Colorful flower beds lined the circular drive, filled with exotic ornamental blooms—as if hybridized plants from Europe or Asia were somehow preferable to the lovely natural sprawl of American foliage. Mother always employed gardeners willing to subdue nature into well-behaved rows, every blossom chosen for its exact size, shade, and smell.
Margie ran a hand over her wrinkled dress. Her mother viewed her in much the same way. A rose strapped to a trellis and trained in the way in which it should grow and bloom. What a disappointment I must be.
Ford opened the door and offered his hand. “This is where you grew up?” He glanced up at the house and whistled softly under his breath. “Welcome home.”
The building in front of him loomed larger than any house Ford had ever seen. He’d suspected Margie’s family had great wealth, but he’d never taken the time to consider what that would look like. No wonder she didn’t care about frivolous things like paychecks. She could live on Daddy’s money until the day she died.
Margie stared up at her home as if she’d been gone years rather than weeks. Was she comparing it to the rodent-infested shack Ford had placed her in?
Perhaps it had been foolish to accompany her on this trip. He knew nothing about how this type of people viewed life. His world consisted of trees, trails, leaking roofs, and wildlife.
She glanced back at him, her hand brushing his. “Shall we go?”
Tension eased from his muscles. With one subtle motion she’d proven herself the same woman he’d felt drawn to over the past weeks. “I hope your parents don’t mind me coming along for the ride. I shouldn’t have presumed upon their hospitality.”
“Nonsense. You’re my guest.” She led the way down the stone walkway, the fragrance of jasmine and rose another reminder they’d left the woods far behind.
Ford straightened his tie and hurried after her. He should have worn his uniform. At least then he could present himself in an official capacity, not as some starry-eyed suitor.
He expected a white-tie butler to open the door, but the elegant middle-aged woman who greeted them was no serving staff.
“Margaret, you came! Your father will be delighted.” The woman scanned Margie before turning to Ford. “And you’ve brought a…a…”
“A friend, Mother. This is Ranger Ford Brayden. He’s my superior at the park. We hoped to speak with Father.”
Mrs. Lane stepped back from the doorway and waved them inside. “Welcome, Ranger. Margaret, your father is in meetings all afternoon, but you can see him at the gala tonight.”
Margie frowned. “I’m not here for the event. We’re here on business.”
Ford followed Margie into the stately foyer, their shoes clicking over the tile floor. He glanced up at the eight-foot ceiling and the grand staircase leading up to additional floors.
The older woman laughed. “Business? Gracious! Whatever kind of business could you be talking about? You’ve been traipsing about in the woods for weeks. Now you want to go into your father’s business?” She led them to the sitting room. “I’ll have Marta run you a bath. It’s clear you could use one.”
Ford stayed close to Margie. “Perhaps we could catch him between meetings. Does he have an office?”
The woman didn’t bother to look Ford’s direction. “Senator Lane is a very busy man. He doesn’t see visitors without an appointment.”
“Not even his daughter?” The words slipped out before Ford could corral them.
She ignored him. “Margie, did you even read the papers the morning after your little display at the mountain? The press had a field day with your antics. ‘Lane’s Daughter Plays Ranger.’ After all the grief my friends gave me, the least you can do is put in a respectable appearance.”
Margie sighed. “Mother, we cannot attend the party. We hadn’t planned on an overnight stay, and we didn’t bring anything suitable to wear. I have a quick question for Father, and then we’ll return to the park.”
The woman’s brows suggested battle lines as they pulled together. “Margaret Lane, I don’t care to be dismissed so lightly. Tonight’s event is important to your family’s future. You have many dresses here—in fact, there is a beautiful new gown waiting in your room.” She lifted her chin. “Philip Carmichael is hosting the festivities at the Tacoma Hotel, and I’m certain he’d be delighted to see you again.”
“Of course he is.” Margie pressed a palm to her forehead. “I should have known.” She turned to Ford. “We didn’t plan to stay, but this might be the perfect opportunity to speak to both of them.”
Ford’s stomach dropped. A gala at a swanky hotel? Him? “Of course, if you think it important. But perhaps I should stay behind.”
“Yes, that might be for the best.” Mrs. Lane brightened, a sweet smile touching her lips for the first time since she’d ushered them inside. “Now, please sit down.” She gestured to a floral settee.
“Ford—Ranger Brayden.” Margie retreated to formality in her mother’s presence. “I’d be honored if you would escort me to this function.”
Her mother’s smile vanished. “Margaret…but, Philip—”
“Please,” Margie gripped Ford’s arm, her nails pressing against his sleeve. “I’d like for you to be there.”
“Certainly, if that’s what you prefer.” A loud buzzing took up residence in his chest, like he’d stepped on a yellow jacket nest.
Margie turned to her mother, her fingers still resting on Ford’s inner arm. “There you are, Mother. We’d be pleased to attend. You can make the arrangements.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Very well. Your father will be pleased. As I said, there’s an evening gown upstairs for you.” Her eyes roamed over Ford. “And we’ll find something for Ranger Brayden.”
Ford brushed a quick hand over his jacket, suddenly aware of every flaw in the garment’s design. “I apologize for being so much trouble, ma’am. That was never my intention.”
“Oh, wasn’t it?” She raised one brow as she flounced across the room and out the door.
Ford lowered himself to the seat next to Margie.
Margie sighed. “I’m so sorry. I should have realized this would happen. We could have arrived more prepared.”
He wouldn’t know where to begin to prepare for such an evening. “It’ll be fine. We’re here to speak to your father, not to impress anyone.”
“I do appreciate you being at my side. I wouldn’t want to face Philip alone.”
The tiny lines forming around her pinched mouth cut into Ford’s heart. Was she actually afraid of the man? Sure, Carmichael was a grandstander, but could he actually be dangerous? “I’m happy to help. I only hope I don’t embarrass you.”
A warm smile brightened her face, causing the elegant room to fade in comparison. “You could never embarrass me.”
Ford donned the fine black trousers and sighed. What had he gotten himself into? When he’d pulled on his park service green this morning, he’d never dreamed he’d end the day in a tuxedo. Never in his life had he worn such ridiculous garb. He fastened the pants and lifted the starched shirt from its hanger, his skin crawling. A garment this white was destined to get stained. How had Mrs. Lane managed to secure these items so quickly? They obviously didn’t belong to the senator. Ford was at least three inches taller than Margie’s father.
A light tapping on the door jerked Ford to attention. “Just a moment—”
The door swung wide despite his protest. A sallow-faced man filled the opening, several jackets draped over his arm. “You’ve begun without me, I see.” A vague European accent embellished every syllable of his drawn-out words.
“Without you? I don’t know what you mean.” Ford shook out the shirt and began jamming his arms into the holes, not wishing to be seen in a state of undress.
“Please, sir. Please. You must respect the fabric.” The stranger’s jowls sagged with his frown. “I am Senator Lane’s valet, Mr. Wilson. I am here to dress you.” He hung the jackets on a wooden stand.
�
��To…what?” Ford struggled with the left sleeve. “I’ve done for myself since I was a child. I don’t think I need help now.”
Mr. Wilson cleared his throat, the harsh sound cutting through the room. “Nevertheless, I have been charged with the task. Now, please remove the shirt, and we will begin again.”
The tips of Ford’s ears grew hot as he did as ordered. “Are you here at Mrs. Lane’s bidding? Does she think me not capable of putting on a suit?”
Wilson lifted his chin. “It is not a suit. It is a tuxedo. And yes, I’m here at my mistress’s request. But do not be concerned. I dress Senator Lane multiple times a day, as well. I don’t believe Mrs. Lane intended any personal affront.” He glanced over Ford’s sleeveless union suit, his expression flat.
Ford ran a quick hand over the undergarment, trying to ignore the minor discolorations on the threadbare fabric. He’d never been a stickler for laundry, particularly when the item never saw daylight.
The valet shook out the formal shirt and held it outspread.
Best to get this humiliation over with. Ford turned and slipped his arms into the sleeves. He reached for the buttons only to have Mr. Wilson circle around. “Sir, allow me.”
“You really don’t have to.”
“I understand. But we want this done properly.”
As if Ford had never buttoned his own shirt. He shoved down the growing irritation, trying not to squirm like a schoolboy under a mother’s ministrations.
The valet carefully fixed the studs down Ford’s chest. Would the man spit comb his hair as well?
After being outfitted with cuff links, black tie, a white vest—which Wilson referred to as a waistcoat—and finally the dinner jacket, the valet tucked a silk square into the breast pocket. Wilson stepped back and surveyed Ford’s appearance. “I suppose you’ll do.”
Do for what? Ford hardly recognized his own reflection in the long mirror. Margie would laugh to see him decked out like a fashion plate. “How am I to eat in this getup? I’m bound to spill something.”
Wilson exhaled loudly. “Don’t. I’m to return the ensemble in the morning, and I’d rather not spend all night removing stray bits of crab and sauce from the fabric.”
Don’t eat, or don’t spill anything? Ford ran fingers through his hair, fighting the urge to throw off the coat and make a dash for the truck. He was in over his head here. He’d rather face a winter-starved bear than show up downstairs in this costume.
Wilson ran a quick brush over Ford’s shoulders. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“I sure hope not.” Ford glanced over to where the valet had carefully hung his old clothes in the closet like royal robes. They’d better still be here when he returned. He wouldn’t put it past the man to sneak them out to the burn pile.
“Very good. And Mrs. Lane had a fresh bottle of Brilliantine sent up, since it seemed unlikely you packed your own.” The man glanced at Ford’s hair, somehow managing to keep his face civil. Perhaps they taught that air of detachment in valet school. “I’ll leave you to it.” Wilson strode from the room, leaving the door ajar.
Ford sighed and reached for the hair oil. In for a penny, in for a pound. If Mrs. Lane wanted to shape him into a facsimile of Philip Carmichael, he might as well go along. For one night, anyway. He worked the greasy substance into his hair and pulled a comb through to complete the slicked back look. Leaning toward the mirror, Ford checked his smile. One good thing—if he wasn’t to eat all evening, there’d be no danger of having lettuce stuck in his teeth.
“Ford?” Margie’s voice sounded soft like music behind him. “Oh, my. Don’t you look handsome!”
He swung about, relieved she hadn’t witnessed the disgrace of him being dressed.
The sight of her stole every other thought from his mind. The soft blue gown followed every curve of her body—even curves he’d never quite noticed before. He scrambled for an appropriate response. “You—you look like a mountain bluebird.”
Margie’s nose scrunched, and she fiddled with the neckline. “I can’t imagine why Mother believed I’d want a gown covered in feathers.”
“No, I mean…” His compliment had missed the mark. Better to keep it simple. “You look pretty.”
She touched fingers to her throat, her mouth dropping open. “Oh. Thank you.” A red tinge rose in her cheeks. “I just pray a flock of birds didn’t give their lives for this silly outfit.”
He tugged at one of his sleeves, the cuffs suddenly feeling a bit close. “I’m used to green and gray, not black and white. I must look like a skunk.”
“You look wonderful.”
Ford followed the path of the long pearl necklace as it cascaded down her front. Forcing himself to look away, he made a show of digging through his old suit jacket for something. “I’m almost ready.” He needed to be careful to keep his eyes where they belonged. With Margie dressed like that, every man in the place would be falling over themselves to get to her. A backwoods clod like him never stood a chance. A deep breath helped him shake off the uncomfortable thought. He was here to fight for the park, not for her—even if she had stolen his heart.
Margie clutched Ford’s arm as they walked along the rain-splattered curb outside the stately Tacoma Hotel. The massive Tudor-style building rose like a castle against the dark sky, the tall windows glowing with life. Jazz music spilled out through the entrance as the doorman welcomed a line of well-dressed people into the hotel. Rather than parking out front, Ford had chosen a discreet place a few blocks away to stash the old truck.
“Better we make our entrance on foot, don’t you think?” Thankfully the rain had let up before they made their dash for the party, otherwise it might have been a soggy entrance, indeed.
As they approached, Ford leaned close to her ear—a considerable effort considering their height difference. “Will there be dancing? I’m afraid I’m a bit out of practice.”
“No dancing up on the mountain?” She couldn’t resist smiling at his anxious tone.
He shrugged. “One or two at the Inn, but not much beyond that.”
She squeezed his arm, enamored with the idea of this mountaineer-turned-gentleman waltzing her around a dance floor. She’d be the envy of every woman in the room, no matter his skill level. “I think we can avoid it. After all, we’re here to speak to my father, not for a romantic evening.” Margie managed to push the words out without sighing. He’d been a good sport this evening, but a fairy-tale ending was too much to hope for.
“Right.” He tugged down on his vest. “Then we’d best get ourselves in there.”
He was probably quite relieved not to have to dance with her. The minor letdown was chased away by a maddening itch working its way around her torso. She dug a gloved hand under her wrap, tugging at the gown’s feathered bodice. Assuming she survived this evening, she was returning to the woods never to reemerge. The night had barely begun, and she’d already had several reminders that she didn’t belong in her parents’ highbrow world—particularly her mother’s chilly reception at the house. Would she ever cease to be a disappointment?
The doorman greeted them with a smile. “Welcome, sir. How would you like the Master of Ceremonies to announce you?”
Margie placed a hand on Ford’s sleeve and leaned forward to answer in his place. “No, thank you. We’re hoping to surprise someone.”
The doorman’s eyes narrowed. “But you are on the guest list?”
She pushed a smile to her face. “Of course. I’m Margaret Lane, daughter of Senator and Mrs. Lane. This is my—my friend, Mr. Ford Brayden.”
His face smoothed. “Miss Lane, of course. Terribly sorry. This way, please.” He led the way inside, pointing the way to the ballroom as if the jaunty music didn’t give away its location.
Ford’s steps slowed as he surveyed the gathering. “We’re not in Longmire anymore.”
The number of influential and affluent businessmen filling the room suggested Philip’s control over the guest list. Standing on tiptoe, whic
h still brought her head only to Ford’s chin, Margie whispered, “It’ll be all right. Just be yourself.”
Ford cleared his throat, a pained expression darting across his face. “Somehow I don’t think these people would know what to do with a country boy like me.”
“Just remember how enamored Sylvia Chambers was with you at the dinner we had at the Paradise Inn.”
Ford tore his attention from the crowd. “She won’t be here, will she?”
Margie stifled a laugh. “I can’t make any promises, I’m afraid. But if she attends, her husband will probably be at her side. I think you’ll be safe.”
“I never understood why someone like her would bother with me.”
Margie’s mirth evaporated like dew in the hot sun. She could completely understand Mrs. Chamber’s attraction. She squeezed Ford’s arm. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”
“That’s supposed to be my role. Now, where will we find your father?”
“Probably near the bar.” She tugged him in the direction of a large group clustered on the far side of the ballroom.
“Bar? You’re kidding. So much for Prohibition—or is that only for the working classes?”
She spotted her father, surrounded by a cluster of men near one of the buffet tables. “There’s my father. I’m not sure if my mother’s already broken the news of our arrival or not. She’s probably been busy gossiping with the governor’s wife and daughter.”
“The sooner we take care of business, the sooner we can escape.”
Margie led the way, focusing on her father so as not to lose him in the crowd.
Philip appeared out of the throng, a grin spreading across his face. “Margaret, Ranger Brayden. What a surprise.”
Margie’s heart dropped. She should have realized he’d spot them the moment they walked through the door. Perhaps before. Philip had senses like a bloodhound.
The Road to Paradise Page 13
