The Road to Paradise

by Karen Barnett

  “You can’t blame Ford for what happened.” The pain in her mother’s face dug at Margie’s heart. “Philip said he’d stop construction if I managed the climb—”

  “Now, now.” Philip raised a hand to stop her flow of words. “The crowd got a little unruly. I never intended you to risk your life over a little wager.”

  Margie folded her arms, clenching her fists behind her elbows.

  Mother frowned. “Margaret, you’ve always been far too impulsive.”

  Philip smoothed the front of his ivory linen suit. “The newspapers were quite excited to cover the story of a senator’s daughter setting out to climb the state’s highest peak. Your story sold a lot of papers, I’m sure. Sadly, they seemed equally hungry for the story of you being lost on the mountain. Disturbing, really.” He clucked his tongue. “It was a grand attempt, Margaret. You should be proud. A shame it failed.”

  Ford wanted nothing more than to wipe the condescending smile off Carmichael’s face. But this was Margie’s story to tell. He folded his arms and waited.

  “We didn’t fail!” The words exploded from her mouth. “We reached the summit this morning.” She turned to Ford. “Tell them.”

  “The lady’s right. We summited this morning just after daybreak.”

  Carmichael’s jaw dropped. “Nonsense. You couldn’t have.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” The redness of Margie’s cheeks deepened as if a fire had been kindled somewhere under the skin.

  The man scowled. “You were to summit with the guide. Just because you and Daniel Boone, here”—he darted a withering glance at Ford— “traipsed off alone—terrifying us all—you expect us to believe these grandiose claims? For all we know, he planned some sort of tryst.”

  Ford surged forward, his fist latching onto the man’s lapel. “You want to repeat that accusation?”

  Carmichael gripped Ford’s wrist, his sudden action somehow eliciting a cool smile. “Then tell us where you were last night, Mr. Ranger. Wandering through a blizzard, perhaps? Or were you denned up some place like a couple of wolves?”

  Suddenly appearing at Ford’s elbow, Luke gripped Ford’s bicep and tugged. “Ford, let him go.”

  “Ford, stop.” Margie’s voice rang out behind him.

  Ford granted himself one small shove as he released Carmichael’s suit. The man had a way of sucking all the manners right out of him.

  Carmichael coughed once, as if Ford had managed to get his hands around his throat instead of his jacket.

  Lord, keep me from choking the man. Not the most pious choice for one of his first prayers. Hopefully God would understand.

  “We’ve all read accounts of polar explorations gone wrong. You know how they stayed alive, don’t you?” He looked pointedly at Margie, his gaze like burning coals. “Tell me I’m wrong, Margaret. Tell me you didn’t spend the night cocooning with this mongrel like two animals in heat.”

  Ford’s vision tunneled. Before he could stop it, his right fist shot through the air, knocking Carmichael off his feet.

  Margie pushed forward. “Stop it. Both of you.”

  Luke jumped in front of Ford, muscling him backward. “Don’t! Don’t let him do this to you.”

  Ford wrestled against his friend’s hold. If that man got up, he wanted to be ready.

  The businessman pushed up on one arm, touching the bleeding corner of his lip with his thumb. He glared at Ford. “You’ll regret that.”

  “Never.” Ford spat the word over Luke’s head.

  Luke shook him. “Margie doesn’t want this.”

  Ford looked at Margie blocking his path back to Carmichael. The sight of her tears melted every bit of fight from his muscles. He slackened his grip on Luke’s arms, a hollow opening in his stomach. She didn’t still have feelings for the cad, did she? At least she hadn’t moved to assist him.

  Mrs. Lane turned toward her daughter, her cheeks pale. “Margaret, where were you? Is what Philip says true?”

  Color crept up Margie’s neck as she looked at the floor. “We did spend the night together.”

  Her mother stumbled back, her hands covering her ears. “No, I can’t be hearing this.”

  Carmichael clambered to his feet. “I knew it. Now that’ll make a sensational story for the papers, won’t it?” He jabbed his finger toward Margie. “And you expect us to believe your claims about reaching the crest?”

  Ford fought against the venom threatening his voice. “Would you prefer her to have frozen to death? Is that what you wanted?”

  The businessman rounded on Ford. “I expected you would have more honor than to drag her into such a dangerous and shameful situation. You should be fired. I plan to make it my personal mission to see that you are.”

  “No.” Margie moved toward Carmichael, her face pained. “Philip, don’t. This was my fault. You must see that. I only wanted to convince you this development you’re planning is a bad idea.”

  He jutted his chin. “The bad idea was letting you hope you could stop me from moving forward. Since you didn’t summit with the guide, our deal is off.”

  “You can’t do that,” Ford snapped. “You said she had to reach the summit, and she did. I’m her witness.”

  Carmichael laughed. “Like I’d take your word for anything.” He snapped his fingers toward Luke. “Johansson, tell the foreman to begin immediately. We’ve delayed far too long as it is. I want the foundation laid before the snow falls.”

  Luke hesitated, glancing between Ford and Carmichael as if expecting more sparks to fly. Shoulders lowering, he left the dining room.

  Margie balled her fists. “What you’re doing will ruin the whole area. You can’t just bulldoze the meadows.”

  “Don’t worry, Margaret. Once my lodge is complete, we’ll plant some nice petunias out front. It’ll look splendid. Ranger Brayden won’t mind a bit, since he’ll be long gone anyway.”

  Her face crumbled. “What can I say to convince you to leave this mountain—and Ford—alone?”

  Ford’s stomach twisted. “Margie—”

  “Tell me what it will take, Philip.” Margie’s voice cracked as she pressed hands over her ruddy cheeks. “I’ll do anything.”

  “Margie, don’t do this. Don’t play into his whims.” Ford grabbed her elbow, turning her toward him. “Let him have the Inn, the valley, the whole park. You’re worth more than any of it.”

  Carmichael sneered, his head cocked to one side. “And he has a pretty good understanding about your worth. Ask him how much your father poured into his building fund. What was it, Brayden—about five thousand? Ten? I’m not the only one getting ready to break ground in this park, am I?”

  A cold sweat washed over Ford. He can’t know about that.

  Margie’s eyes widened. She took a step back, leaving Ford’s hands hanging empty. “What is he talking about?”

  Carmichael folded his arms. “It’s simple, Margaret. That’s how much money he’s taking off your daddy in exchange for chaperoning you on your fantasy of working in the wilderness. Somehow I doubt Senator Lane expected the arrangement would include amorous attentions, but I suppose he’s getting a decent value for his dollar.”

  Margie’s mother gasped, looking from Margie to Ford.

  Tears welled up in Margie’s eyes. “Ford?”

  “Margie, I-I’m sorry.” The words tore at his throat.

  “You…took money from my father?” Her brow furrowed. “I’m only here because he paid you?”

  Her pain slid over him like an avalanche. “Yes, but—no. Not—”

  “Oh, look. There are the newspaper men now.” Carmichael waved at two men in navy suits standing at the entry to the dining room. “What should we tell them?”

  Mrs. Lane grabbed Margie’s arm, drawing her around the table to the far side. “Margaret, this scandal will ruin your father. Is that what you want?”

  Margie’s face sagged. With her curls jutting in every direction and the flannel shirt hanging from her slender frame, she looked
more like a war refugee than a member of an influential political family. “Philip, you win. What do you want from me?”

  The man pulled up his cuff to peer at a gold watch. “Obviously, my proposal of marriage is off the table—at least for now. Perhaps, if you return with me to Tacoma, your father and I can work out an amicable compromise.”

  Margie turned away from Ford, her expression hollow and empty. “Then I’m ready to go.”

  Ford walked into his cabin, shut the door, and let his pack thump to the floor. His stomach growled, but he ignored its protests and sank down on the bed. Leaning forward, he unlaced the tall boots and kicked them off. With a sigh, he stretched out. Just this morning, he’d stood atop Rainier with Margie, dreaming of the future.

  He pressed both hands to his forehead, pushing against the throbbing ache lodged behind his temples. At least the pain proved he was alive. There’d been a moment, back at Paradise, when he’d wondered if they’d actually left the summit. Perhaps the volcanic fumes had created some twisted hallucination.

  A knock sounded at his door.

  Ford left his eyes closed, his tongue too thick to answer. Whoever it was would have to bother him another time. Just because he was chief didn’t mean he was at everyone’s beck and call.

  A second tap echoed through the room, like the insistent rapping of a woodpecker.

  “Go away.” The words burst from his throat.

  The door creaked open. “Ford?” Mrs. Brown stood on the threshold, a towel-wrapped pot cradled in her hands. “I guessed you hadn’t eaten.” She cocked her head, a faint smile turning her motherly cheeks a lovely rosy hue. “You look like someone who spent the day on latrine duty. When was the last time you ate?”

  He sat up, his head swimming from the sudden motion. Why was this woman always so concerned about his eating habits? “I don’t remember.”

  “I’ve got beef stew. It’s the best thing for exhausted mountaineers. Sticks to the ribs, as they say.” She pushed aside a stack of books on the table and set the container down. “Come and eat. Good therapy for a broken heart too.”

  He lowered his head into his hands. “News spreads fast.”

  “Luke telephoned. He was concerned.”

  Ford shuffled over to the table and dropped into the chair. “He should be worried about his job—working for Carmichael.”

  She wandered over to the small cabinet by the window and rifled through its contents. “Don’t you own a bowl?”

  “I eat at your place, mostly.”

  She pulled one from behind a couple of mugs. “I see. This is one of mine.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. I meant to—”

  “Don’t concern yourself. You’re not the only fellow to wander off with my dishes.” She filled the bowl and set it in front of him, adding a spoon from her apron pocket.

  Ford breathed in the rich smell of the broth. “I suppose I should be worrying about my own job. Carmichael will make life difficult for Harry until he fires me.” He lifted a spoonful of broth to his mouth, the rich liquid warming its way down his raw throat.

  Mrs. Brown sat across from him and heaved a sigh. “Harry’s been in this business a long time. He knows how to handle hotheads like Philip Carmichael.”

  She underestimated the man’s power. So did I. Hunger hurried his hand as he continued ladling stew into his mouth. He’d consumed most of the bowl before he noticed Mrs. Brown staring. “I’m sorry. Did you want some?”

  She laughed. “Oh, goodness, no. But something’s different about you, and I can’t put my finger on it.”

  Ford tried to slow his eating. After two days of little food, his stomach wouldn’t appreciate being filled too quickly. “Hope it’s not the smell.”

  Mrs. Brown wrinkled her nose. “No, but now that you mention it, I think a bath is in order.”

  The spoon weighed a ton. If he was too tired to eat, he was certainly too exhausted to bathe. “Later.”

  She nodded. “Tell me what happened.”

  Ford leaned back in the chair. Digging for the last bit of his energy, he told Mrs. Brown the story of the climb, the accident, the night in the cave, and the final push to the summit. Once he began talking, it was as if a logjam broke and the words rushed out with little control or steering. His fears about Margie, his talks with God, the horror of watching her walk away with Carmichael—nothing was left out. When he’d finished, he bent forward as if the tension had been the last thing keeping him upright.

  Mrs. Brown had listened without interrupting, but now she slapped a hand down on the table. “Ford Brayden, you walked up that mountain a strong man and returned a Christian.”

  A coughing laugh escaped his throat. “What?”

  The twinkle in her eye deepened as she shook her head slowly. “You are so used to doing everything in your own strength. But how strong do you feel now?”

  “I don’t.” His voice cracked. “I feel like…like someone has rubbed my heart across a washboard.”

  A grin lit her face. “Then you’re right where God wants you.”

  “God wants me broken and miserable?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think I’d go that far, Ford, but when we’re weak He is strong. It’s in His strength that we find victory.”

  Ford grunted. “I’m not sensing much victory right now.”

  Mrs. Brown pushed to her feet and went to lay her hands on Ford’s shoulders. “Then I know how to be praying. Be sure that you are, too.”

  Margie leaned against the balcony rail of her family home, the breeze from Commencement Bay fluttering the hem of her skirt against her knees. She’d never appreciated the view before, the steep drop usually sending her heart rate into hysterics. Somehow, after climbing to the top of a fourteen-thousand-foot peak, standing here seemed like child’s play.

  And much more lonely.

  Another tear slid down her raw cheeks. Her father was due to arrive home today. How could she face him? At least Philip had found a way to minimize her story for the papers. The last thing she needed was to be splashed across every scandal sheet in the Northwest. They’d reported about her climb but with none of the salacious details she’d feared might decorate their stories.

  It had been three days. She didn’t know what sort of humiliation Philip had planned for her, but it couldn’t be as wrenching as hearing Ford had been paid to hire her. Her stomach lurched at the thought. She should have realized. Why else would he put up with a know-it-all woman, who actually knew nothing of any value.

  Margie gripped the wood railing, gazing out to where the Olympic Mountains decorated the horizon across the bay. The jagged peaks held a mystic beauty, but not the overwhelming stature of Mount Rainier. When she closed her eyes, she could still see her cottage nestled under the mighty cedars and firs, a generous coating of needles covering the shake roof. Only it was gone, nothing but a pile of charred cinders.

  A tender ache had settled in the depths of her chest over the past days. What did her future hold? She’d dreamed of nothing but the mountain for years. Now, even if she could return, she wouldn’t be able to face Ford. All those things he’d said—how she had a gift of working with the public, how she’d opened his eyes to the intricacies of nature—were they more lies? Sweet compliments paid for in full by her father?

  “There’s my darling girl.” Her father’s voice carried out across the balcony as he poked his head out from the upstairs library.

  She wiped a quick hand over her eyes before hurrying over to him. “You’re home.”

  He took her into his arms. “And so are you. How we’ve missed you.”

  Margie laid her head on his shoulder, tamping down the emotions welling up inside. “I don’t know how everything went downhill so fast.”

  “We all have mountains and valleys in our lives, Margie. This summer was your mountain time. Now you’ve got to face the lowlands.”

  “Thanks to Philip.”

  “My dear, there’s always a Philip. The question is, how d
oes one deal with a person like him?”

  She lifted her head and met her father’s eyes. “Does that mean you have an idea?”

  His face held more lines and shadows than she remembered. “One, but I don’t think your mother is going to like it.” He took Margie’s hand and led her inside, closing the French doors. “Philip is holding two things over you.”

  Margie followed her father to two damask chairs and sat across from him. “The park, for starters.”

  He leaned forward, bracing against his knees. “Yes. But he’s also using me—threatening to smear my campaign with his gossip.” Father drew a hand across his scalp, smoothing the few hairs that remained after a lifetime in political office.

  “He’s added a third item.” A weight settled in her heart.

  “Oh?”

  She lowered her eyes. “Ford. Philip wants him fired.”

  Her father touched her wrist. “And you’ve grown fond of the ranger.”

  “Yes.” Margie blinked back tears, squeezing the bridge of her nose. “I wish I’d known he was on your payroll.”

  He pulled his hand back. “My payroll? Ranger Brayden?”

  “Isn’t he? Philip said…” She thought back through the altercation, her breath catching.

  Father chuckled. “And why would you believe anything he says?”

  “But Ford didn’t deny it.”

  He shook his head. “I understand the confusion. I promised a donation to the superintendent. It was something I’d planned anyhow, considering my role in their money troubles. I knew there were plans in the works for a new administration building, and I felt I was to blame for the delay.” Father shrugged. “Now, I may have mentioned it when I telephoned Superintendent Brown about your interest in working up there…”

  “Conveniently.”

  “Yes. Perhaps. But I would have made the donation regardless of his decision—and I told him as much. I wasn’t paying for your upkeep, if that’s what concerns you.”

  The squeezing pressure in her chest eased a little. It didn’t take away the humiliation, but at least it softened the blow. “Philip said something else that confused me. When I mentioned how you paid for his time at Harvard, he said, ‘If that’s what he wants to believe happened with the money, who am I to argue?’ You did pay for his education, didn’t you?”