The Road to Paradise Page 4

  “Those cabins are built like sieves. They were slapped together in haste when the government moved in because the folks running the hot spring refused to house park staff. If you’ve got a pack rat nesting under that shack, you’ll soon be smelling it.” His nostrils flared as he spoke.

  The thought turned her stomach. “So I just have to live with it?”

  “We could put out a few traps and see what happens. But we’d probably trap the main culprit and a few of its cousins, only to have a new batch move in.”

  Margie sighed. “I suppose rodents are a part of God’s creation too. I’ll just need to learn to appreciate His lesser creatures, right Ranger Brayden?”

  His brow furrowed. “Why don’t you call me Ford? Everyone else does. The ranger title is more for the visitors than the staff.”

  Her breath caught. Did that mean she’d be staying? “All right.”

  “May I call you Margaret?”

  “Oh, please don’t.”

  His eyes widened. “I’m sorry. I just thought—”

  “Only Philip—I mean…only a few people call me Margaret. My friends call me Margie.” A quiver raced through her. What was she thinking, mentioning Philip’s name? He had no place here. And she was determined to keep it that way.

  “Margie.” The ranger nodded. “I like it. Sensible.”

  She relaxed against the seat as the truck jostled over the icy road. The drifts grew in size as they ascended the winding switchbacks, until one last turn opened onto the white-covered meadows at Paradise. The cluster of alpine buildings appeared out of the mist, a welcoming haven even though they remained half-buried. The ranger parked the vehicle in a cleared area and stepped out.

  Margie buttoned her coat under her chin and hurried to join him. Her boots sank deep in the powder as her breath rose in curls of fog from her mouth and nose. She gazed at the steeply pitched roof of the Inn, which looked like a priceless treasure wrapped in a cloak of cotton batting. The tall gambrel-roofed Guide House loomed behind it. “Seems odd to have this much snow in June. Is it normal?” The shoveled snowbanks along the edge of the roadway reached above Margie’s head.

  Ford rubbed his gloved hands together. “The meadows don’t usually melt out until July. And even then, there are still patches here and there, and permanent snow fields not far beyond. Come on, let’s head inside. We’ll see if the caretaker has any hot coffee.” He glanced to the left and right as if choosing the best route. Even though a mostly cleared path existed farther down the parking area, the ranger set out across a patch of virgin snow.

  Margie took a deep breath and followed. With her first step, her boot crunched through the frozen crust and jammed down in the snowbank, sinking past her knee. With a grimace, she pulled it out. She tried to take lighter steps, but each time she placed her foot, it smashed through the icy covering into the mush below.

  Her supervisor waited at least fifty feet ahead. “Need help?”

  “Um, no. I’ll be fine.” She picked up the pace, using his already trampled path rather than breaking her own. Margie slogged her way through the final drifts until she reached a cleared walkway. Winded, she stomped the powder from her boots. Growing up in the lowlands, she was much more accustomed to rain than snow.

  Ford held the door open with a flourish. “After you.”

  The icy air burned in her chest. “I’m coming.”

  Ford entered the cavernous lobby of the Paradise Inn, the room’s warmth gripping him like a bear hug. A crackling fire beckoned from the enormous stone fireplace on the far end of the building. He blinked several times as his vision adjusted from the snow’s glare to the darker tones of the lodge.

  The young woman paused beside him and leaned down, busily brushing slush from her breeches and the top edge of her riding boots with her gloved hands.

  Something about her brought out Ford’s mischievous side. Sure, he could have found an easier path to the door, but he wanted to see how she’d handle herself. She’d followed without whimper or complaint. For the daughter of a wealthy senator, Margie was made of tough stuff. “Snow’s pretty deep, eh?”

  She glanced up, cheeks pink from the cold. “As it should be. We’re on a mountain, after all.” Margie straightened, scraps of ice still clinging to her legs. Her eyes widened at the sight of the lobby. “This place is astounding.”

  “I thought you’d visited before.” Ford unbuttoned his coat as he strode toward the fireplace.

  She followed. “It’s been some time. I was just a child, and the building wasn’t complete. My father and I camped in the meadow with some friends. My mother wouldn’t set foot up here.”

  “Perhaps she’ll visit now that she won’t have to camp.” Ford surveyed the large hall. At least the park administration had demanded the construction match the location. The slope of the roof, the Alaskan yellow cedar columns, and the peeled log furniture fit in with the rugged nature of the mountain.

  Margie drew off her gloves, extending trembling fingers toward the fiery blaze. She looked up, following the line of the exposed chimney to the wall to where the stones met the ceiling. “Perhaps.”

  Ford studied the woman. Her expression had darkened at mention of her mother, not unlike the way a shadow had crossed her face when she’d spoken a man’s name back in the truck. What was it? Philip?

  “Ford!” A gravelly voice echoed through the open space. Luke Johansson strode toward them from the dining room, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, dark pants covered in dust and grime.

  Ford smiled at his friend’s approach. “Spring must be here. Looks like you’ve been busy cleaning.”

  “Someone’s got to knock down all the winter cobwebs, even though the dust makes me sneeze. It’s good to see you. And you’ve brought us a guest.” He yanked a large white handkerchief from his trouser pockets and wiped his red-tipped nose.

  Ford touched Margie’s elbow. “This is the caretaker—and my old friend—Luke Johansson. We used to ride patrols together on the park’s east side, but now he works for the concessionaire, the Rainier National Park Company. He keeps this place in perfect condition.” He turned to his friend. “Luke, may I introduce Miss Margie Lane? She’s come to us from Superintendent Brown for…well, to…I mean to say she’s the daughter of…” The words evaporated from his tongue.

  “I’m a naturalist.” Margie stepped forward as a quick smile spread across her dainty features. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Johansson.”

  Luke brightened. “Superintendent Brown mentioned you when he stopped in yesterday. He said you might be willing to do fireside talks here at the Inn. You’d be a welcome change. Old Ranger Edwards used to put the guests to sleep.”

  Ford frowned. The elderly ranger had been a close friend of his parents’ and had worked on the mountain since long before it was a park. Ford had been disappointed to sign the man’s retirement papers last year, but Edwards’s arthritis had made the steep paths too difficult for him to navigate.

  Margie clasped her hands together. “I can’t wait to begin. My mind is overflowing with ideas.” She stepped away from the fireplace, looking around the large room. “The rangers speak here in the lobby? It’s a beautiful location.”

  “Here and in the campground.” Ford leaned against the mantel. “We typically arrange a few rows of seating just beyond the hearth. We can bring the chairs close, since you’re soft spoken.”

  Margie turned a slow circle with a light growing in her eyes. She lifted her voice so it echoed through the massive foyer.

  “How the patient pine is climbing,

  Year by year to gain the sky;

  How the rill makes sweetest rhyming,

  Where the deepest shadows lie.

  “I am nearer the great Giver,

  Where His handiwork is crude;

  Friend am I of peak and river,

  Comrade of old Solitude.”

  She paused, hands hovering in front of her chest, fingers extended as if guiding the poem’s lines out into the open
air.

  “Not for me the city’s riot!

  Not for me the towers of Trade!

  I would seek the house of Quiet,

  That the Master Workman made!”

  Ford’s stomach tightened, her words wrapping around his heart like vines inching up the trunk of a tree. He gave his head a quick shake to dislodge the odd sensation.

  Luke swung around to face Ford. “You should have told me she was stage trained. I can’t wait to bring a crowd in here and let her work magic on them. We’ll pack this place to the rafters.”

  Margie’s cheeks reddened. “Herbert Bashford’s ‘The Song of the Forest Ranger’ seemed appropriate for the moment.”

  Ford took a step back, and his heels bumped against the hearth. He’d never considered the possibility she might actually be good.

  Luke grasped Margie’s elbow and drew her to the side. “You’re so petite. Where do you store such a magnificent voice—such stage presence?”

  “I’m not certain what you mean. It’s a well-designed room. Anyone would sound good in here.”

  “That’s because you’ve never heard Ford try. He’s miserable. His dad, however, that man could tell stories that would curl your hair.”

  Margie turned to Ford with a bright smile. “Your father is a ranger, too?”

  “He was.” Ford’s throat tightened. “He died two years ago in a climbing accident.”

  The smile fled. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  Ford nodded, glancing away. Two years. It never seemed to take much to reopen the wound—especially the reminder that he’d never live up to his father’s reputation.

  Luke cleared his throat. “I could start her this weekend.”

  Ford jerked his head up. “You don’t open for another two weeks.”

  “Didn’t Harry tell you? We’re hosting a dinner for some important people from Olympia and Seattle—the governor and his wife, plus a few prominent businessmen and their families. Miss Lane will have them singing her praises by evening’s end. This is an answer to prayer. Chef has already been up getting the kitchen ready.”

  Margie backed a few steps, her eyes widening. “The governor? Oh, I’m not sure.”

  “Yes, I’d heard about it.” Ford pressed fingers against his brow, an ache settling behind his temples. “Harry said you wouldn’t need any assistance beyond making sure the roads were passable.”

  “That was before you showed me this little gem. She must perform. There’s no question.”

  Margie fiddled with the clasps on her coat. “Excuse me, Mr. Johansson, but I don’t perform. I teach, and I might actually—”

  Luke stopped her words with a touch to her shoulder. “Yes, yes. Of course, my dear. You teach, speak, recite…whatever. But the key is you’re entertaining. Governor Hartley has never been a strong supporter of the park. We need to woo him over to our side.”

  “Luke, she just arrived,” Ford protested. “And you want to put her in front of the politicians?”

  The caretaker turned to Margie. “Could you be ready?”

  She glanced between the two men. “Of course, if you think it appropriate. But you should know, my fa—”

  “Luke.” Ford pulled his Stetson from his head. “I don’t know if this is wise.”

  “Unless you’d rather do it?” His friend folded his arms.

  “You know better than to ask me that.”

  “We should be cleaned up in time.” Luke scrubbed a handkerchief across his red nose. “Deliver her at six o’clock Saturday evening. No, wait—come at five. You two can join our guests for the meal, as well. The governor’s wife was excited to meet a real ranger, and now she’ll have two. I’ve asked Henrik Berge and some of the other climbing guides to join us too. That should help entertain the ladies.”

  Ford’s jaw tightened. Henrik Berge. He’d spent the past two years avoiding the guide at every opportunity. The last thing he desired was to sit across a table from the man responsible for his father’s death.

  Margie glanced down at her breeches. “Considering that these guests are dignitaries, perhaps I should dress for the occasion?”

  “Yes, absolutely.” Ford jammed his hat back on his head.

  “Splendid idea.” Luke’s pale eyes gleamed bright as the snow outside. “If Mrs. Hartley wants rangers, Miss Lane should be in uniform.”

  Margie’s jaw dropped. She shot a glance at Ford.

  A bitter taste rose in his mouth. “Right. Whatever you think best, Luke.”

  As soon as Luke finished the lengthy tour of Paradise, Ford hurried back to the truck. The glow on the young woman’s face only served to deepen the tension in his shoulders. His plans to discourage Margie fizzled under the weight of Luke’s bottomless flattery. “You understand, this doesn’t change anything.”

  “Of course.”

  “We can dress you up like a ranger, but it doesn’t make you one.” Ford fought for balance as his foot slid across a patch of slush. Why did this bother him so much?

  “I’ll play the part, to the best of my ability. What do you think they’ll want to hear?”

  “Ranger Edwards usually told stories. All sorts.” A hole seemed to open in his chest. He’d miss the old man. No one else could have seen him through his father’s death.

  “Mr. Johansson said he wasn’t much of a crowd pleaser, but who wouldn’t love stories?”

  Ford wrenched open the truck’s door and gestured for Margie to climb in. “Sometimes they did go on a bit. But the man had a heart of gold.”

  She took time knocking the snow off her boots before gingerly stepping into the vehicle. “Was he a friend of yours?” Her eyes settled on Ford, her inquisitive stare unsettling.

  “Practically family.” And about the last family he had. To prevent any more questions, he slammed the truck door with a little more force than necessary. He’d rather clear brush than escort a woman around the park. Perhaps he could pass her off to Jennings for a while. He was the park naturalist, after all. Opening his door, he clambered in.

  “Ranger—” She paused, as if weighing her words. “Ford. I was thinking—if you had other work you needed to attend to, perhaps I should start planning my speech. If this evening is as important as Mr. Johansson suggests, I’d like to put forth my best effort.”

  His spirits lifted. “Already?”

  “Unless you had other duties for me. I’m at your service, of course.”

  He leaned back against the seat. Here he was trying to figure out how to avoid spending more time entertaining the young lady, and she cleared the path. “I had no specific plans for you this afternoon. If you’re sure you’d be comfortable on your own, I could help Marcus with opening the Rampart Ridge Trail. We’ve had plenty of blowdown this winter.”

  She nodded. “I could assist, if you have need of me.”

  Ford put the truck into gear and eased down the road toward Longmire. The image of the little thing wielding an eight-pound splitting maul sent a chuckle through him. “You handy with a crosscut saw, too?”

  She smiled, ducking her head. “Perhaps not. But I’d like to pull my weight.”

  “Well, you don’t look like you weigh much. Let’s make a deal, shall we? You focus on keeping the visitors happy. The boys and I will take care of the heavy lifting.”

  “That sounds fair. What about church?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I meant to ask yesterday. What do you do for Sunday services?”

  “I think Harry and his wife take some folks down to Ashford. You can ask Mrs. Brown at breakfast.”

  Her head tilted as she studied him. “What about you?”

  “No.” Ford cleared his throat. This woman seemed to like keeping him on edge. His father used to lead services at the National Park Inn in Longmire. Ford had informed Harry that it was one part of his dad’s job he refused to take on.

  As they drove around the corner, a man jumped out of the bushes along the side of the road, waving his arms. Ford jammed on the brake. “What now
?”

  The man hurried over, face drawn. “I’m sure glad you came by. My car slid off the road, just down a ways. I was walking back to the Inn to get help. Name’s Joe Craig.”

  Margie slid closer to Ford along the seat, leaning over to address the man out the window. “Was anyone hurt, Mr. Craig?”

  He shook his head. “Nah. But the wife and kids are pretty shook up.”

  Ford gestured to the far side of the truck. “Climb in.”

  As the fellow clambered into the seat, Ford tried to ignore the warmth of the young woman’s trousered leg pressed against his own. He put the truck in gear and followed the man’s directions to where his family waited by the side of the road.

  The vehicle sat with one of its front tires over an embankment. Ford whistled. “Another few inches and you might not have walked away.”

  “A deer ran out, and I swerved. The missus is pretty upset.”

  Ford backed up behind the unfortunate automobile and hopped out. “It’ll only take a minute.”

  Margie hurried over to Mrs. Craig and her children. “Is everyone all right?”

  The mother held her two children firmly by their hands. “I’ve never been so frightened in all my life. I don’t know what Joe was thinking coming up here today. These washboard roads are only suitable for mountain goats.”

  Her sharp tone wrenched at what was left of Ford’s good humor. He pulled the chain from the bed of the truck. The sooner he got these folks on their way, the better.

  Margie’s soft voice seemed to soothe the woman’s fears. She drew the family off to the side, lifting the little girl up to her hip. The boy raced over to a patch of snow and proceeded to throw chunks of ice at the nearest tree.

  Ford hooked the chain to the vehicle’s frame.

  The owner sighed. “That’ll scratch. It’s a brand new Cadillac. I thought my wife would take a better liking to it if I could show her how well it handled.”

  Ford snorted. “It didn’t go over the bank, so I’d say it did pretty well.”