She straightened, willing the starched uniform jacket to instill her with strength. At least she looked the part. She caressed the hat’s brim, imagining the man who’d worn it before.
Ford stepped up beside her, his tall frame like a sturdy tree.
“So many people.” She swallowed. “I thought Mr. Johansson said this was a small party.”
Luke Johansson rushed toward them, a fine picture in his gray suit. “Ford, Miss Lane—I’m so glad you’re here. I can’t wait to introduce you to some of our guests. We’ve expanded the festivities a little. Some big wheel from Tacoma found out about our event and offered to round up some additional supporters. We have over a hundred and fifty people now. Isn’t that phenomenal? There are even reporters from three of the area newspapers. Tomorrow folks could be reading about our evening. Can you imagine?”
“Newspapers?” Her stomach dropped. If her name was mentioned in a Tacoma paper, Philip would be on her doorstep within the week.
“Don’t be nervous. They’re going to love you.”
Of course they would. More fodder for the gossip columns. Perhaps if no one mentioned her family connections, the reporters wouldn’t take an interest in her. She ran a hand across her jacket, checking the buttons. “Thank you, again, for inviting me, Mr. Johansson.”
His grin lit the room. “Purely selfish motives, Miss Lane. I know you’re going to charm the socks off these old curmudgeons. Parks are the nation’s playgrounds, but we need the support of men of means in order to protect our vision. Otherwise timber and mining interests will be breathing down our necks forever.”
She nodded. “As President Roosevelt said of the Grand Canyon, ‘Leave it as it is. You cannot improve on it. The ages have been at work on it, and man can only mar it. What you can do is to keep it for your children, your children’s children, and for all who come after you, as one of the great sights which every American if he can travel at all should see.’ ”
Mr. Johansson’s booming laugh carried through the long hall. He grasped her hand and tucked it beneath his elbow. “And that’s why I want you on our side, my dear.” He glanced up at Ford. “Come along, Ford. Miss Lane will show you how it’s done.”
Margie traveled beside him like a leaf being swept along by the wind. She shook hands and nodded at the various people to whom the caretaker introduced her. Ford eventually sidled away, joining another uniformed park service administrator on the far side of the room. Obviously, he had little desire to make small talk with donors.
“Margaret!” A familiar voice bellowed from the dining room. “Is that my daughter I see under that monstrosity of a hat?”
Margie’s heart jumped as she spotted her father. She released Mr. Johansson’s arm and stepped into Papa’s warm embrace. “I wondered if you’d be here.”
“I wouldn’t miss the chance to see my little girl.” He stepped back, keeping a firm grip on her hands. “Though are you sure you’re my daughter? No lace gowns for you now, eh?”
A warm flush crept up her neck. “It’s just for this evening.”
Mr. Johansson straightened. “We’re honored that you chose to join us today, Senator.” The man’s smile widened as he glanced from father to daughter.
Margie’s expectations sank into a clump at the pit of her stomach. So much for hiding her family connections.
Her father patted her arm, his voice lowering. “You should know, dear, I won’t be the only familiar face tonight.”
A chill stole over her. No, not already.
Papa tucked his chin. “Philip must have anticipated your plans. In fact”—he glanced over his shoulder, his voice quieting to a conspiratorial whisper—“he helped arrange the event.”
A buzzing, like a nest of bald-faced hornets, took residence in Margie’s ears. She took a quick step back, yanking the hat from her carefully arranged curls. “Why…why would he do such a thing? He doesn’t care about wilderness.”
Her father shook his head. “I don’t believe it’s the wilderness that draws him.”
This couldn’t be happening. The whole dinner was a sham. She rose up on tiptoe, searching the room.
Philip Carmichael leaned against one of the large pillars at the opposite end of the lobby, his blue silk suit strangely out of place in the rustic atmosphere. A faint smile touched his lips as he raised a near-empty glass toward her.
Margie had never realized one could feel chilled and flushed at the same time. Perspiration broke out across her skin, and the treasured uniform seemed nothing but a childish costume.
No mountain hideaway could protect her.
Ford jabbed the baked potato with his fork, casting a quick glance across the dining room. Luke had been smart enough to seat Henrik Berge and his fellow guides at a table in the opposite corner of the hall. The last person Ford wanted to deal with was Berge, though the middle-aged socialite beside him wasn’t much better. A guest of the governor and his wife, the woman hadn’t stopped talking for an hour. She’d scooted her chair toward his at least twice. At one point, she’d leaned so close, the beaded fringe hanging from her bodice snagged on his sleeve.
He’d tried shifting his seat the opposite direction, but that only pushed him closer to Margie. The naturalist was no help, having gone uncharacteristically quiet. Hadn’t Luke insisted on dressing her as a ranger to distract the governor’s party? Why was he doing all the entertaining?
Mrs. Chamber’s piercing voice pulled his attention away from Margie. “The view of Kilimanjaro was stunning, absolutely breathtaking. It makes this peak look like a snowdrift. Have you ever been to Africa, Ranger Brayden?”
“I’m afraid not.” He’d barely stepped foot out of Washington.
Senator Lane leaned forward, gesturing with his spoon. “I took Margie on safari when she was just six years old. Do you remember, sweetheart?”
Margie’s fork stilled over her plate. “Um, yes. Vaguely.”
“You really should go, Ranger.” Mrs. Chambers toyed with the jewels on her gown’s cascading neckline. “It would put these Northwest mountains into perspective for you. You’ve climbed it, I imagine?”
“Kilimanjaro?”
“No, silly.” Her laugh drew the attention of nearby tables. “This one. You must have been up it dozens of times, right? Rescuing careless hikers, stray mountain sheep, et cetera?”
The unwanted memory swept over him anew, like stepping naked into a blizzard. “Um, yes. But not in—”
“You’ve probably scaled hundreds of mountains.” She latched onto his upper arm. “Just look at this rugged physique.” Her red lips pressed together as she caressed his bicep. She turned to the governor’s wife. “Our husbands only ascend the capitol steps, isn’t that right, Nina? Not quite the same.”
Her husband? Ford tugged at his collar. Poor man.
The governor’s wife pushed away her half-eaten trout. “Some would say every step to the capitol is a mountain of its own, Sylvia.”
Ford scrabbled to get back into safe conversational territory. “I’m sure I’d be lost on Capitol Hill. Conquering a mountain is all about challenging yourself against the elements. Politics, on the other hand, is man against man.”
“Well said,” Governor Hartley chortled. “There are days when I wish all I had to conquer was a hunk of rock. How about you, Senator?”
“Hear, hear,” Margie’s father answered.
The governor wiped his mouth on the linen napkin. “Senator Lane, I just received the invitation to your gala reception at the Tacoma Hotel. Sounds like quite the party.”
Mrs. Hartley nodded, “Yes, we’re looking forward to it.”
Senator Lane beamed. “Wonderful. I’m hoping I can woo my daughter away from her duties here for that evening. What say you, Margie?”
She frowned. “I don’t know. I just started. It seems presumptuous to be asking for time off.”
“It’s a couple of weeks away yet. I’m sure they can spare you by then.” He smiled at Ford. “Right, Ranger Brayden?”
Ford nodded. “Of course.”
“In fact,” the senator leaned forward, “you should join us, as well. See how these sorts of things are done in Tacoma.” He gestured to the dining room. “Not that this isn’t fancy enough for me.”
Ford glanced up from the strange array of forks beside his plate. “I’m afraid our summer season is a hectic time of year for us, Senator. I don’t believe I could get away.”
Mrs. Chambers released Ford’s arm, flicking her fingers against his elbow as she set him free. “Oh, you men. It’s all about work with you, isn’t it? You should come. There’ll be dancing. I imagine you’re quite a sight on the dance floor.”
That was one way to put it. Ford slid his chair back and stood. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I need to step out.” Hopefully she wouldn’t follow. Trifling with a politician’s wife didn’t seem like the type of good impression Luke had in mind.
He glanced over at Margie. Either the green jacket had cast an unpleasant shade to her skin or she needed a breath of air as well. “Miss Lane, we should prepare for your oration.”
She jumped, her eyes lifting to meet his gaze. “Oh…yes.” She glanced at her untouched plate and then around at their tablemates. “If you’ll excuse me?”
The men rose as she stood. Her father leaned over to place a kiss on her cheek. “Good luck, sweetheart.”
“Thank you, Papa.” She clutched his sleeve for a moment.
Ford steered her out of the crowded dining room and into the still lobby. “You barely touched your food. Nervous?”
“A little.” She touched her hair as if checking its placement. “I didn’t realize how many people would be attending. I thought Mr. Johansson had planned a little dinner party, not a gala.”
“Luke never does anything halfway. The impressive part is that the arrangements were made so quickly. This is a surprising turnout. Are you ready?”
“Of course. I’m fully prepared.” She glanced about the lobby as if in search of someone. “I won’t let you down.”
“You don’t have to worry about me. I’m just glad to not be up there tonight. Luke was correct in inviting you to speak. You’re familiar with these people. You know what will impress them.”
“Yes, I do know them. All too well.”
The strain in Margie’s voice made Ford uneasy. Was it really just nerves, or was there something more?
She looked back at him, a faint smile easing the tension around her eyes. “I just hope I can turn their hearts toward God’s creation. If only for a few moments.”
Ford nodded. Whatever was bothering her, at least it hadn’t distracted her from the job at hand.
As her boss stepped away to assist with the seating, Margie took several deep breaths to slow her racing heart. Its percussion provided a perfect background to the hum of conversations echoing around the rustic lobby. She pressed damp palms against the long jacket as she scanned the room.
Philip lurked on the far edge of the crowd, like a storm refusing to break. Ignoring him during the presentation would prove a distinct challenge, but every time she glanced his way, her throat tightened a little further. Any more and she might lose her voice completely. Not only were her father and the governor in attendance, so was the supervisor of the Tacoma Eastern Railway and some of the most prominent businessmen from around the state. The odor of freshly minted dollar bills practically hung in the air.
She lifted her eyes, focusing instead on the gleaming yellow timbers supporting the massive roof. Richly colored native rugs hung from several of the crossbeams. Lord, I don’t know why I’m here, but I pray You’ll use my humble offering to bring glory to Yourself. She couldn’t afford to be distracted—not by Philip, Ford, or anyone else.
“Are you ready, Miss Lane?” Mr. Johansson’s voice rose above the murmuring crowd. “I’ll introduce you, then you can work your magic.”
“I’ve no magic.” She raised her chin in an artificial display of confidence. “And when you make your opening remarks, I’d greatly appreciate it if you don’t mention my family ties.” Philip might have already discovered her whereabouts, but she still didn’t wish to be the talk of the scandal sheets. The story of a senator’s daughter playing park ranger would feed the gossipmongers for weeks.
The man rubbed the back of his neck. “But—”
“Please. I understand your intentions, but I’m determined to sink or swim on my own strength, not my father’s.” She straightened her forest-green tie.
“Fine. Whatever you wish.” He folded his arms.
She took a seat next to Ford, locking her hands on her knees. She should have worn an evening gown. At least then she’d be meeting these people on their terms.
Mr. Johansson stood and called the crowd to attention. After several minutes of merriment and polite flattery of every important party in attendance, he finally gestured to Margie. “And now, I’d like to introduce to you our newest park naturalist. Miss Margaret Lane is a delightful young woman, and she offers a feminine perspective on what has long been a man’s wilderness.” He held out a hand. “Miss Lane?”
Margie took her place beside the crackling fire, the warmth penetrating the wool trouser legs and knee-high boots. She shifted from foot to foot as a few men lifted doubting brows. Philip stood in the far corner, both arms folded across his chest.
A quiver took up residence in Margie’s stomach. Why had Philip taken an interest in this? Surely it wasn’t for her benefit. His eye was always, ever, on himself. Or the bottom line.
She shifted her attention back to the gathering. “Mr. Johansson honors me by saying I bring a ‘feminine perspective on a man’s wilderness.’ I would counter that there is nothing more feminine than nature—an unending cycle of birth and rebirth. God granted female creatures the awesome responsibility for bringing life into the world. When we look into Mother Nature, we see womanhood staring back.”
Several women nodded, smiles spreading across their faces. One masculine whisper cut through the silence. “Fine words from someone masquerading as a fella.”
Margie pressed her hand against her leg. “I’d like to tell you a story. The tale of a great mountain.” She relaxed into the words as she spoke of the mountain’s birth in fire, how God clothed her in glacial ice, how the elements had worn her down. How the mountain protected the creatures who called her home.
The audience listened in complete stillness. Every rustle and fidget died away until her words and the crackle of the fire were the only sounds permeating the room.
She stole a glance at Ford. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gray eyes locked on her.
His intense gaze flooded her with strength. She took a half step toward him, wishing for a breath free of the smell of the fireplace. Careful to maintain eye contact with all her listeners, she trained her mind on Ford. Speak only to him. “Allow me to focus this tale for you. A story within a story, some might say. The native peoples had their own legends. The Puyallup, Nisqually, Cowlitz, and the Yakama—they all looked to the mighty Rainier. Or as they called it, Tahoma, Takhoma, or Tacobet. Her lands were priceless and sacred.
“Tell me, when you stepped foot inside the park’s gate, did you remove your shoes? Did you know you walked upon holy ground? Can you imagine if Governor Hartley arrived aware of this place’s sanctity?” She nodded to the businessmen who dotted the crowd. “Would you see the mountain as a resource to be harnessed? Timber to be cut? Minerals to be stripped from the rocks? Precious water to be diverted to thirsty soils of the eastern orchards? Or would you think it a treasure too lovely to be threatened, too valuable to be defiled for human spoils?”
Several of the men glanced at each other. She’d found their soft underbelly and poked it with a stick.
“Even among the native people, there walked those obsessed with personal gain. One in particular turned his greedy eyes to Tahoma’s crest, where he believed was hidden great wealth.” Margie spun the story’s web thoughtfully, choosing each word with c
are. She told of the miser’s difficult trek and the riches he found. As the audience leaned in, she delivered the tale’s lesson. “He didn’t bother to give thanks for what he had taken. Instead, his only thoughts were for himself. A storm swept up, chasing him with thunder, lightning, and winds until—out of fear for his life—he threw every bit of treasure away. Exhausted, he sank into the snow and fell asleep.
“The man woke to green meadows and sunshine, his hair now long and matted. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but his soul felt light and free like it did when he was a boy. He hurried home and discovered his lonely wife had grown old but lovely. She drew him into her arms in welcome. The miser returned home a changed man. As the years went by, he lived with a heart for others and never again longed for the mountain’s riches. Instead, he rejoiced in the gifts the earth bestowed upon him.”
She blinked, for a moment lost within her own storytelling. How would these wealthy businessmen react to old legends? Margie placed a palm against her chest, her heart’s pounding evident through the rough fabric. “When you leave this mountain, Tahoma, when you go home and look upon its silvery beauty from afar, I hope you will make plans to return. Leave your billfolds at home.”
A quiet chuckle rang through the audience, Margie allowed herself a smile. Probably not what Mr. Johansson had in mind. “Come back to have your spirit filled. To be touched by the artistry God has presented in this place.
“I leave you with the words of American naturalist John Muir. ‘Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in’ ”—she looked around the room, meeting as many eyes as she could—“ ‘and pray in, where nature may heal and cheer and give strength to body and soul alike.’ ”
Her final words rang out in the stillness, as if everyone held their collective breath. Had she pushed too hard? Likely as not, she’d offended every businessman in attendance and played right into Philip’s hand.
Applause swept through the hall like a mighty earthquake rumbling the mountain. Her father jumped to his feet, a grin spreading across his face from one ear to the other. Mr. Johansson strode to the front, latching his arm around Margie’s shoulders. “Didn’t I tell you, folks?”
The Road to Paradise Page 6