The Road to Paradise Page 7

  She glanced over at Ford. He stood with the others, his arms at his sides, expression unreadable.

  Her attention was pulled to the rear of the lobby as Philip joined in the clapping, his hands beating a slower rhythm than those in the front. If only she could escape without speaking to the man. Perhaps now that he’d demonstrated his control, he’d leave her be.

  Mr. Johansson addressed the crowd as Margie moved to sit. “I promised this fine lady I would avoid embarrassing her during my introduction, but I said nothing of afterward.”

  Margie stiffened. “No, please.”

  He grasped her arm, tugging her back to center stage. “Margaret Lane is none other than our Senator Thomas Lane’s only daughter, educated at Bryn Mawr, and welcomed in many of the finest drawing rooms in Tacoma and Seattle. We’re honored to have her join our staff—and our cause. I hope you enjoyed Miss Lane’s presentation as much as I did.”

  Further applause followed his declaration, and Margie stepped free of his grip, her cheeks burning. Would she never cease to be an object of adoration because of her father? Had they heard nothing she’d said about the mountain? About God’s provision and grace? About greed and avarice?

  Her words were swept away as the businessmen and their wives clapped for the wealthy daughter of a politician.

  Ford stood in silence as the crowd milled around. He glanced down at his empty hands. Had he forgotten to applaud? He’d fallen so deeply under the spell of Margie’s voice, he’d become lost in the story. Could she truly have spoken of the land of his birth? The forests he’d played in since he was barely able to walk? She’d nearly convinced him the mountain was a trusted friend, rather than a beautiful, but savage, wilderness. He shook himself. If only he could live in her version of the world rather than reality.

  Margie smiled, speaking to everyone who came forward to congratulate her. Thankfully, Mrs. Chambers joined the throng of admirers, her fascination with Ford long forgotten. The woman’s perfume still clung to him, however. He’d have to hang his jacket out on the porch tonight. Hopefully it’d smell fresh as fir needles by the morning, or he’d have a thing or two to explain to the men.

  A dark-haired man relaxed on one of the upholstered sofas in the rear of the room, an arm draped across the seat’s back. He gestured at Ford with the cigarette dangling from between his fingers. “You must be proud of that young woman. I’ve never seen a lady ranger before.”

  The words dug into his skin like a thorn. “She’s not actually a ranger.”

  The man took a long drag and then pulled the jade cigarette holder from between his lips. “Is it a privileged title?” A cloud of smoke escaped with his words.

  Privileged? Ford scanned the man’s expensive suit. Odd choice of words from someone who’d likely never shined his own shoes. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  The gentleman jumped to his feet and strode to Ford’s side. “Allow me to introduce myself. The name is Carmichael. I’m the manager of the Tacoma Hotel and a few other businesses here and there.” After squeezing Ford’s hand, he ran his palm along his suit lapel.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Ranger Brayden.”

  Carmichael cocked a finger at Ford’s chest like he was aiming a pistol. “Chief Ranger, right?”

  A chill trailed down Ford’s back. Had Luke introduced him at some point? “Yes, you’re correct.”

  “Just the person I’d hoped to see.” Carmichael offered a haughty smile. “I’ve been discussing some ideas regarding the concessionaire, Rainier National Park Company, with your man, Johansson. I see a lot of promise here tonight, including your lovely Miss Lane.” He turned to study the lodge. “But there’s a lot of work to be done. This rustic look—is that really what tourists are seeking today? They don’t just want scenery. They desire luxury. So many millionaires frittering their American dollars away in the Swiss Alps when they could be spending it here.”

  Ford glanced about the lobby. “The guests seem to appreciate the Inn. If they want something fancy, perhaps they should stay in your grand hotel in Tacoma.”

  “Then maybe they’ll leave their dollars there, too. Your loss.” Carmichael turned his attention toward the front of the room, his eyes resembling those of a long-tailed weasel. “Ah, there’s the little princess now.”

  Margie chatted with some guests nearby, Ford’s father’s hat clutched protectively in front of her chest. Her skin had taken on the same ghostly pallor she’d had before the talk. Shouldn’t she have relaxed by now?

  As the other visitors departed, Carmichael strode in her direction, arms outstretched. “Margaret, my dear.”

  She backed just out of his reach. “Why are you here?”

  Margie’s guarded expression caused a prickle to travel down Ford’s neck. Who was this man?

  “You expected me to stay away? Once I heard where you’d run off to, I decided I needed to give this hideaway another look.” Carmichael locked his eyes on Margie. “And I must say, I like what I see.”

  Ford fought the instinct to put himself between them. “Mr. Carmichael, perhaps I could introduce you to the superintendent. I’m sure you’d like to meet the person in charge. Or Senator Lane, perhaps?” He’d never been one for mingling, but every fiber in his being demanded he escort this fellow away from Margie.

  Margie glanced at Ford. “He’s met my father on many occasions, Ford.”

  Of course he had. The man’s chummy behavior should have tipped him off.

  Carmichael flicked cinders toward a nearby ashtray. “The senator and I are old friends. He gave me my start, you see. I owe him much.” He nodded to Margie. “And I intend to repay him.”

  Margie touched Ford’s wrist. “Will you excuse us?” Latching onto Carmichael’s sleeve, she tugged him toward one of the secluded alcoves.

  Carmichael cast a grin over his shoulder. “I believe the lady wants some privacy.”

  Ford shook off the sensation of a cold fog dropping over the room. A former love, perhaps? A family friend, at the least. Likely he intended to talk Margie into returning to civilization.

  In the distance, her stiff gestures suggested the conversation wasn’t going well.

  Ford leaned on one of the cedar posts, torn between respecting the woman’s privacy and his gut instinct suggesting she shouldn’t be alone with that man.

  Margie’s whisper carried across the space. “Our association is over. I think I made myself clear.”

  Ford moved to leave. He’d lost all sense of respectability, spying like this. But when Carmichael grasped Margie’s hands, he paused.

  “You’re not going to hold that incident against me, are you? We had words. It happens. But look at you. Is this what you really want?”

  “You’d never understand.”

  The man shook his head, a stitch forming between his brows. “So you’re interested in horticulture. I’ll build you the biggest greenhouse conservatory on the Puget Sound.”

  She yanked her fingers free. “I don’t wish to grow hothouse flowers, Philip. I want to understand the creation and through it, the Creator.”

  “Enough of your religious babble, Margaret. Look at what you’ve become.” Carmichael picked up the Stetson from the table where she’d set it. His nose wrinkled as he held it out. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself in public. It reflects poorly on your family.”

  She pulled the hat from his grip. “How is that any of your concern?”

  “Your father hasn’t informed you, then? I’m his new campaign manager. So his reputation is high on my list of concerns.”

  “Campaign manager?” Color drained from her face. “No, that’s not possible.”

  The sight of Margie’s clenched jaw set off alarm bells in Ford’s head. Whatever this man had to say, Margie needed a friend at her side. If Carmichael reached for her again, Ford was going to intervene.

  The hotelier folded both arms across his chest. “And after all…is it wrong to care about my fiancée’s reputation?”

&nb
sp; Margie backed several steps. “You already know my answer.”

  In the distance, over Philip’s shoulder, she met Ford’s eyes. Was that man everywhere? How would she explain this disgrace?

  The Inn’s timbered walls closed around her, her heart thudding against her ribs. Philip had a knack for sucking the oxygen out of a room. At one time, she’d mistaken the odd sensation for love. Now she knew better. “Philip, we’re done. Please leave.”

  “Done? Never.” His lips hitched up on one side, the shadow of a dimple appearing in his right cheek. “And you just asked us all back for a visit. Minus our wallets, remember? Of course, that wasn’t what you really meant.” He nodded his head at the milling crowd. “You’d prefer these fellows leave their dollars here for the upkeep of your precious park.” He closed the distance she’d gained a moment before. “I can make that happen, you know.”

  She lowered her voice, determined not to let anyone overhear her reply. “You’d have nothing if it weren’t for my father.”

  “I have a rare gift for talking men out of their excess, it’s true. You want them to spend it here, and I want you. Everyone could be happy.”

  Bile crept up her throat. “I’d never be happy with you.”

  “Let me prove you wrong. You must forgive me for my outburst at our last encounter. You made me angry. It won’t happen again.” He reached as if to touch her cheek. “You know I don’t typically behave in such a fashion. I have much more effective ways of expressing myself.”

  Philip never heard a word she said—only what he wanted. “Leave me alone.” She knocked his hand away and brushed past him, suddenly desperate for fresh air. Hurrying to the exit, she pushed open the heavy doors. A cold wind blasted her skin, erasing any pretense that this might be a dream. The night sky revealed a star-studded heaven.

  Instead of clinging to the cleared path, she stumbled through the snowbank and into the meadow, the icy damp seeping through her wool trousers. Margie’s foot slid, and she dropped to one knee, her palms plunging through the frosty surface. “No, this isn’t happening.”

  “Margie?” Ford’s voice floated through the darkness.

  She blew out a long, fog-laden breath and forced herself up to her feet. “Over here.”

  The ranger crunched closer, her long overcoat over his arm. “I saw you leave. You might want this.” He lowered it around her shoulders, his fingers lingering on the collar. “Are you all right?”

  She forced a smile. “Yes, thank you. I just—it was quite warm in the lodge.”

  He glanced at the building, light spilling through the windows onto the snow. “Was that man bothering you? Would you like me to speak with him?”

  The ranger’s kindness sent a ray of warmth through the night air. Why couldn’t Philip be more like him? Perhaps he had been once, before he left for university. Or at least so she had thought. Father’s new campaign advisor? It couldn’t be true.

  She pulled the coat tight around her neck, wrapping her hand in its folds. “No, it’s fine. After this evening, I’m sure Philip Carmichael will turn his eyes elsewhere.” She glanced down at her attire. “I mean—who wouldn’t?”

  The man’s frown deepened. “Miss Lane…Margie,”—he paused, as if searching for words— “I thought you looked very smart up there.” He ran a finger along the edge of her hat, his eyes reflecting the pale light of the snow.

  Smart. Margie’s spirits floundered. She never should have placed him in such an awkward position. “God was faithful. He provided me with the words I needed.”

  “You’re the one who rose to the challenge. You can take pride in your own accomplishments.”

  A lump gathered in Margie’s throat. She drove her hands into the coat pockets. “We should go back in. I’ll say goodnight to my father, and then we can return to Longmire. Unless you have other business here?”

  The ranger shook his head, shadows settling into deep grooves on his brow. “I’m at your service—whatever you need. Anything at all.”

  Three days after the banquet, Ford tossed a second grub hoe into the truck bed, alongside several saws and shovels. No telling what he and Carson would be up against once they set foot on the ridge trail. Winter blowdown was always a problem on that stretch. Even though city folk claimed to want the wilderness experience, they rarely liked muddying their fancy boots by traversing around fallen logs.

  He took a deep breath; the fragrance of the trees was almost as energizing as a good cup of coffee. The chill in the air would burn off in a few hours, and the morning sunshine suggested a pleasant day ahead. Many more of these days and the woods would be overrun with people.

  Perhaps the superintendent was right. Margie might prove useful to the park in the long run. In the two years since he’d taken on his father’s job as chief, it had become increasingly clear that park administration was more about managing people than resources. She had a talent for dealing with visitors—at least most of them. The memory of her altercation with that Carmichael fellow still rankled. Hopefully they’d seen the last of him. Still, something about the look in the man’s eye suggested he wasn’t the type to walk away from a fight.

  What had Margie done to earn Carmichael’s devotion? Ford hadn’t heard a word past “fiancée,” but her reaction had been anything but loving.

  Sure, she was an attractive little thing, but her odd ways made her seem an unlikely match for a fussy stuffed shirt like Carmichael. Did he really desire a woman who dressed in trousers and prattled on endlessly about flowers? Ford shook his head. No sensible man would put up with her whims for long.

  Thankfully, today he’d have to listen to nothing but the wind in the trees and Carson’s whining about the workload.

  “Ranger Brayden—Ford—I’m so glad you haven’t left yet.” Margie hurried down the path.

  The woman’s blue skirt was a welcome change from her typical attire of late. Ford closed his fingers around the tailgate, the icy metal smooth against his palm. “Just waiting on Carson. He was finishing a second stack of flapjacks, much to Mrs. Brown’s delight.”

  She glanced over her shoulder toward the community kitchen. “I just came from there. She was pouring him another cup of coffee, I believe.” Margie pulled a large canvas pack from behind her back. “She was kind enough to pack some food for the trail. I told her it would just be us three, but she seems to have included enough food for every ranger in the park. Will there be another work crew joining us?”

  The air rushed from Ford’s chest. “Us?”

  Margie stood on her toes and hoisted the bag into the truck bed. “Yes, I hope you don’t mind. Ranger Carson invited me to come along. I imagine the river’s quite swollen now with all the snowmelt.” She glanced at the sky. “It looks like it’ll be a fine day.”

  A distant slam of a door suggested Carson would soon follow. Leave it to the slick fellow to include the new recruit. He’d insist on showing Margie the sights while Ford did all the back-breaking work.

  Ford snorted. “Yes. A fine day, indeed.”

  She beamed. “As Muir said, ‘Another glorious day, the air as delicious to the lungs as nectar to the tongue.’ I’ve been looking forward to seeing more of the park. I’ve brought a flower press along, so hopefully we’ll find some good specimens.” Margie settled a felt hat on her head. At least she wasn’t still sporting his father’s Stetson.

  Carson sauntered up, both hands on his belly. “After a meal like that, I could curl up and hibernate with the bears.” He raised his brows at Margie. “Course it’s the wrong time a year, isn’t it? They’re just digging themselves out now. Maybe we’ll see one today. Wouldn’t that be a treat, little lady?”

  Margie smiled, fastening the clasps on her coat. “Then I’m glad to be escorted by such seasoned rangers. I’m not sure I wish to face off with a famished Ursus americanus by myself.”

  Carson frowned. “Ursu…what?”

  Ford slapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Margie. If we meet a hungry bear, I imagine h
e’ll be drawn to Carson’s maple syrup breath. We’d be safe.”

  The second man wrinkled his nose. “Unless he prefers perfume. What have you been up to these days, man? Your coat smells like a French salon.”

  Ford rubbed the back of his neck. Three nights of fresh air hadn’t shaken the woman’s lingering presence. What had she done? Marked him like a she-wolf?

  Margie stepped within a few inches, leaning close for a whiff. A smile turned up her pert lips. “Mmm. Rose and jasmine, I believe. Shalimar? Quite an expensive fragrance.”

  Carson cackled. “I knew it. That Sheba from Luke’s shindig, weren’t it? What happened? You slip away for some necking? I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  A burning flush crept up his neck. “I’ll have none of that kind of talk, Carson. Every woman in the place was drenched in perfume.” Every woman but one, anyway. Thankfully Margie had more sense. She always smelled of fresh air and soap—like a body should. “The day is getting away from us while we stand here talking nonsense. The only thing I want to smell is wood shavings as we deal with those downed trees. Margie, you’ll have to do your own sightseeing because Carson and I are going to have our hands full. But we’ll point you in the direction of the ridge.”

  She answered him with a curt nod. “I didn’t intend for you to babysit me. In fact, if you need assistance, I’m sure I could learn to use a few of those tools.”

  Carson swung his pack up into the truck bed and chuckled. “Miss, I think you’d best leave the labor to the men. You can go off and pick your flowers while we work up a sweat. Maybe that’ll make Ford here smell less like a French poodle.”

  Ford ground his teeth as he swung open the passenger door for Margie. He’d see to it that Carson sweated today. In fact, he was going to be so sore, he’d regret ever signing on to the park service.

  Margie trotted down the trail behind Ford and Carson. The men hadn’t allowed her to carry a single tool while they bent under the weight like pack mules. She pulled off her hat, appreciating the sensation of the chilled breeze lifting her hair. Even with heavy loads, the two rangers pulled farther ahead with every step.