The Rebel Daughter

“No. Even before Rose died, there had been no friendship between Galen and me.” Leaning forward, Roger rested both elbows on his desk and tapped the ends of his fingers together. “You didn’t answer my question earlier—what about the Plantation? Who’s going to run it while you’re flying mail across the country every day?”

Forrest nodded, mainly to give himself a moment to respond. Slowly, precisely, he said, “Galen, if he has his way.”

Roger’s scowl turned darker than his black shirt.

“He’s being released,” Forrest said.

“Hell!” Roger erupted from his chair, slapping his desk. “That’s a lie.”

“It’s true,” Forrest said. “My mother called. Said Galen was getting a new trial and most likely, due to time served, will get out shortly.”

“Trials can’t happen that fast,” Roger insisted. “They can’t.”

“Well, apparently they can,” Forrest replied, without further explanation. That wasn’t important. “And Roger,” he said seriously, “when Galen gets out, he’s going to be gunning for you.”

* * *

A noise had Twyla spinning, glancing up and down the hallway. The long walkway to the kitchen was empty, as was the shorter distance that led to the entrance of the resort. The coast was still clear. She lifted the glass to the door again and pressed her ear to the other end. So far all she’d heard was her father shout once. Even then the only word she’d heard was hell. Her father used the expletive often, so that didn’t necessarily mean the conversation he was holding with Forrest was a bad one, but her insides said it couldn’t be good. She was also betting the topic was her.

She’d knocked down two dancers and a waitress trying to get out of the ballroom when she’d spied her father and Forrest heading toward his office. By the time she’d helped everyone up and found someone to clean up the mess, the office door was shut tight. Everyone knew you didn’t interrupt one of Roger Nightingale’s closed-door meetings.

“What are you doing?”

She spun around so fast the glass tumbled to the floor. Seeing Josie, Twyla released a sigh of relief and picked up the glass. “Forrest is in there with father,” she whispered.

“So?”

“So?” Grabbing her sister’s arm, Twyla dragged Josie down the hall toward the kitchen. “You know what that could mean, don’t you?”

“What what could mean?”

Twyla wanted to shake her sister. “Forrest,” she hissed. “He’s still in love with Norma Rose.”

Josie shook her head as if Twyla had just said the sky was falling, as if what she’d said was an impossibility.

Twyla crossed her arms. She was right. Josie had to know that.

Her sister made no move at first, but then Josie straightened the buckle on the gold belt she had around her waist. Her red-and-gold outfit was gorgeous and she looked fabulous, which was strange. Josie normally wore pants and loose-fitting shirts, claiming she went for comfort long before fashion. Twyla couldn’t understand that. Fashion was everything. She’d walk around with blisters on her feet before wearing a pair of shoes that didn’t match her dress.

Pulling her attention away from her sister’s outfit, Twyla repeated, “Forrest is still in love with Norma Rose.”

“I doubt that,” Josie said.

“I don’t,” Twyla insisted.

Josie shook her head. “Forrest caring about Norma Rose is a moot point. She’s in love with Ty.”

“Forrest could make her question that,” Twyla replied. “Maybe cause her and Ty to break up, and turn everything back to how it was.”

“You really believe that?”

“Yes,” Twyla said. “I don’t want things to go back to how they were. And you shouldn’t, either.”

“I don’t, and they won’t,” Josie said confidently. “Norma Rose and Ty will soon be married. Which means we’ll both be needed more than ever to keep this place running.” Taking the glass from Twyla’s hand, Josie added, “Now stop being silly. We have over three hundred people here tonight. You need to be in the ballroom ensuring they are having a good time.”

Twyla wanted to insist she wasn’t being silly. She was being serious. Josie needed to take her blinders off. Things changed in little more than a heartbeat. They’d all seen that. Josie, though, wasn’t one for bickering. Or idle talk. “What are you doing?” Twyla asked, and then followed up by asking, “I mean, aren’t you making sure the guests are having a good time?”

“I am,” Josie said. “But the ice sculpture is melting and water is dripping onto the floor. I’m on my way for a mop to clean it up before someone slips.”

“I have to know what they’re talking about,” Twyla said, reaching for the glass her sister had confiscated.

Josie hid it behind her back. “No, you don’t. Stop worrying about Forrest and go see to the guests, or I’ll tell father and Norma Rose you’re resorting to your childish ways.”

Twyla growled, but Josie had already spun around and was marching down the hallway toward the kitchen and storeroom, where she’d find a mop.

Balling her hands into fists, Twyla spun around and walked the other way. Passing her father’s office was torture. Not knowing what was being said behind that door would haunt her all night. Forrest was thwarting her. If he told her father all about her escapades, and Josie told him about her listening at the door with a water glass, she’d be banished to her room until she turned thirty.

It wasn’t fair. Surely wasn’t. The world was at her fingertips and it was as if Forrest had stomped on her freshly painted nails right before she’d been able to grasp it all.

Music and laughter caught her attention as the hallway gave way to the front entrance. The doors to the ballroom and dining room were open, and she paused to survey the scene. People dancing, drinking, smoking and having a good time were laid out before her. This was the world she wanted. She gave a slow, lingering glance down the hallway. Forrest might be telling her father all he knew, but that wouldn’t stop tonight.

A smile formed on Twyla’s lips. Tonight she’d prove who was the most spectacular hostess of the family. Her father couldn’t banish her to her room then. Not after she ensured Palooka George had the best birthday bash ever. She entered the ballroom with all the persistence of a bee buzzing toward a fresh-blooming flower. She knew how to gather nectar when needed.

Twyla headed straight for the bar, where she downed two shots of Minnesota’s finest corn whiskey. Then, with the whiskey burning her throat and belly—even though Reggie had watered it down as he always did with her shots—she made a beeline for the guest of honor. The show she made of pulling Palooka George onto the dance floor got the crowd rolling with laughter and she didn’t let it die down.

Not once.

Not even when she noticed her father leading Ty and Norma Rose out of the dining room.

* * *

Forrest kept himself concealed among a group of men on the balcony smoking and sipping tall bottles of beer while he watched Twyla single-handedly entertain the crowd. She did so naturally, with her smile and outrageous yet charming behavior. Nightingale’s hadn’t needed Slim. They could have just set Twyla loose. She was the real draw and the reason people filled the dance floor. There wasn’t a man at the shindig who wasn’t captivated by her, including several he’d recognized from here and there. A man didn’t do the amount of traveling he’d done without hearing the latest news. These days that news included gangsters. From small-time mobsters to big-time bosses. A good number of them were here tonight.

Loose Lenny, Mumbles and Knuckles Page, Gorgeous Gordy and Fire Iron Frank were all sitting along the bar, eyeing one another as if they weren’t sure who was going to pull out a piece first. Sylvester the Sly and Point Blank Luigi were at a table playing poker in the dining room along with a few others.

Forrest couldn’t say he was too worried about any of the mobsters causing trouble tonight. Roger had his own entourage. Bronco Mitchell, Tuck Andrews, Duane Luck, Tad McCullough, Danny Trevino and Walter Storms. They’d all been with Roger for years and were stationed throughout the property, inside and out. Bronco was around Forrest’s age. The man’s uncle, Jacob Wertheimer, worked for Forrest, had worked for the Plantation for years. Although Bronco was devoted to Roger, he stopped at the Plantation now and again to see his uncle, which was how Forrest had learned about Twyla’s escapades. Just last month Bronco had swung by while looking for her and admitted she’d escaped their watchful eyes once again.

He grinned. She was still a brat. In a sense, Forrest felt sorry for Bronco, and he would never admit the man had told him anything, not even under fire. Dealing with the Nightingale women was more than Forrest could ever have handled, and he’d assured Bronco his secrets were safe with him. Every man needed to vent now and again. Besides, Forrest enjoyed hearing about her escapades. It proved she hadn’t changed.

As if he could read his mind, Bronco caught Forrest’s eye and gave a friendly nod as he continued to weave his way through the crowd, making sure everyone was behaving. The man paused behind two rather rowdy fellows being a bit brash when it came to encouraging Twyla to dance with them. With nothing more than a meaty hand laid upon each one’s shoulder, Bronco mellowed the two men. They took their seats, nodding at something the watchman said.

Forrest shook his head. Though well over six feet of muscle and brawn, Bronco had his work cut out for him. That was for sure. Forrest held up the bottle of beer he’d been nursing all night, in a silent salute to his friend, and then turned around to once again gaze over the lake reflecting starlight back into the heavens. He set the bottle on the rail beside him, but then picked it up and spun it around. No label. That didn’t surprise him. Beer was harder to find during Prohibition than whiskey, but he had a good idea where it came from.

His grandfather may have found Roger a job at the brewery, but Roger had worked his way through the ranks all on his own. By the time Prohibition hit, Roger had made some very tight connections, and from the looks of things, he was still using them.

That had sliced Galen deeper than any knife. He’d thought by taking over the Plantation and the amusement park he’d become the big man in town. It hadn’t worked that way. Galen didn’t have the personality it took, nor did he have a savvy business mind. A man with no past or family, at least not any that he’d claim, Galen had arrived in White Bear Lake with nothing but the clothes on his back. A month later he’d married the girl of the richest man in town. Forrest had to wonder what people had thought about that but figured, because his mother and Galen had immediately left for a honeymoon abroad that lasted over a year, no one had given it much thought.

When they’d arrived back in town, he’d been with them as a tiny infant, and his grandfather had died a couple months later. Most folks, just like Roger, knew Hans Swenson had left the Plantation to Forrest, but what most of them didn’t know was Hans had never given Forrest’s mother guardianship of the holdings. His mother’s sister—Aunt Shirley—had been given that duty. That, too, had goaded Galen to no end. Not that it had stopped Galen from finding a way to weasel away the money. From the time Forrest was old enough to pen his name, Galen was making him write letters to Aunt Shirley, telling her his tuition fee had been raised or he needed new clothes. Shirley thwarted Galen whenever she could, by sending clothes instead of money or mailing the fee directly to the school. If not for her, he might never have attended either the private boys’ academy or college.

Forrest turned back around and his gaze landed on a familiar face that made his skin crawl. The scar that slashed the man’s cheek from temple to chin was impossible to miss and unforgettable. Nasty Nick Ludwig. The man raised an eyebrow and one corner of his mouth; the other side of his face was fixed in a permanent frown due to the scar.

Forrest lifted his chin, his only acknowledgement of recognition. Nasty Nick was the kind of mobster he hadn’t expected to see here. There were gangsters and then there were lowlifes, the kind of men Galen always associated with. Ludwig was a lowlife. He’d been in jail with Galen just last month out in California. Forrest’s gut churned. Although he hadn’t needed the confirmation, Ludwig’s release proved Galen would soon be out, too.

There was no telling who could get hurt. His aunt and uncle swore the fact Forrest could still walk was nothing shy of a miracle. All Forrest had at this moment was hope that Roger would act, and fast. The man had connections Forrest didn’t. He should have come over here before tonight, but up until the phone call from his mother, there hadn’t been a need. He still couldn’t be sure she was telling the truth. She always seemed to have one eye covered when it came to Galen.

Ludwig moved slowly through the crowd, not talking to anyone, simply observing like a rat on the prowl. He was exactly the type of person Galen chose to have in his employ. Someone who wouldn’t think twice about beating up another person—man, woman or child.

Galen claimed Roger had run him out of town to take over his business, and he wasn’t talking about the Plantation. Roger hadn’t become known as The Night by mistake. He was ruthless, but his dealings didn’t stink like those of some others. Roger’s goal was money. Galen’s had always been power. There was a big difference.

Forrest understood that, yet he couldn’t deny Roger had come a long way in the past few years.

“I thought you’d left.”

Despite the darkness and gloom filling his thoughts, Forrest grinned. He shifted slightly to meet the glimmer of the shimmering blue eyes looking up at him. “You thought wrong.” He’d been set to leave after talking to Roger, but the man had asked him not to. Said he wanted to talk to a few people and then they’d talk again.

Twyla glanced left and right before she grabbed his elbow. “Come on.”

“I’m not dancing again,” Forrest said, although he let her pull him away from the rail. He shouldn’t have. Just talking to her could be as dangerous as dancing. That sweet, sparkling dress she had on was lighting a flame in places he didn’t need a fire built.

“Neither am I,” she said. “My feet are killing me. Palooka George has to weigh three hundred pounds and I swear he thought my toes were part of the dance floor.” She led him toward the long set of wooden stairs that descended to the grass beneath the balcony. “I thought boxers were supposed to be sure-footed, hopping around the ring like they do.”

As if his feet couldn’t be stopped, he walked down the steps beside her. “When have you been to a boxing match?”

She opened and closed her mouth before huffing out a breath. “I didn’t say I’d seen one, I said I thought.”

“Aw-w-w,” he said, drawing it out. “So you weren’t at the boxing match last month at the Rafters in St. Paul?”

She stumbled slightly. Forrest reacted quickly, catching her by the waist before she tumbled headfirst down the remaining steps. His actions were for naught, considering the way she shoved his hands aside. Which was just as well. He wanted to irritate her. An angry Twyla wouldn’t be the threat a sweet, worn-out Twyla would be.

“Of course I wasn’t at the Rafters,” she insisted, bounding down the last few steps.

“My mistake,” he answered dryly. She’d been there. He’d heard it from more than one person. He grinned, too, at her delusions. She truly had no idea how many people watched her every move. Nothing she’d done was a secret.

After glancing up at the still crowded balcony, she grabbed his hand. “Come on.”

Folding his fingers around hers was as natural as a sunrise. “Where are we going?”

“Some place we can talk.”

He continued walking beside her, but said loud enough to be heard, “Your father’s men are stationed everywhere, and I will not be caught in the bushes with you.”

“Hush up,” she hissed. “We aren’t going to the bushes, but we need to talk.”

“As long as we stay out in the open.”

“Chicken?” she asked smartly.

“Smart,” he answered smoothly.

She led him to the water fountain and continued around its circular cement base to where the splaying water would hide their location from the resort’s patrons, but not from any of Roger’s men, who walked the paths and the perimeter of the yard. Lowering herself onto the ground, she sat with her legs stretched out before her and her back against the fountain’s concrete wall.

She patted the ground beside her. “Have a seat.”

Fires licking at very specific parts of his body said he shouldn’t, but when it came to Twyla his common sense and judgment were compromised. He’d always been able to control himself, though, and still could. Lowering himself to the ground, he appreciated the coolness of the water shooting into the air and the concrete against his back. He could use more salvation, but would take what he could get. “So what do you want to talk about?”

“Not want,” she said. “Need.”

“So what do you need to talk about?”

“What did you tell my father?”

Forrest had figured that was what it was. Letting his gaze wander to the lake, he held his silence. Keeping her on edge was enjoyable, but that wasn’t why he couldn’t say anything. Even as a kid, he’d never told anyone about the back-door dealings and cruelty that took place behind the papered walls of the Plantation. He’d feared that if he ever did tell someone, they’d be hurt. It was still that way.

Twyla had the patience of a gnat. It hadn’t been more than fifteen seconds before she asked, “Well? What did you talk to my father about?”

“About flying for the army and delivering airmail.”

“What else?”

The mixture of white starlight and yellow moonbeams caught in her eyes and he chuckled at how the mixture softened her glare, making her look about as fierce as a poodle.

“It’s not funny,” she said. “Now, what did you tell him?”

“Let’s see,” Forrest said, tapping one index finger against another. “I didn’t tell him about the boxing match at the Rafters.”

“I was never—”

“I didn’t tell him,” Forrest interrupted, while tapping his next finger as if counting down, “about the kissing booth, or about the Yellow Moon speakeasy in Minneapolis, or the Pour House in—”

“How do you know—”

“Or how you told him you were spending the night at Mitsy’s and she told her father she was spending the night out here, when in truth both of you spent the night in a boxcar in St. Paul because you missed the last train back to White Bear Lake.”

Lips pursed, she snapped her head forward. With the moonlight glistening against her profile, her eyelashes looked two inches long. He had to swallow.

“It’s impossible for you to know any of that,” she said.

“It can’t be impossible.” From the moment he’d hit town, he’d made it his job to know how she was doing. How all of the Nightingales were doing. Not doing so would have been impossible. The urge to protect Twyla and her sisters from Galen was even stronger now than it had been way back when.

She turned to look at him. “Yes, it is. You weren’t even around town when— You must be lying.”

“When they took place?” He shook his head. “The kissing booth was just a couple weeks ago. The boxing match last month.”

She folded her arms and beneath the sparkling dress, her breasts rose and fell as she sighed heavily. “Did you tell him any of that or not?”

Forrest picked a blade of grass and stuck it in his mouth, attempting to look thoughtful as she peered up at him. He was thoughtful, but he was attempting to not think about how she’d grown into the beautiful woman he’d merely caught glimpses of years ago. He recognized something else, too. The weariness in her eyes. She was far more tired than anyone could possibly know. He could understand why; her dancing alone would have exhausted most people. Tossing the blade of grass aside, he answered, “Not.”

She sat up straighter, and looked rather startled. “Why?”

“I said not,” he clarified.

“I know what you said. Why didn’t you tell him?”

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