A sour taste rose in Margie’s mouth. “What are you saying?”
Her father sighed, lowering himself to sit on the edge of the desk. “Philip has obtained some privileged information. Information that would ruin me—and this family.” His head fell forward. “He has every intention of using the situation to his advantage.”
She shook her head. “I don’t believe it. You couldn’t have done anything so terrible that someone could blackmail you. It’s not in your nature.”
Her father’s eyes filled. “Oh, my daughter—I’ve long protected you and your mother. I desperately wanted to be the virtuous statesman your mother envisioned me to be, so eventually I started to believe it myself. But one doesn’t rise to this position on his laurels. I don’t want to give you all the sordid secrets, but trust me when I say I will not be elected to another term if Philip leaks what he knows to the papers. And a scandal of this magnitude would kill your mother.”
Scandal of any sort would kill her mother. Margie closed her eyes for a brief moment, letting the news wash over her like a sudden rainstorm. Her father had always been a pillar of the faith—at least in her eyes. Was she really so naive?
Father leaned forward and touched her wrist. “Margie, the Pacific Northwest is a battlefield. Resources against preservation—it’s a war that’ll tear our state apart. Money has flowed both ways, and I’m afraid quite a bit of it has landed in my pocket.”
Margie yanked back. “You accepted bribes? Is that what you’re telling me?”
The color washed from his face. “Creative financing. As the chair of the Committee on Expenditures in the Interior Department, I have to look to the interests of my—my constituents.”
“Those who slipped you cash, you mean? Timber and mining interests?” Her mouth grew dry. “So you cut funding to the parks?”
“I cut government spending wherever I could—even for federal lands, yes. Whenever possible, I diverted other monies back their way.” He pressed a hand against his forehead. “It’s all a bit of a hodgepodge, I’m afraid.”
Margie took several deep breaths. “I always thought you above graft.”
“As did I. But now you need to know the truth. Philip is ready to throw me to the wind. And perhaps I deserve it.”
“So what do we do?”
“Your mother believes you should marry Philip. I’d rather not see it come to that.”
“Me either.” She may have dreamed of marrying him when she was young, but certainly not now. A wave of nausea washed over her.
“I’d sacrifice pretty much anything else to the man, but not my daughter.”
She crossed her legs, leaning back in the chair. “I’m glad we’re in agreement about that point, anyway. But where does it leave us?”
Her father sighed again, a sound that immediately took her back to the early days when she could see no wrong in Philip. Why hadn’t she trusted her father’s instincts then? But knowing the truth—could she trust his instincts now?
Father laid his hands on his knees. “I don’t know, my dear. I really don’t know. As I see it, he’s going to use the situation against us both. He’ll threaten you with my future. He’ll threaten me with his knowledge.” Father stretched his arms wide. “Philip holds all the cards.”
The image of the playing card she’d found in her journal drifted back into her memory. Philip had planned this out from the beginning. Margie tapped a thumbnail against her lip. “Maybe we could convince his backers it’s a bad investment.”
“But it’s not. Everything Philip touches turns to gold. Look what he’s done for the Tacoma Hotel. It was falling apart when he took over. Now it’s a showpiece.”
Margie stood up and wandered over to the bookcase. Just as it had when she was a little girl, a row of games lined the bottom shelf. She crouched, pushing through backgammon, checkers, and Snakes and Ladders, until she found the familiar goldfinch-design playing cards. “Somehow we have to beat him at his own game.”
Ford sipped the black coffee, forcing himself not to bounce his knee in frustration. He’d endured enough for one evening, but sitting here in the silent room across from Margie’s mother was asking too much. What were they discussing behind those closed study doors?
Mrs. Lane crossed and uncrossed her legs like a petulant child, frequently glancing toward her husband’s study. Obviously she didn’t care to be left out of the discussion either. With a sigh, she turned to Ford. “So, what exactly are your intentions here?”
Ford choked on his drink, the scalding liquid burning its way down his throat. “I’m sorry? I’m not sure what you mean.”
The woman’s brows pulled together, at least as much as was possible in their highly plucked state. “Margaret is obviously fond of you. She’s an impressionable young woman. It makes perfect sense that she’d be drawn to someone such as yourself.”
“Margie and I work together. We are friends.” The words sounded hollow, even to him.
Her eyes narrowed. “How many young women work at your park?”
Ford shifted in his seat. “A handful. Mostly in the hotels and eateries.”
“And you’re the boss?”
“I oversee the ranger staff, and I coordinate with the concessionaire.” Where was this interrogation headed?
“How often do you date the girls who work for you?”
A wave of heat climbed up Ford’s neck. He glanced toward the study. “I’ve never…I wouldn’t…” The words died on his lips. Isn’t that exactly what he was trying to do?
A wry smile twisted Mrs. Lane’s mouth. “I see. So you’re not interested in my daughter?”
He’d faced off with bears, cougars, and the occasional irate visitor, but none compared to this woman. “She’s very good at what she does, Mrs. Lane. I believe you’d be proud of her. Margie cares deeply for the park and for nature.”
“And it’s obvious to me that she cares deeply about her boss.” Mrs. Lane leaned back in her seat, gripping her coffee cup with both hands. “Never mind. It’s inconsequential. This lark of hers is nothing but a temporary distraction. She’s meant for better things, and Margaret will realize that in time. We didn’t send her through Bryn Mawr to have her throw it all away on someone like you.”
“You’d rather see her with someone like Carmichael?” The words sprang out before he could bite his tongue.
She tapped her fingernails against the cup, like a woodpecker in search of a meal. “Mr. Carmichael has made something of himself. He came from humble beginnings—not unlike yourself, I’m sure.”
Ford pressed himself into the seat. He might be lousy with words, but he should at least try to be polite. “He’s seen some success. That’s certain.”
“Senator Lane has poured his financial resources into seeing that young man succeed. Now Philip is finally in a position to help this family. Who are we to turn him away?”
And her daughter was part of the bargain? “I’m sure you’re merely looking out for your daughter’s future.”
“To be honest, I’ve never liked the man. I never thought him good enough for her. But Philip has been very loyal, and he could give her everything she needs or desires. What can you provide?” She studied his attire.
Ford’s throat tightened. What could he provide? He didn’t even own a home. He lived in a crumbly little shack, and even that belonged to the park service. What woman would ever care to settle down with a man like him?
The study door swung open and Margie appeared, lines of tension obvious on her face. She crossed the room and stood beside him. “Ford, I think we should go.”
He stood. “Now?”
Mrs. Lane jumped to her feet. “You can’t leave tonight. I’ve had rooms made up for you. And Philip is coming to breakfast.”
Margie nodded. “Exactly.” She turned to Ford, her brown eyes pleading. “We’ve got what we came for. Let’s go home.”
A rush of warmth swept over him. They might be rickety little cabins, but to Margie they were home. It did
n’t matter that it was well past midnight and the roads were dark. He’d drive through a volcanic eruption to get her there.
Ford rubbed bleary eyes as he strode across the clearing to the community kitchen the next morning. He was forty-five minutes late for breakfast, but there were always leftovers. All he needed was a cup of coffee and a piece of dry toast. A man couldn’t expect much at this late hour. Especially a man who’d been out all night. He’d never had much regard for staff who frittered away their evening hours and showed up to work too exhausted to be of much value. From now on he’d show more sympathy.
At least at this hour, he’d be unlikely to run into Margie. She probably already had her face buried in plant samples and preparation for tomorrow night’s magic lantern show at the Inn. Hopefully she was in better shape than he was. Since she’d slept an hour wedged against his shoulder in the truck, he imagined she was. His arm still ached, but it’d been worth every sore muscle.
Ford tapped on the door before ducking inside. “Mrs. Brown? I just thought I’d grab a cup…”
Margie stepped out of the kitchen, her hair tucked up in a yellow scarf. “Good morning.”
He pulled the door closed behind him. “I’m running late this morning.”
“As am I.” She wrapped her arms around her middle and looked down at the floor.
Mrs. Brown bundled past Margie and reached for the empty coffee pot. “Here, let me make you two a fresh batch. It looks as if you could use it.” She patted Ford’s arm as she walked past. “Late night?”
He cleared his throat, not daring to glance in Margie’s direction lest his face give them away. “Yes. Those reports will be the death of me. Be sure to tell your husband.”
The corner of her mouth lifted as she smoothed a hand across her stained apron. “That’s odd. When Harry retired for the night, he mentioned the park truck was missing. Yet it was right in place when I got up this morning. Obviously, he must have been mistaken.” The teasing tone in her voice sent fingers down Ford’s spine.
Margie took a biscuit from the table and wrapped it in a paper napkin. “I believe Ranger Brayden had to check on some things last night.”
Mrs. Brown laughed as she headed to the kitchen with the empty pot. “I hope he found everything to be to his liking.”
Ford sighed as the woman disappeared. “We’re going to be a topic of conversation for quite some time.”
Margie shrugged. “I’m used to it. I’ve been a source of gossip most of my life. I’m sorry to have dragged you into it.”
Dragged? He’d jumped in with both boots. “My men don’t gossip. You make them sound like a passel of old church ladies.”
Mrs. Brown leaned through the swinging doors. “What would you know of church ladies? You haven’t darkened the church door since your father passed away. He’d be quite annoyed about that, young man.”
Leave it to Mrs. Brown to notice such things. “I’ve been busy. Work never slows down for Sunday morning.”
“And yet your father rarely missed.” She wrinkled her nose before returning to the kitchen.
“Yes, well.” He lowered his voice. “I went to please him. There doesn’t seem much point now.” He glanced at Margie, but she seemed intent on brushing crumbs from the table.
“Is that what you think of us?” Margie’s voice barely stirred the air in the room.
“What?”
Her brown eyes lifted, fastening on him like an owl’s eyes in the moonlight. “Old church ladies—gossiping and judging people?”
He swallowed. “You’re not old.”
She pressed a hand to her chest. “But the rest?”
Ford’s head swam as he thought back over his words. What had he said, exactly? “Of course not. It doesn’t bother me that you go to church. Just don’t try to haul me there.” He strode to the kitchen doorway. “How’s the coffee coming?”
“It’s percolating,” Mrs. Brown called back. “Not fast enough for you, I’m afraid.”
“I’m actually not very hungry.” Margie’s voice sounded behind him, cracking as she spoke. “I’ll head over to the office. Is everything ready for me?”
Ford spun around. “My office?”
Her eyes narrowed. “To type? Is it all set out?”
The report. “Yes, yes. I tried to make a start, but I just muddled things, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll sort it out.” She was out the door before he had the chance to say another word.
Mrs. Brown tromped back into the dining hall with the pot and a plate of fragrant sweet rolls. “I thought you might need these.”
Ford sat at the table and held out his cup like a beggar asking for alms. “No good can come from pre-coffee conversation.”
After filling the cup, she sat down next to him. “Conversation has never been your strongest suit.”
“I can’t argue with you there.” He gulped a mouthful of the brew before considering how hot the liquid might be.
“Don’t louse this up, Ford. She’s a good woman.” Mrs. Brown folded her hands in her lap.
He choked, covering his mouth with a fist. The older woman had always seen through him, even when he was a lad stealing cookies from the pantry. “Yes, well, she comes from a different world.”
“She’s chosen ours. That’s worth its weight in gold.” She pushed the plate of rolls closer to him. “But it’s not your different upbringings or your lack of conversational skills that has me concerned.”
He helped himself to one of the sticky rolls, even though the sight turned his stomach. One didn’t turn down Mrs. Brown’s food or her advice. He might as well take it like a man.
“You need to get yourself right with God. She won’t have you until then, and I agree with her.”
He twisted his neck to look at the matronly woman. “You two have been talking about whether or not I attend church?”
Her lips pressed together. “Ford Brayden, we haven’t discussed you at all. Not in a personal sense, anyway.”
“Then how do you know this?”
“She’s come to church with Harry and me several times. I know her faith is dear to her.” Mrs. Brown pushed to her feet and adjusted her apron. “But it’s not about whether you warm a pew at services that matters, Ford. It’s whether you’re willing to trust Him, and I know that’s going to be a challenge for you considering how grief still owns your heart.”
Ford swept his hat off the table and stood. “My feelings about God—or my lack of feelings—are my business. No one else’s.”
“Perhaps so. But this much is true, Ford. Your soul cracked when your father died in that avalanche. How can you expect to offer someone your heart when you need a basket just to hold all the pieces?”
“I need to get to work. I’m running late.”
“You’re running, all right.” She topped off his coffee mug and handed it to him. “You can’t expect that young lady to heal you. It’s not fair to her. That’s God’s job.”
“I don’t need healing. My father died two years ago, and I haven’t missed a day of work since.”
“You haven’t missed a day doing your father’s job. Think about it.”
“I’m doing the job Harry asked me to do.”
She pinned him with a motherly stare. “I mean it, Ford. Don’t pursue her until you’ve got yourself put back together.”
Margie rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter, determined not to let any more of this day get away from her. Her conversation with Ford had sent her stomach into a sickening downward spiral. She’d wanted to believe he was only steps away from finding God and at the right moment she could nudge him in the appropriate direction. It was time to be realistic. Ford Brayden was an unbeliever and determined to stay as such. Could she live with that?
She clamped the paper guide into place, mentally throwing a similar guard over her heart. She’d been foolish to let her feelings run away with her. Isn’t that what she’d done with Philip all those years ago?
A tiny doubt niggl
ed in the back of her mind. While her father had taught her everything she knew about faith, he obviously wasn’t the upstanding man she thought him to be. And Philip certainly wasn’t. Scripture was clear about not yoking yourself with an unbeliever. The second part of the verse wafted through her mind: “For what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness?” And yet, in so many ways, Ford seemed far more righteous than the other men in her life.
So where did that leave her?
His handwritten notes lay on the desk. She slid her fingers along the script, imagining him bent over the work.
The fact remained: their beliefs were completely at odds. She saw God in every loving brushstroke of creation. Ford saw only beautiful chaos—something to be appreciated, but not trusted. There could be no reconciliation between these viewpoints. He could laugh off her faith as childish fantasy, but in so doing, he’d never understand who she truly was. He could never really love her.
The idea left her hollow. She couldn’t lead him on. It wouldn’t be fair.
Margie laid her head against the typewriter, tears stinging at her eyes. Could things get any worse? Philip. Her father. Now Ford.
She took a deep breath and straightened, laying her fingers on the keys. It was time to fix the mess Philip had made of things. And she’d need to do so without the help of Ford or anyone else. In fact, it would be far less distracting without having the mesmeric ranger within an arm’s reach at any given moment.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs made her heart jump a second before Ford appeared at the office door. How long before she could maintain a calm demeanor in the man’s presence? Their kiss had thrown her entire equilibrium off-balance. “Will I be in your way?”
Ford leaned against the doorframe, putting her in mind of a mountain lion draped over a tree branch. “No, I’ll just sit over there and stay out of your hair.” He reached for a chair and dragged it to the opposite side of the tiny office.
“If you have other duties, I can take care of things here.” The room suddenly felt very close. How much work could she accomplish with him breathing down her neck?
The Road to Paradise Page 16