The Road to Paradise Page 8

  She bent down to examine a three-leaved plant, its white blossom rising to meet the morning sunshine. “Trillium ovatum. So pretty, yet so simple.” She tightened her grip on the wooden flower press. Hadn’t she read somewhere that picking a trillium bloom killed the whole plant? If only she’d purchased one of those Brownie cameras. Trading the press for her journal, she sketched the small plant into the pages. It would have to do.

  A cloak of tranquility draped over the forest as the scratching of her pencil blended with the occasional bird song, trickling water, and the movement of the limbs above her head. Warmth spread through her chest. She could stay here forever—alone with her thoughts.

  Alone? She glanced up the trail. Her companions had vanished into the woods. Margie pushed up to her feet, brushing the damp soil from the edge of her skirt. They’d been on the trail less than twenty minutes and already she’d been left behind. Men were so single-minded. All Ford could see were logs across the path. What would it take to get him to look outside himself and his duties? She shook her head. And Carson? Obviously his interests lay elsewhere, but it wasn’t in the diminutive foliage struggling for existence at the feet of massive cousins. These fellows were raining all over her image of wilderness caretakers.

  Margie shouldered her pack, clutching the journal and pencil to her chest. This forest primeval held so many mysteries, she’d surely need them again soon.

  The pointed lobes of a purplish-brown flower caught her eye; its muted colors blended with the scattering of needles and other detritus. Is that wild ginger? Margie bit her lip and scanned the trail ahead. At this rate, she’d never reach the lookout. She yanked a ribbon out of her pack and affixed it to the nearest tree. She’d stop on the return journey. She couldn’t have the two rangers worrying about her delay. Hurrying along the path, she forced her eyes forward. This forest was littered with temptation. She needed to hike at a good clip, or she’d never catch up.

  Her thoughts careened back to Philip’s sudden appearance at the Inn. His intrusion reminded her of their first meeting, back when they were children. She’d been wandering in the scruffy woodland behind their property and had found the scrawny boy throwing rocks into the stream to build a dam. Such an innocent beginning.

  Before leaving the gathering at Paradise, she’d tried to ask her father about Philip’s claims, but she couldn’t maneuver him away from the governor. She hadn’t heard from her father since that evening, and the uncertainty hung on her like the heavy pack. Perhaps he thought if Philip were busy with the campaign, he wouldn’t bother her here? As much as she hated the idea, it had some merit.

  The distant sound of sawing cut through her thoughts. Quickening her pace, she launched herself down the path. Philip was the last person she wanted on her mind right now.

  The massive log reached well above Ford’s shoulder, yet he pushed and hauled the saw through its diameter in a steady rhythm. The sweat-stained shirt adhered to his back, the damp fabric doing little to obscure the movement of each muscle as he worked.

  Margie paused at the edge of the clearing, her breath catching in her throat. Such a perfect form. A hot prickle touched her cheeks, and she forced her eyes down. He wasn’t some specimen to be gathered, even though the man certainly belonged in a museum. An art museum, if not natural history.

  She fanned herself with the journal as she approached, locking her gaze on the fallen tree instead of her supervisor. Just off the trail, the root wad rose starkly against the disturbed soil. The idea of this behemoth being wrenched from the ground and crashing to the forest floor chased away her audacious train of thought. The sound must have been deafening.

  The saw hung up, drawing all progress to an abrupt halt. A muttered curse sounded from the opposite side of the trunk as the blade rattled in place. Ford swept a forearm across his brow. “Hold up, Carson.” He caught sight of Margie and straightened. “We were wondering if you’d met with disaster.”

  A sawdust-coated arm reached over the log, and Carson heaved himself into view. “What happened?”

  “Too much to see, I’m afraid.” Margie tucked the book under her arm. “It looks like you fellows are working hard.”

  Ford snorted. “We’ve barely begun. We should have brought Athena. I didn’t figure on the downed tree being one of the patriarchs.”

  Margie ran her fingers over the cinnamon-colored bark. “Patriarchs?”

  He smiled. “That’s what my dad called ’em. Trees this size would have been growing long before we were a nation. Probably before the Puyallups or Nisquallies imagined up the legend you shared at Paradise.”

  Fresh sap perfumed the air like memorial incense. Margie filled her lungs with the sweet smell. “Imagine the stories it could tell.”

  “The forest builds on the bones of those who went before.” He gestured to a nearby fir, growing from the top of a decomposing stump.

  “Don’t we all?” Margie opened her journal. “We learn from those who’ve gone ahead of us. That’s why I love quotations and legends—and perhaps why you fondly remember the words of your father.”

  He ran a hand across his bicep as if it pained him. “I suppose.”

  She sketched the image of the small sapling, keeping her focus from wandering back to Ford’s muscled arms. “I should probably make my way to the ridge, or you two will be done before me.” Tucking the book under her elbow, she scrutinized the impediment in her path. “Should I go around?”

  Carson threw one leg over the log’s girth. “If Ford gives you a boost, I can lift you over, Miss.”

  “Oh, dear. Really?” Margie turned and looked at the root wad. “Wouldn’t it be simpler—”

  “Just put your foot here.” Ford stooped down and laced his fingers into a mock stirrup.

  “All right.” The moment she placed her toe into his palms, he hoisted her skyward. Carson guided her to a seated position on the damp, moss-strewn surface. “It’s a nice view up here, ain’t—isn’t it?” He straddled the log, a few inches closer than she’d have preferred. “If only we had a picnic or something.”

  Ford’s brows drew down. “It’s only ten o’clock, and I’m sure Miss Lane desires to move on to the lookout.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” She scooted away from Ranger Carson. “How do I…” She shifted her legs to the far side. “It’s still a long way down.”

  “Don’t you worry.” The man shimmied down, landing with a thump. He pointed to a protruding limb. “Put your foot there, it’ll get you part way. Then I’ll catch you.”

  Margie cast one final glance at Ford before edging her toe toward the branch, hoping it would support her weight. Her skirts tangled on the rough bark. She was likely giving Carson an eyeful. Of all days not to wear trousers. She wedged her boot against the limb, bouncing against it slightly to test its strength.

  That was a mistake. It snapped with a sickening, crunching sound. Margie dug her heels against the bark to slow her momentum. By the time she landed against Carson’s chest, the hem of her skirt had traveled quite the opposite direction.

  His grin deepened. “Now that’s what I call a fine landing.” He gripped her backside as he lowered her to the ground, gravity pressing her against him in a most unladylike fashion.

  “You can let go now.” She shoved his chest with both hands.

  “What happened?” Ford’s disembodied voice sounded over the barrier as Carson loosened his hold. “Margie, are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine.” Her tone ratcheted up a few notes above normal. “Ranger Carson managed to break my fall.”

  Carson chuckled. “And thankfully, she didn’t break me.”

  A scrabbling sounded from the far side and Ford’s head appeared. Carson stepped away, spreading his arms. “No harm done, boss.”

  Margie straightened her skirts. “I appreciate your help, gentlemen. But next time, I’ll go around.”

  The chief ranger glanced up at the sun, as if gauging the hour. “By the time you return, we’ll have this monster cleared
away. You’ll walk through the mud like a queen.”

  Carson rubbed his chin. “Not unless you put your sweet-smelling coat down.”

  Margie cleared her throat. “That won’t be necessary, I’m sure. But I’d best be on my way.”

  Ford frowned. “Maybe it’s not such a good idea for you to go alone.”

  “I’ll be perfectly fine. I have specimens to collect. You’ve much work to do. If I don’t return in a couple of hours, you can come track me down like the mighty mountain men you are.”

  Ford scrambled to a sitting position and looked down at her. “All right, but be cautious. If I have to come pluck you off a ledge, Senator Lane will have my badge.”

  She folded both arms across her chest. “I can assure you, I’m going nowhere near any cliffs. Not if I can help it.”

  Margie stood at the rocky overlook and let the powerful scene wash over her. Ridgeline after ridgeline of deep green rose to meet the jagged edges of the enormous peak, tucked into its rumpled blanket of white. Her heartbeat thudded in her chest from climbing the steep path to the viewpoint, but a breeze swept upward from the valley and chilled her flushed cheeks. Margie nestled her fingers under her elbows. Her mother would be incensed that she was out in public without gloves, but this didn’t really count as such, did it?

  The earthy fragrance hanging in the crisp air sent a rush of energy all the way to her toes. Another week or two of this June sunshine and the higher elevation trails would be snow-free, with meadow flowers lifting their eager faces to the burgeoning sunlight. She’d already gathered a good collection of forest plants to preserve, but she longed for the subalpine blooms. So far, she’d only seen a few of the early risers like the avalanche lily and the white pasqueflower. Winter ruled the subalpine year, with the three other seasons squeezed into a few short months. Margie gazed across the wooded valley toward the summit rising up in the afternoon splendor, appearing almost close enough to touch.

  What would it be like to climb to the crest and look out over Rainier’s entire domain? Women had made the ascent in the past—two hard days traversing crumpled glaciers, living under the constant threat of rockfall and avalanche. She shook her head. She’d rather spend her time reveling in the abundant life on Tahoma’s flanks. Leave the mountain conquering to men. She had nothing to prove.

  Margie sighed, leaned against one of the boulders and flipped open her journal. A view like this deserved a poem. She tapped the pencil against her lip a few times, hoping the words would spill forth.

  In this sheltered spot, the wind was no longer a problem. She unfastened a few buttons below her neck and let the sun’s rays chase away the gooseflesh. The stones behind her back radiated warmth, as if they’d been soaking up heat just for the purpose of providing her comfort. Margie closed her eyes, relaxing into the mountain’s gift. God’s gift. Opening her eyes, she lifted the pencil and sketched the scene before her, tracing the rise of the peak against the blue sky. Underneath she penned one of her favorite verses. “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.” The image of God as the perfect light brought a flutter to her soul.

  Ford’s lack of beliefs cast the only shadow over her good mood. Her pencil stilled as a new thought rushed through her mind. Perhaps God hadn’t sent her here to escape Philip’s control. Maybe it was to shine the light of His love on a man who’d lost his faith—or never had it to begin with.

  How could someone live in the sight of such majesty and not understand the heart of the Creator? She laid her journal in her lap and let the peaceful scene quiet her soul. Lord, as the men brought tools to clear the trail, may I be such an instrument in Your mighty hands. I know You can clear the path to Ford’s heart.

  Ford used one sleeve to wipe the sweat dripping down his face, gluing sawdust to his skin in the process. The stinging smell of cut wood lingered in the air, as if the dying tree decided to protest with one final gasp. He and Carson had managed to slice a path through the giant log and roll the cut section free. Standing in the gap between the remaining lengths, Ford studied the trunk’s exposed rings. In good years the tree would be able to lay down a thick layer of wood, while slim years showed as a mere etching. He traced a finger across the lines. If the human body held such markers, his past few lines would be thin, indeed.

  Year after year the tree had withstood wind, rain, fires, and pests, but this week’s deadly combination of saturated ground and high winds had been its downfall. One minute it stood tall and strong, the next it was crashing to the soil that had so long held it firm.

  His father had his roots sunk deep in Rainier’s soils, as well. The fact that an avalanche had casually swept him to his death without so much as an afterthought seemed the cruelest insult imaginable.

  Ford stepped away from the log, adding his saw to the pile of equipment he and Carson had hauled in.

  Carson tossed the last chunks of wood over the embankment, grunting with the effort. “What about the little gal? She should’ve returned by now, don’t you think? Should I go after her?” He brushed his grubby hands against his trouser legs.

  “No, I’ll do it. Take some of this stuff to the truck. I’ll get the rest on my way back.” Carson’s hiking pace was slower than molasses. Ford could be to the end of the trail before the shorter man made it halfway to the vehicle. And the brisk walk would clear his thoughts.

  Carson shouldered two axes and the saw. “I’m going to sleep well tonight, that’s for certain.”

  Ford set off in the opposite direction, striding up the ridge through the dripping forest. Margie should have easily hiked the round trip in the two hours they’d been working. He’d been a fool to allow her to traipse off by herself. The woman could string together a lovely line of prose, probably while painting a picture and quoting useless scientific facts, but she wouldn’t know how to react in a crisis. Harry should never have allowed the senator to talk him into this ridiculous scheme—money or no. Perhaps Margie had learned her persuasive manner from her father.

  The distant shriek of a camp robber jay nearly made him jump out of his boots. Ford shook his head. He was as twitchy as a squirrel under a bobcat’s paw. He’d walked these woods since he was a tyke; certainly a fully grown woman could manage unhindered. Chances were, she was knee-deep in plants, categorizing her latest discovery without a thought to the time.

  As he approached the lookout, he craned his neck to peer down the slope. A spot of color on the granite outcropping sent all humor leaking out of him.

  Margie lay spread-eagled across the rocks, one arm across her face. Bare legs poked out beneath her skirt, her pale skin gleaming in the sunlight.

  He stumbled forward, scrambling downhill as fast as his boots could travel. Loose stones sprang free, bouncing away at a rapid clip. “Margie?”

  She jerked to a sitting position and swiveled to stare at him, shading her eyes with a wrist. “Yes?”

  Ford lurched to a halt, stopping his forward momentum before it pitched him over the precipice. A few more pebbles clattered down the bank. “Wha-what are you doing? I thought…” He swallowed hard.

  She pulled her skirt down over her knees and pushed up to her feet. Her stockings and shoes sat nearby. “I was just resting my eyes. I couldn’t resist the feel of the sun-warmed granite against my tired leg muscles. Did you know the Chinese use heated stones placed against the abdomen to assist in digestion?”

  Ford picked his way to her side. Leave it to Margie to find some obscure fact to explain her bizarre actions. “I thought you’d fallen.”

  “Again? I wouldn’t make that mistake twice. I must have dozed off.” She stretched, glancing up at the sun. “How late is it?”

  He drew a deep breath, slowing his skidding heartbeat. “Late enough that I came after you.”

  “I’m sorry. I gathered quite a few foliage samples and then treated myself to lunch with a view.” She gestured at the overlook. “Two
pesky golden-mantled ground squirrels made off with most of my sandwich while I was writing in my journal.” Her lips pressed into a frown. “I would have been more than happy to share, but it would have been polite to ask me first. I do believe they were working as a team.”

  Ford reached down to gather her pack and books, averting his eyes from her crumpled stockings. “You seem to attract rodents.” The words stuck in his gullet. “I mean—”

  “No,”—she held out a hand to stop his apology—“you are correct. I’ve had a string of bad luck with the lesser species since I arrived. Though I’m quite looking forward to making the acquaintance of…” She squinted and bit her lip. “What were they called?” She took one of the texts from Ford, flipping to a marked page. “The hoary marmot. I’ve done some reading, and it appears to be a fascinating creature.”

  Ford couldn’t resist a smile “Whistling jacks? I suppose they are pretty entertaining.” He glanced toward the mountain. “There are usually quite a few whistlers up at Indian Henry’s Hunting Ground. Rock rabbits, too.”

  “Rock rabbits?” Her lips pursed as she flipped through more pages. “You mean pikas? Technically they’re not rodents, but I’d still like to see one.”

  “Trust me, by the end of the summer you’ll have seen plenty.”

  “Is that a promise?” The fervor in her eyes drew him.

  The sudden flicker in his chest caught him off guard. Ford glanced back at the mountain to steady himself. The last thing he needed was to tangle his feelings with the likes of Margie Lane. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be under her power just like that businessman fellow. And what good would he be then?

  “We should get back to the truck.” He cleared the cobwebs from his throat as he shoved the books into her pack. “Carson will be wondering what happened to both of us pretty soon.”