“Ford, if I reach the top of Rainier, he’ll halt construction. My only other options are to work for him—or God forbid—marry him. Is that what you want?”
The words struck him in the gut like a sucker punch. “Why is this all on you? We could take this all the way to the head of the National Park Service.”
“We don’t have that sort of time. Besides, Stephen Mather said he wants this sort of development in order to increase support for the national parks. Philip’s plans, ludicrous as they are, fit his vision. What makes you think Director Mather would fight them?”
“We’ll find another way.”
Her brows rumpled. “Ford, other women have made the climb. Fay Fuller did it more than thirty years ago, and Alma Wagen worked as a guide during the war. What makes you think I’m not capable?”
Because you’re not. The words stuck in his throat. She couldn’t set foot up there. What could he say to convince her? “You’re completely unprepared, unsuited. You’re a…a pampered debutante.”
Margie’s mouth opened as she took two stuttering steps back from him. “How could you—of all people—say such a thing to me?” Tears welled up in her eyes. She clenched her fists. “Ford Brayden, I can’t believe I ever thought I was in love with you.”
In love. The words rattled his soul. He steeled himself against the avalanche of emotions coursing through him. Even more reason to stop this crazy plan in its tracks. “I’m Chief Ranger here, Margie Lane—your boss. You will not attempt to climb this mountain. I forbid it.”
Her brows drew together, peaked like the mountain itself. “You forbid it?” A tiny gasp escaped her mouth, somewhere between a laugh and a strangled choke. “Then hear me now, Chief Ranger.” She took three steps, closing the space between them and staring straight up into his eyes. “I quit.”
Margie lifted the lid of the small box of donated items Mrs. Brown had been collecting for her since the fire. Afternoon sunlight drifted through the windows of the Longmire Community Building.
I quit my job. How could I do such a foolish thing?
The hurt in Ford’s eyes had snuffed her anger as quickly as it had ignited. He’d turned and walked away, his long strides carrying him out of reach in the moments it took to realize what she’d done.
The stack of books donated by the rangers brought tears to Margie’s eyes. The men didn’t realize her learning—so precious to her when she arrived—had become little more than dead weight. Knowledge was worthless without experience. Ford had said as much. She flipped open the cover of a pamphlet, “Features of the Flora of Mount Rainier.” It looked so much like her well-worn copy, she checked the flyleaf. “From the shelf of Herman Brayden.”
The tears spilled over, running down her cheeks as she added the booklet to the stack. She hadn’t meant to tell Ford she loved him. He didn’t feel the same. Even if he did, they were far too different. Margie had spent the summer playing ranger but never truly understood what the job entailed. Apparently she’d never understood the chief ranger, either. She retrieved her journal from her knapsack, running her fingers over the cover. The soft leather binding fell open in her hands, revealing pages covered in drawings of flowers and penciled notes that mocked her. Childish dreams. Better it had burned with the others. She strode over to the fireplace and cast the book onto the cold grate. Before she left, she’d touch a match to it and be done.
She folded the three dresses donated by girls at the Inn and clutched them to her chest. The daughter of a senator, wearing castoffs. The idea brought a smile.
Sighing, Margie closed the box. Carson had offered to drive her back up the hill to Paradise. She had plenty of time to join up with a climbing expedition before the week was out. The guide service would have all the equipment she needed. She had never wanted to climb the peak, and she certainly didn’t want to do it without Ford at her side. But he’d made his feelings as clear as Reflection Lake.
She sucked in a deep breath, glancing around at the empty room. “Lord, please just get me to the top.”
Ford pushed up the hill, the toe of his boot grinding into the dirt with each step. How had he and Margie gotten so far off track? Back in June he was waltzing her around a ballroom and kissing her by the waves of Puget Sound. For those brief moments, life had been perfect.
Now she’d thrown her job in his face like it meant nothing to her. Like he meant nothing.
Blood coursed through his veins, the vigorous walk pushing energy to his muscles and away from his aching heart. Ford needed to put as many miles between himself and Carmichael as he could before he did something he’d regret. Tossing the man into a deep crevasse was the most entertaining option at the moment.
What good was being chief when his words held no sway? He could send men out to patrol trails, staff fire lookouts, and deal with problem bears, but he couldn’t stop the scheme Philip Carmichael had set into motion. The National Park Service and the Rainier National Park Company acted independently. His job was to maintain park facilities and provide for the safety of visitors—not to run off investors who held the blessing of the Interior Department.
Ford balled his fists. Margie should know better. Climb the mountain? She had no idea what she was in for. He’d scaled the peak four times and had endured muscles taxed to their limit, wind-burned skin, frost-bitten toes, and lungs fighting for enough oxygen in the thin atmosphere. And that was without the obvious dangers of rockslides, falls, and—and…A sickening shudder gripped him.
He halted where the rocky trail curved to reveal the crumpled surface of the glacier carving its way through the valley below. Ford fought for a decent breath as memories of his father’s accident enveloped him. The victims were still hidden somewhere in the ice, their bodies never recovered.
His father had been a seasoned climber. Margie had no experience.
Ford sank down on a boulder overlooking the glacier valley. He couldn’t lose her too.
Pain welled up in his chest. It made no sense how often Margie reminded him of his father. He couldn’t imagine two more different people. But when she spoke of faith, it was as if his father’s voice echoed through Ford’s soul. They both had some unexplainable depth Ford never understood and a peace he could certainly use right now.
He closed his eyes to the view, lowering his head for a moment. Whatever it was they had, he wanted it too.
Margie plunged the alpenstock’s metal tip into the icy snowfield above Paradise. She dug the tip of her hobnail boot into the drift as the guide had shown her. It’s not so hard. Stick, step, rest. Stick, step, rest. Now, how many of those repetitions would it take to climb a mountain?
Too many.
“Good, good, ja? Nothing to it.”
She glanced at Henrik Berge; the man’s jutting cheekbones and protruding chin reminded her of a vulture hunched over its kill. Luke had assured her the quiet Norwegian was the best guide on the mountain, but the man’s silent demeanor did little to set her fears at ease. “I only made it twenty feet.”
The guide’s eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, but he touched his wool cap with two fingers in a mock salute. “You’re getting the rhythm. Next we see how you are with knots.”
“Knots?” Her stomach tightened. Chalk that up with chopping wood and building campfires.
“We rope the team together on the upper glaciers. If one member falls, the others can catch him.” Berge fiddled with the pewter clasps holding his sweater closed above his black gabardine knickers. He hadn’t even bothered with a coat. Didn’t he feel the cold?
“What if two people fall?” She dug her gloved fingers against the staff.
He shrugged. “Then we all die.”
Her heart jumped to her throat. “What?”
“Just joking. You will be fine, as long as you listen to me and do as I say.”
She took a few more steps and looked back the way she’d come. Her tracks spread out behind her like some three-legged animal hobbling off to die.
Maybe Ford was ri
ght. Perhaps she was too much of a pampered princess. But she never turned away from a challenge, and here she faced the toughest one of her life.
She turned to the guide. “Right. I think I’ve got walking down pat.”
He held out a rope. “Now we see your knots.”
She set down the alpenstock and took the line from his hands. “Sure. How hard can it be?”
The tiny smile on Berge’s face didn’t offer much hope.
Ford splashed water over his face, the nightmare clinging to his sleep-addled mind like frost on pine needles. It’d been months since he last endured the chilling images of hunting for his father on a dark, ice-covered mountainside. Ford sucked in two deep breaths, pushing down the nausea threatening to overwhelm him.
Ford gripped the sides of the washbasin, the damp porcelain grounding him in reality. His father’s accident happened in broad daylight, under a blue sky, but for some reason his nightmares never played out that way. Tonight’s dream had taken a new turn—he was searching for Margie.
Ford stared down at the drain, water dripping from his chin. If this was love, it certainly wasn’t the meadows of wildflowers he’d been promised. He’d spent two years living under the shadow of his father’s accident, and this summer he’d just started to feel hope creeping back in. But now…
Ford ran his damp fingers through his hair. There was no hope of seeing Margie at breakfast, but a man still needed to eat. Maybe bacon would make this day bearable. He pulled on his uniform and stepped outside. He gazed across the small clearing at the remains of Margie’s cottage.
He and Jennings had gone over the ruins with a careful eye, but had found little. He knew from the night it happened that the fire had started inside. Could someone have set the blaze? Carmichael. The man wanted Margie out of Longmire, that much was certain. Would he stoop this low?
Thank goodness she hadn’t been home that night. The idea sent a cold sweat across his skin.
Ford had given Mrs. Brown a book for the box she was assembling for Margie, but now it seemed like such a paltry offering. Margie had lost so much—was a moldy pamphlet the best he could offer? Perhaps the collection box was still over at the Community Building. Ford stepped back inside and strode over to his bookshelf. One item would mean the world to Margie. He reached to the top and pulled down his dad’s Stetson. It had looked so sweet on her the night of the banquet. She deserved to have it. Dad would have approved.
Hurrying across Longmire, Ford let himself into the Community Building. He poked around, but the box was gone. Perhaps Margie had already retrieved it.
He breathed out a long exhale, laying the hat on the long table. What did he expect? A good-bye letter? A charred log sat in the fireplace, cold and lifeless, reminding him of that night when her scream had brought him hurtling across the clearing to her cabin.
Something sat atop the ashes. Ford bent down and grasped the small book. He shook off the soot and flipped open the cover. Page after page of her careful notes and drawings of plants filled the notebook. Her journal? Why would she discard something so precious?
He pulled the item close as if it somehow held a connection with its owner. Flipping through a few more pages, Ford ran his finger along a drawing of a flowering penstemon. He hadn’t bothered to learn the flower’s name before Margie arrived. Now it was as close as his next breath.
He tucked the book in his pocket. If Margie was determined to climb the mountain, the journal would only weigh her down. Best keep it safe for her.
He took a quick detour to return the hat to his cabin before loping over to the kitchen for breakfast. The men’s banter grated on his nerves, but when talk turned to the guide service, his attention zeroed in. “Wait—who were you talking about?”
Carson turned, his brows lifted. “Are you speaking to us now? You haven’t said a word since you dragged in here.”
Jennings gestured to Ford’s coffee. “The chief never speaks until he’s downed at least one cup. Ford’s ahead of schedule.”
Ford set the mug down with a little more force than necessary. “What were you saying about the guides?”
Carson bit off a piece of bacon and chewed before answering. “Henrik said he’d been hired to lead Miss Lane and her group.”
The name sent a chill down Ford’s spine. “Henrik Berge?”
“Are there other Henriks who work here?” Carson took another swig of coffee.
Jennings frowned. “Is there a problem, Ford?”
“There are several guides working for RNPC. Why did she choose him?” Ford pushed his plate back, the food suddenly unappetizing.
Carson shrugged. “Couldn’t be for his looks. The man’s like a walking skeleton. They must not have a cook as good as Mrs. Brown up at the Guide House.”
Ford stood. “Who cares what they eat? Their job is to keep climbers safe on the mountain, and Berge’s track record is spotty.”
“Spotty?” Jennings frowned for a moment, and then his brows softened. “Oh, I see.”
Carson grunted. “I don’t.”
Ford grabbed his hat off the rack. He couldn’t escape this conversation quickly enough.
Jennings lowered his voice. “Henrik was the only member of his father’s climbing party to survive.” He pushed to his feet and then hurried to join Ford by the door. “You can’t fault the man for that. No one could have seen the slide coming. Not in time, anyway.”
Ford ignored him. He pushed out the door, leaving the men to their morning routines.
He veered away from park headquarters, desperate for a minute or two of privacy. Perhaps a quick drive up to Narada Falls? Ford climbed in the park truck and pulled the door shut. As he shifted in the seat, the edge of Margie’s journal jammed against his leg. He pulled it from his pocket, rubbing his thumb against the cover. After a long moment, he flipped it open and thumbed through the pages.
A beautiful sketch of the meadow at Indian Henry’s Hunting Ground caught his eye. She’d penciled in the words of a Bible verse at the bottom of the page: “For ye shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace: the mountains and the hills shall break forth before you into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.”
The breath leaked from his chest. He glanced up to where Rainier’s summit rose above Rampart Ridge. Ford knocked the book’s cover against the steering wheel before tossing it onto the seat beside him. Mountains don’t sing. Why did the woman think everything in nature was beautiful and kind? Didn’t she realize that people died out there? Good people.
People like her.
He closed his eyes, burying his face in his hands. Would her God protect her? He hadn’t done anything to save Ford’s father. You can’t take Margie too. I can’t lose someone else to this mountain. The halfhearted plea echoed in his chest. If he didn’t believe in God in the first place, what good did it do to ask for favors?
Picking up the journal a second time, he searched for the verse he’d just read. What did it say about going out with joy? Margie’s looping penmanship drew his eye down another page. Nothing about plants or animals, but his own name jumped out. He turned back a page to where the section began. Dear Heavenly Father…She’d written out a prayer for him? His hand trembled. Ford closed the cover but kept his thumb wedged inside. What was he doing? It wasn’t his place to read her private thoughts, even if they were about him. Especially if they were about him.
He sat staring at the cover, his feelings at war inside. After several minutes, he jammed the journal into his coat pocket. No need to decide right now. He reached for the gearshift. All that mattered right now was Henrik Berge. There was no way Ford was going to let him lead that climb. Whatever it took, he would make sure someone else was in charge.
August 29, 1927
Margie clutched the warm mug, letting its heat seep into her raw fingers. She perched on the high stool in the Guide House, her stomach churning. She was hopelessly inadequate for the task. Two rushed days of glacier training hadn’t changed t
hat fact. A passable knowledge of botany and zoology did Margie little good in the higher elevations. In the land of crevasses, andesite cliffs, and steep snowfields, she would be dead weight.
Henrik Berge came through the door and hung the coiled rope on a peg with several others. “We’ll leave at dawn. Can you be ready by four o’clock?” He unpacked his knapsack, plunking the supplies on the table with force.
The words chilled Margie to the core. “Tomorrow? You saw me out there; I was a wreck.”
The man snorted, hanging his wooden-handled ice ax on the wall. “I’ve got an experienced party scheduled to go to Camp Muir tomorrow. I’ll rope you in with them.”
Experienced. That sounded good. Maybe they could drag her to the top. “What if I can’t keep up?”
He lifted his head, the first time she’d seen his ice-blue eyes without the dark glasses. “You will.”
Or else. She heard the implication in his voice, even if he didn’t intend it. “Are there any other women on the team?”
“Not this time.” He poured himself a cup of hot chocolate from the pan on the stove. “We’ll climb up to the base camp tomorrow—at around ten thousand feet. After a little sleep, we will leave in the wee hours to storm the crest.”
Storm the crest. Assault the glacier. Conquer the mountain. Did all mountaineers speak in battle terms?
Margie tugged at the oversized flannel shirt the guide service had issued her. “Then perhaps I should head back to the dormitory and turn in early.” Luke had been kind to let her stay in the park housing until after the climb. “What are the beds like at the base camp?”
The man nearly choked on his drink. “Beds?”
She put her hand up. “Just kidding. I assume that’s what those are for.” She gestured at the pile of bedrolls heaped in the corner. Hopefully they were freshly laundered. The idea of sleeping in the same blankets as a smelly man who’d spent yesterday attacking a mountain didn’t appeal much to her. Then again, John Muir probably wouldn’t have balked at it, so neither would she.
The Road to Paradise Page 20
