glanced up from the fern with a smile. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist. Do you know what this is?”
He’d walked this path hundreds of times; had he ever bothered to look? He retraced his steps to stand at her side. “Tell me.”
She rattled off a scientific name that tickled his ears like a feather. Her voice took on a musical lilt whenever she spoke Latin.
“Really? Is it rare?”
She stood, brushing loose soil from her trouser knees. “Probably not at this elevation, but I’ve never seen it in Seattle. Its rhizomes can be prepared as a tea useful for treating gout and rheumatism.”
“Maybe we should bring some to Mrs. Brown.”
“And if I’m wrong in my identification, we could end up brewing poison.”
“I trust you.” Without thinking, he plucked a loose twig from the sleeve of her coat. Stop doing that. The last thing he wanted was Margie thinking he was seeking excuses to touch her. Even if he was.
“That’s sweet.” A flush tinted her cheeks. “I’m not sure I’d trust myself, though.” Margie returned to the trail, joining him as they inched toward their destination. She continued to rattle on about the uses of ferns, her words ringing through the morning air like birdsong.
Ford had spent his life in these woods, but he’d never seen it through the lenses with which Margie viewed the world. He surveyed the forest floor as if taking it in for the first time—all the little bits and bolts of life working together. Each had value alone yet also served as part of some mysterious whole. It was little wonder she saw God at work in everything. He swiped his hand across his eyes. Had his thoughts really jumped from romance to plants to religion?
They walked the next two miles in near silence. Ford took the lead, pacing through the woods until it opened out onto the Kautz Creek valley. He checked over his shoulder occasionally, but Margie plodded obediently behind him, no longer halting to examine the undergrowth.
He gestured at the river up ahead. “We’ll cross here, and then it’ll be a good, steep climb up to the meadows. Do you need to rest?”
“No, thank you.”
She had good endurance, considering her short legs. “Had any more trouble with your pack rat friend?” He slowed his pace so she’d draw up beside him.
“I’ve seen it a few times. I’m conducting an experiment to see whether rodents prefer Mrs. Brown’s snickerdoodles or her butter cookies.”
“I could set a trap, if you’d like.”
“No, I’ve grown attached to the little fellow. He hasn’t tried to steal anything else.”
“Just tell me you haven’t named the vermin.” He pushed a branch out of their path and held it as she walked past.
“I won’t tell you if you don’t want me to.” She ducked her head as if to hide a smile. “Mrs. Brown tried to help me block all the nooks and crannies where he might have been getting in, but it doesn’t seem to have stopped him.”
“That cabin is built like a cracker box.”
She glanced at him. “She said she was surprised I was living in that particular abode. Apparently there are several cottages close to her home that are brand-new and unoccupied. Not that I’m complaining.”
“I’d been meaning to speak to you about that.” Ford swallowed, prickly heat climbing his neck. “I’d been holding those for our seasonal staff, but it looks like we won’t need quite so many as I’d thought. If you’d like, we could move you to more…suitable accommodations.” Especially considering the amount her father had donated toward the new administration building.
Margie turned her face forward, the light catching her profile in a flattering tone. “Thank you, but no. I like my little home. It’s quaint and rustic. Like Thoreau’s cabin on Walden Pond. Besides, now I have Archibald for company.”
“Archibald?”
“Oh, I forgot. You told me not to tell you.”
The knots eased out of his shoulders. The newer section of housing was on the far side of Longmire, and there was something comforting about knowing she was close enough for him to reach if there was any trouble. Like more rats. Or troublesome businessmen.
The encounter with Carmichael left a bitter taste in Ford’s mouth, and so far he’d not mentioned it to Margie. She’d given the man his walking papers, but he didn’t seem to be getting the hint. The idea of that skunk spending the night at the National Park Inn—only a short walk from Margie’s cottage—sent a sickly sweat across Ford’s skin. Likely as not, Carmichael didn’t know which one was hers. Ford intended to keep it that way. “You have two days off coming up. Do you plan to return home to Tacoma? Your father’s campaign gala is this weekend, isn’t it?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’d rather enjoy my time here. He’ll be too busy to see me.”
“Don’t you miss your family—your friends?”
“Sometimes. But the summer is all about meaningless garden parties, luncheons, and society teas. With the exception of some rowdy picnics at Point Defiance Park, my social calendar is rather frivolous.” She gestured at the trees. “I feel more at home here than I have anywhere in my life.” She turned toward him, her brown eyes warm. “My soul is at peace here. Like God has led me to the promised land. I don’t suppose you’d understand.”
“Since I’ve never lived anywhere else, I don’t suppose I do.”
“Have you ever wished to?”
Ford studied the stream as it swept past. “Sure. As a boy, I read books about foreign lands and big cities. Everything sounded more exciting than here. When the Great War broke out, I dreamed of enlisting, but I was too young. By the time I was of age, it was long over.”
“Thank goodness.” Margie shivered. “My uncle fought. He’s never been the same since. It’s almost like he left the best pieces of himself over there.”
“We have quite a few veterans among the crew. They traded one uniform for another. I guess it seemed natural, since the parks were originally overseen by the army.”
“I’m sure nature’s touch provides healing for those men, ravaged by the horrors of the battlefield. As John Muir said, ‘Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home.’ I assume that applies to shell shock, as well.” She brushed fingers across her forehead, as if clearing a spider’s web. “There I go again. I tend to run to quotations when I don’t kno
w what else to say. It’s easier to trust another’s words than my own, I suppose.”
“I appreciate your words.”
A smile toyed at her lips, even as she refused to meet his gaze. “I know I talk too much. I tend to prattle on when I get nervous.”
“Nervous? With me?”
“Of course. You’re so much a part of this place. You’re like one of these trees—planted on the side of a mountain and as much a part of the landscape as they are.” She shrugged. “I’m just a little bit of fluff, blown in by the wind.”
“I’d say you’re far more than that.” Ford loosened his tie, determined not to allow this conversation to derail him like their previous one.
Her eyes grew serious. “I wanted to thank you for agreeing to hire me for the summer. I know I don’t have much to offer. I am indebted to you, truly.”
An uneasy sensation rose in his chest. She didn’t know her father’s promised donations had secured her position, did she? Senator Lane could have put his daughter up all summer in the Paradise Inn for less money. Should Ford be keeping such a secret from her?
Margie halted abruptly, her eyes widening. “Are we crossing this river?”
He pushed aside the branches blocking his view, though the thundering of Kautz Creek was unmistakable. “If you want to go to Indian Henry’s Hunting Ground, we must.” Spring runoff had swelled the tumbling stream into a mighty cataract.
“Please tell me there’s a suspension bridge. I can’t possibly wade through that.”
“You wouldn’t last ten seconds in that water. It’s straight out of the Kautz Glacier. Not only is it freezing cold, it can roll boulders.” He gestured upstream. “There’s your bridge. I’m glad it’s intact. It’s been known to wash away in high water like this.”
Margie craned her neck and then grasped his arm. “Ford, that’s not a bridge.” She dug her fingers into his sleeve. “That’s a log.”
The man had to be insane. There was no other explanation. To quiet her pounding heart, Margie plopped down on a nearby rock, letting the spray of the river dampen her skin. I can’t cross that. What was I thinking?
A dimple showed in Ford’s cheek, as though he battled against a smile. “You’ll do fine. There’s a handrail.”
The wet surface of the bare log glistened in the afternoon sunshine, a single thin pole apparently serving as a support. A surge of nausea rose in Margie’s belly. I can’t. I won’t. Of course Ford wouldn’t think twice about walking the log. He probably bathed in glacial meltwater.
“Don’t you want to see the alpine meadows?”
“I do.” The hairs prickled on the back of her neck beneath her scarf. “But there must be a more suitable crossing.”
Ford looked left and right. “It only grows wider—and wilder—downstream.”
“And upstream?” Margie swallowed. Certainly there must be a better option than this. A swinging suspension bridge was bad enough, but balancing on a damp log mere inches from the surging water?
Ford gripped his pack’s straps, hoisting it higher on his back. “We’re hardly outfitted for glacier travel. How much ice climbing have you done?”
Margie covered her face, willing her stomach into compliance. Travelers must manage this path every day. The guide service took folks up here regularly.
“I’ll help you, Margie. You’ll be fine. It’s not as frightening as it first appears.”
She pushed her head upward in preparation to stand. Hopefully her trembling knees wouldn’t give way. That wouldn’t be much help on the slick surface. “If you say it’s safe, then it must be so.”
A tiny crease formed between Ford’s brows, but it vanished just as quickly. He held out a hand to her, his jaw set. “I do. I promise, I’d never lead you into a dangerous situation.”
She studied the ranger’s stance, legs apart, sturdy arm outstretched. How could a girl refuse such a robust offer? She didn’t doubt the man’s confidence in himself—it was his faith in her that seemed far-fetched. She’d never been sure-footed as a child, and she was certainly no mountain goat now. Margie placed her hand in his.
Ford’s victorious grin melted the last of her resistance. “Come on. Once we’re past this, it’s a short climb to Indian Henry’s. You’ll be ankle-deep in wildflowers in no time.”
“Assuming my ankles are still intact.” She glanced down at her fingers, clasped in Ford’s palm. A shiver raced up her arm.
“Do you trust me?”
She met his gaze, those blue-gray eyes turning her thoughts to mush. “With all my heart.”
Ford dropped his hold as if he’d only just realized their connection. “Good.” He turned to the stream. “Let’s get going.”
As he stepped away, a sudden chill swept over her. Margie lifted her chin and forced a breath of air deep into her lungs. If she wanted to be a woman of the mountains, she needed to start acting the part. Even when her heart cowered.
He set out across the large cobbles toward the river with a self-assured stride, the green of his uniform standing out against the slate-gray stones.
She picked her way, her boots doing little to steady her feet on the uneven surfaces. If only she could have held onto him a little longer. Her pulse raced faster the closer they got to the water.
Ford glanced over his shoulder. “Do you want to go first?” His voice barely carried over the clamor of the rapids.
“No. I’ll follow.” Eventually.
He traversed the bridge without bothering to slow his pace or touch the railing. Hopping down on the far side, he turned and beckoned to her before cupping his palms around his mouth. “It’s as easy as falling off a log.”
Margie kept her voice low, allowing the river to steal her words. “That’s a great comfort. Thank you.” She closed her fingers around the peeled branch rail, the icy damp soaking through her skin. She climbed onto the trunk, tottering for a dizzying moment. Is this what it had felt like as a babe, taking those first hesitant steps toward her nanny’s outstretched arms?
Margie lifted her eyes, focusing on Ford’s eager face. At least she felt a strong connection to the person on the other side. Stronger than she should. She slid her boot sole along the slick surface. Perhaps she could just edge her way across.
One corner of Ford’s lip curved upward. “I’ll come help you.”
“No, don’t—” Margie waved him off. “I’m not sure it can support the both of us.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He grasped the wooden bar, causing it to tremble in her grip.
“Stop, please!” Margie crouched, as if getting closer to the log would keep her from falling. Of course, that only put her closer to the roaring water. She anchored her second arm around the pole, her heart jumping into her throat. “I can do it.”
Ford backed up. “All right, all right. I’ll stay here.”
Margie laid her forehead against the wet rail, her breaths tearing at her chest like icy claws. “Don’t be a ninny.” She whispered the words even though rushing water gobbled every sound. The wood quivered in time with the swirling cascade hurtling past. One slip and she’d find herself spun downstream like a clipper in a maelstrom. Margie turned from the sight and pushed up to a standing position. Edging ahead, she took one tentative step and then another.
Ford’s voice beckoned. “You’re doing great. Just eight more feet, and you’ll be on solid ground.”
Two more shaking steps got her to the midpoint. No return now. She’d done her best to impress her new boss, but this little misadventure had likely confirmed his initial opinion of her. She didn’t belong here. Still, as the breeze caressed her face, an odd sense of calm descended. Her heartbeat slowed. She’d come this far. What was to stop her from going the distance? With a deep breath, Margie released her secondary grip on the wobbly rail. It was there for balance, nothing more. She straightened her spine, relaxing the muscles that kept her in a hunched position. I can do this.
“Attagirl, Margie. Almost there.”
Margi
e focused her attention on Ford, the sight giving her forward momentum. She placed one boot in front of the other until she reached his outstretched arm.
He pulled her down onto the bank and into a firm embrace. “Not so bad, was it?”
The unexpected warmth of his shoulder against her cheek sent a jolt through her chest. She held her breath, resisting the urge to press further into his arms, yet not wishing to let go either. “I made it in one piece.”
He released his hold. “On the way home, you’ll be an old pro.”
Her throat tightened. She hadn’t really considered the return journey. “I’m sure you’re right. After all, as Virgil said, ‘They can conquer who believe they can.’ ”
Ford’s voice sounded over the splashing water. “Is this Virgil fellow a friend of your father’s?”
She opened her mouth to explain, but Ford’s teasing smile inspired a bubbling laugh instead. “He’s a very, very old family friend.”
“I knew you were well-connected, but that’s impressive indeed.” He gestured at the path winding up the opposing ridge. “If you’re recovered, perhaps we should get on the trail? It’d be nice to eat our lunch at the top. My stomach is growling already.”
Margie adjusted her knapsack. “Yes, I’m ready. I can’t wait to see this much-lauded location. I hope it lives up to its reputation.”
“Trust me. You’ll be thankful you braved the crossing.”
Ford slowed down, letting Margie lead as they approached Indian Henry’s. He wanted the best view possible, but not necessarily of the scenery. He hadn’t anticipated her anxiety, but watching her conquer her fear had made the entire journey worthwhile.
Margie’s hurried pace eased as they stepped out into the meadow. “Ohhh…” Her voice drew out the sound, like a long breath exhaling. “It’s—it’s magical.” She turned in a slow circle.
Warmth spread through Ford’s chest. “One of my favorite spots.”
The Road to Paradise Page 10
