“I’d like to proofread the report as you finish each page.” He lowered himself to the seat and crossed his ankles. Ford drew a stack of papers onto his lap, shuffling through the sheets.
So he didn’t trust her in his office alone? The man was as territorial as a wolf. If the typewriter didn’t weigh a ton, she’d carry it to her cabin and do the work there. She’d seen some smaller portable machines in the Sears, Roebuck catalog. Perhaps she should order one. Margie focused on the round keys, rubbing her palms discreetly against her skirt to dry them.
She began picking out letters, her attention flicking back and forth from Ford’s notes to the keys. After a few minutes, she eased into a rhythm. If only men could be more like this—steady and predictable. You did your part, and they reacted in a predictable manner, producing the wanted results.
But if men were anything like typewriters, she’d never mastered the art of controlling one.
Ford leaned his chair against the office wall, one foot propped up on a lower desk drawer. He tried to study the visitation numbers displayed on the typed pages. No matter his intentions, his eyes kept drifting to Margie perched on the edge of her seat, diligently tapping away at the infernal machine.
Mrs. Brown’s words hung on the edges of his thoughts. “You haven’t missed a day—doing your father’s job.” What did she mean by that? How could doing a good job be a bad thing?
Margie’s back was straight as a flagpole as she concentrated on the keys with an unwavering focus. Why couldn’t he do the same? Perhaps because his mind was consumed with the memory of her lips. A kiss should seal a budding relationship, but he could sense her drawing away. It was as if someone had driven a splitting wedge between them.
The papers blurred in his peripheral vision. He wasn’t accomplishing anything by studying the lines of her shoulder blades beneath the light flowered fabric of her dress. He really should issue her a standard park uniform, if only for his own sanity.
The ding of the typewriter’s bell jerked him from his reverie, the motion nearly upending the precariously balanced chair. The two legs slammed against the floor.
Margie turned and eyed him over her shoulder. “You really shouldn’t lean in chairs like that. Didn’t your headmaster ever correct such behavior?”
“I didn’t spend much time in school. My teachers were generally relieved to see me in a seat at all.”
With a steady hand, she slid the carriage back to the margin. The tapping resumed.
His heartbeat ratcheted up another notch as if matching the cadence of her speedy fingers. This was ridiculous. Whatever Mrs. Brown thought, it was obvious he and Margie were meant for each other. Either fate or nature—or maybe even that God of hers—had brought the two of them together. He’d just moved too fast.
“Are you watching me, by chance?”
Ford lifted the sheets in front of his face. “Of course not.”
“Good. Because I get nervous when someone watches me. I’d hate to make stupid mistakes because my fingers got all fiddly.”
Fiddly fingers. The room was growing too warm to breathe. Ford jumped from his seat, hurried over to the window, and threw it open. “That’s better.” He braced himself against the sill. “Have you thought any more about our situation?”
Her brows shot upward and a rosy tinge touched her cheeks. “Our—our what?”
“Carmichael taking over the RNPC.”
“Oh.” Margie took her hands off the keys and laid them in her lap. “I’ve thought of little else.”
Ford reached for his chair and dragged it close to her side before sitting down. “You know I want to help.”
“Because you don’t want to face Philip’s grandiose ideas?”
“Because I care about you. I don’t want to see you forced into something you don’t desire.”
She lowered her eyes. “I should finish these reports. I’m leading a nature walk at Paradise this afternoon.”
Ford stood, fighting the urge to touch her hair. “What about lunch, first? Then I could drive you up the hill.”
She focused on the report again. “I’m dining with Luke Johansson at the Paradise Inn. Ranger Jennings said I could ride with him. I’ll be staying over at the Inn, as well, since I’m doing the evening magic lantern talk.” She rolled the paper forward, as if checking the type. She glanced up at him, her eyes serious. “In fact, I might move to Paradise for the rest of the summer. All this driving back and forth doesn’t really make sense.”
“We only have the male dormitory up there.”
“For the rangers, yes. But there is housing for the female Inn staff. Or I could get a room at the Inn—at my own expense, of course.” She glanced up at him.
“Oh.” Ford pushed down the disappointment rising in his gut. Somehow when he’d kissed Margie next to Commencement Bay, he hadn’t anticipated life returning to normal so quickly. Could she just put that moment behind her so easily? He cleared his throat. “Well, I should let you finish then. I’ll…I’ll take a walk over to the Community Building.”
“I’ll leave the report on your desk when I’ve finished.”
“That’ll be fine. Thank you.” The tapping faded as he made his way down the stairs and outside.
Longmire without Margie? Even with the summer sun beating down on the trees, the forest had never seemed so dismal.
July 1, 1927
Ford rolled over in bed, the frame creaking in protest. He rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, straining to make sense of the odd crackling sounds that had woken him. Rain hitting the roof, perhaps? They hadn’t seen any in weeks; the forest was dry as three-day-old toast. They could certainly use some moisture. But the racket? It must be one intense storm.
An eerie flickering light danced on the far wall. Ford pushed up on his elbows, his sleep-muddled thoughts clearing. No. He launched across the room, barely getting his feet under him before colliding with the door and wrenching it open.
Flames licked the inside of Margie’s cabin windows as the small building lit up from within like an oil lamp.
Ford’s heart hammered as he stood rooted to the stoop. Margie. A harrowing few seconds passed before he could breathe again. She’d been staying at Paradise—what was it—five days, now?
He dashed through the night, pounding on every door he could find before running for the fire hoses. By the time he and Jennings lugged a hose back, the cabin was fully engulfed. The searing heat drove them back. His cabin could be next—and the surrounding forest, besides.
Unless they got this blaze under control, this fire could spell the end of Longmire.
Carson and the other men arrived within moments and aimed a second hose at the surrounding trees and undergrowth.
The scent of smoldering ash filled Ford’s nose as he sprayed water at the base of the flames, soaking the cabin from the ground up. Had it only been a month since he’d helped Margie get settled? Thank goodness she hadn’t been home. The thought of losing her curdled in his gut.
Smoke rolled from the structure, filling the night air, even as the flames died down. His arms and back ached from gripping the hose, but their work seemed to be effective. The small shack crumbled inward, casting sparks into the night air.
Jennings grunted, hoisting the hose over a few feet. “I think we’ve got it. Good thing this place was slated for demolition anyway. Right, boss?”
“Yeah. Right.” He handed the hose off to one of the other rangers and brushed his hands against his stained pant legs.
Only now, there was no chance of Margie coming home.
He strode around the smoldering ruin, questions racing through his mind. How had the fire started? If Margie had been home, he’d have suspected her lack of fire-tending skills. But the cabin had been empty for several days.
Move her out of there, or I will. Carmichael’s voice stole through his memory.
Empty cabins didn’t just burst into flame. They had to have help.
Margie offered a cheery wave t
o the bus passengers heading home from their weekend excursion. The RNPC driver had been kind enough to offer her a lift down the hill to Longmire this morning. She needed to gather the rest of her belongings and have someone help her ferry them up to Paradise before tonight’s program. Staying at the Inn was expensive, but convenient. Mr. Johansson had promised her a room in the women’s dormitory as soon as they had space.
A little distance from a certain chief ranger had been a good thing, too. Or so she kept telling herself. The more Margie tried not to think about him, the less her heart cooperated.
She already missed living in Longmire. If only she weren’t so attached to her little Waldenesque cabin. And having Ford right next door…A shiver raced across her skin. She needed to put such thoughts out of her mind.
Margie lifted the knapsack over her shoulder and trotted into Longmire as the red bus departed in a cloud of dust. She sniffed the air; the place smelled of soggy campfire ash. Had there been a problem in the campground? Turning the corner past the National Park Inn, she spotted a crowd lingering near the entrance to the older housing area. She rushed forward.
Ford intercepted her. “Margie, there you are. I telephoned Paradise, but they said you’d already left.”
“What’s wrong? What happened?” She pushed past him, spotting the charred beams. “My cabin—” No. Her throat clenched as grief ripped through her. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Everyone’s fine. We managed to keep it to your place and a few nearby trees.” He grabbed her arm as she surged toward the smoldering mess. “Don’t, Margie. It’s still hot.”
She couldn’t tear her eyes from the smoking rubble, the sickening smell turning her stomach. “How did this happen?”
“We don’t know yet. But it started inside.”
Margie pushed against Ford’s forearm, an icy chill draping over her shoulders. “Inside? How is that possible? No one was in there.”
A shadow crossed his face. “Tell me you came back at some point and left a lamp burning. Or hot ash in the fireplace?”
“I was gone for days, Ford. You know that.” Tremors spread through Margie’s core. How could this have happened?
The stench clung to Ford’s clothes. His gray eyes fixed on her. “Then I think the fire was set intentionally.”
“Set?” She swallowed, her mind racing. “By whom?”
The look on his face provided her answer. She stepped back, the thought taking a moment to settle into the depths of her being. This was her fault. She’d unleashed Philip on this place, and now he’d see it come down around her ears—risking those she loved in the meantime. She pressed the back of her hand to her lips to prevent the moan that threatened to burst out. After a moment, her breathing steadied. “My books? My things?”
He took her hand, his fingers streaked with soot. “I’m so sorry.”
August 25, 1927 (Thursday)
Margie led the last tour group of the day through the meadow, pointing out the late-season lupines and red splashes of Indian paintbrush. The women from the Mountaineers club stopped to admire each of the blooms, murmuring appreciation of every tidbit of information Margie offered them.
In between questions, her mind wandered. The month of July and most of August had passed in a blur, filled with a dizzying number of wildflower tours and fireside talks. Her dreams of opening people’s eyes to God’s wonders had been answered beyond her imagination, and yet the one person she most longed to reach remained unmoved.
She’d seen Ford only a few times since moving to Paradise. The summer season apparently kept him too busy for casual conversations with the naturalist staff. Unfortunately, every glimpse of him still made her heart leap into her throat. It seemed best to maintain a safe distance. The temptation to fall back into his arms was more than she could bear.
She needed to stay resolute. There was no future for the two of them, and staying away might keep him safe from Philip’s wrath. Ranger Jennings had told her that they’d found no evidence of arson at her cabin, but she couldn’t shake the sense that Philip was somehow responsible. Either he’d set the blaze himself, or—more likely—he’d paid someone else to do so. Would he target Ford next? How long could she hold out against such tactics?
Moving into the women’s dormitory had lifted her spirits. The small group of residents enjoyed a rare camaraderie, giggling late into the night and sharing their secret hopes and dreams, which often involved the men who worked on the mountain. Even though most of them seemed taken with the fellows living at the nearby male dormitory, a couple of the girls had set their sights on the handsome Chief Ranger. Margie had bitten her tongue rather than join in the idle gossip. If anyone found out she’d actually kissed Ford, there’d be no peace.
As the Mountaineers club ladies explored the variety of blossoms, Margie glanced toward the Inn and its parking area packed with automobiles. If Philip built his massive luxury resort, what would happen to this fragile mountain vegetation? Even now, the rangers had to patrol the tent camp to ask campers not to cut the small clumps of subalpine trees for their bonfires.
She’d taken to rising early each morning to walk the meadow trails and pray. God wouldn’t let Philip succeed; she was sure of it. Somehow He’d intervene. Just show me what to do, Lord. Please.
“These seem so tender and delicate.” Mrs. Winters frowned, running her finger along the tiny pink petals of a spreading phlox. “You said this meadow was snow-covered ten months out of the year. How do they manage to survive?”
The question pulled Margie from her musings. “They protect themselves by hugging the ground and thrusting their roots down deep. They cling to the mountain with every ounce of their might and only grow a tiny bit each year. And these lupines”—she gestured toward the purple flowers lifting their heads slightly above the others—“are experts at growing in poor, thin soils, wresting nutrients out of water and air and storing nutrition in their root systems. Sometimes a fragile appearance masks deep strength.”
Mrs. Winters laughed with her companions. “Do you hear that, girls? Just like us.”
The other women wandered back toward the Inn, but Mrs. Winters touched Margie’s arm. “I wanted to thank you for giving us a tour. We’ve been out with rangers before, but it’s a delight to hear from such a knowledgeable young woman.”
“Thank you.” The woman’s kind words warmed Margie’s spirits. “It’s my pleasure, really.” And a nice distraction from the situation with Philip.
A smile warmed her lined face. “You should consider joining our club for one of the climbs, Miss Lane.”
“I don’t think climbing is for me.” Margie bent down to study a Sitka valerian’s tiny white bloom, almost lost among the showier meadow flowers.
“That’s what I thought the first time, too.” She laughed. “Now mountaineering’s an obsession of mine.”
Margie stood. “Really? You’ve scaled Mount Rainier?”
“Two years ago.” She turned to gaze upon the snowy dome in the distance. “There’s nothing to compare. It’s as if you can see the whole world.” She placed a hand on one hip. “There were three women in our group that year, Miss Lane. Don’t think because you’re not a man you can’t do anything you set your mind to do. You spoke truth—a fragile appearance can mask great strength.”
Margie felt anything but strong right now. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.” Margie lifted her eyes, gazing at the glaciated peak. Would it be worth risking avalanche, rockfall, and crevasses just for a better view? Granted it would be a pretty spectacular vista. But with her fear of heights, it would take more than scenery to get her to rope into one of those climbing teams.
Margie strolled the Skyline Trail, the late-afternoon sun warming her shoulders. Ranger Jennings had promised her a ride to the Browns’ in time for supper, but for now she relished a little free time to explore unhindered. The flower composition seemed to change on a daily basis as the small plants made the most of the short growing season, popping out their blooms
like firecrackers then transforming into seedpods almost as quickly.
Sometimes a fragile appearance masks great strength. Margie had come to the mountain to hide from Philip, fearful of his controlling ways. Now, after everything that had happened, did she really have the strength to fight him? She brushed her fingers over the soft seed head of the pasqueflower, several of the fuzzy seeds falling free into her hand. Like these plants, Margie had sunk roots into this mountain. Now she just needed to hold on.
Strolling back toward the Inn, Margie stopped to pluck a few of the early mountain huckleberries. One of these evenings, she should bring a pail and gather some. Popping the fruit into her mouth, Margie let the tart juice overwhelm her taste buds.
A crashing sound off to her right made her jump. A black bear sat about thirty yards away at the edge of the meadow, rooting through the squat shrubs with its short muzzle. Margie’s legs tensed as the lumbering giant swung its head side to side, likely suctioning up the same tiny blue morsels, and reached one curved paw through the branches to guide the fruit into its mouth. Was this one of the bears Margie had seen Carson feeding over at the trash heap, encouraging them to stand and turn for the crowd of onlookers? If only she could bring those people here to see the mighty animal behaving as it should rather than like a silly trained dog.
Why do we need to reduce wilderness into something we can control? Transform the frightening to the ridiculous. If Philip had his way, the park would be revamped into sideshow antics meant only to please the visitors.
The beast lifted its head, the tan-colored snout scrunching as it sniffed the wind.
Margie backed slowly. As much as she appreciated the majesty of the wild creature, she certainly didn’t trust it. God had given it claws and teeth for a reason, and she didn’t care to view either of those at close range. Competing for the meadow’s food sources was not high on her list of desires.
The Road to Paradise Page 17
