Shine your shoes, slip on your flapper dress and prepare for the ride of your life in Lauri Robinson’s rip-roaring new mini-series

DAUGHTERS OF THE ROARING TWENTIES

Their hair is short and their skirts are even shorter!

Prohibition has made Roger Nightingale a wealthy man. With his bootlegging business in full swing, and his swanky hotel the most popular joint in town, his greatest challenge is keeping his four wilful daughters in check!

Join

Ginger, Norma Rose, Twyla and Josie as they foxtrot their way into four gorgeous men’s hearts!

First travel with Ginger to Chicago in

The Runaway Daughter Already available as a Mills & Boon® Historical Undone! eBook

Then see Norma Rose go head-to-head with Ty Bradshaw in

The Bootlegger’s Daughter Already available

Can Forrest Reynolds tame mischievous Twyla?

Find out in

The Rebel Daughter Available now

And, last but not least, discover Josie’s secret in

The Forgotten Daughter Available October 2015

AUTHOR NOTE

Welcome to the Roaring Twenties! A time in America when almost every citizen broke the law and new freedoms were discovered.

The Twenties were a period of change. Cars became more affordable to all classes of life, motorcycles grew increasingly popular, and flyboys—those who had learned to fly during the war—brought that skill home. All of this, along with electricity, telephones and Hollywood, created new lifestyles and attitudes.

Welcome to the third book in my Daughters of the Roaring Twenties mini-series! The Rebel Daughter is Twyla’s story. She embraces all changes to society wholeheartedly; however, being the daughter of a well-known bootlegger restricts her freedom.

A rebel at heart, Twyla has grown tired of living in the state’s largest speakeasy and not being allowed to attend the lavish parties. When the opportunity to step out of the shadows arrives she takes it—but discovers going up against mobsters might be more than she can handle.

Good thing Forrest Reynolds has returned home. Twyla needs someone to catch her when she falls.

I hope you enjoy Twyla and Forrest. They are two of a kind.

Happy reading!

The Rebel

Daughter

Lauri Robinson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A lover of fairytales and cowboy boots, LAURI ROBINSON can’t imagine a better profession than penning happily-ever-after stories about men (and women) who pull on a pair of boots before riding off into the sunset—or kick them off for other reasons. Lauri and her husband raised three sons in their rural Minnesota home, and are now getting their just rewards by spoiling their grandchildren.

Visit: laurirobinson.blogspot.com, facebook.com/lauri.robinson1, twitter.com/LauriR

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To Sara at the White Bear Lake Historical Society.

The information you shared was invaluable!

Contents

Cover

More from the Author

AUTHOR NOTE

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

White Bear Lake, Minnesota, 1925

Twyla Nightingale swore she’d been reborn. Released. Free. Like a bird that had just learned to fly, or a dog that had finally chewed through the rope tying it to the porch. Excitement hummed through her veins. The smile living on her lips was there when she woke up and still there when she went to bed. It was real, too. As genuine as a new bill. At times her cheeks hurt from grinning.

And she loved it.

L-O-V-E-D. It.

Rightfully so.

Just a few weeks ago she’d have been watching out the bedroom window or crouched down peering through the spindles of the staircase that led from the ballroom to the second floor of the resort. But now she was front and center, wearing that cheek-aching grin while greeting guests, as men in neatly pressed three-piece suits and dapper hats escorted their ladies through the double front doors of the resort. The latest fashions these women wore were as elegant as the men escorting them. Floppy hats and feathered headbands matched their fringe-covered flapper dresses and two-piece skirt outfits in the most popular colors. Teal, burgundy, gold and green.

Green.

Now that was a color. Twyla’s favorite. The color of money. Lettuce, kale, clams, jack—whatever you wanted to call it, it was all money. Even before tonight she’d loved how money had changed her life. She gave her father the credit for that. A few years ago he’d been a brewery worker, bringing home barely enough money to keep his family clothed and put food on the table. Now she and her sisters were dressed in the height of fashion and Nightingale’s resort served finer food than some of the most famous hotels in the world.

Life was so good she wanted to skip instead of walk. Just standing here her feet itched with excitement. She’d imagined, but still couldn’t believe how wonderful things had become since she’d stopped living on the sidelines.

In many ways she had her sister to thank for the life-changing transformation. If Norma Rose asked, Twyla would get down and kiss her sister’s toes. That’s how appreciative she was, and she would do anything and everything to keep things going just as they were this very minute. One of the largest parties of the year was taking place at the resort tonight, and she was the hostess. Well, one of them. Norma Rose and another sister, Josie, were here, too, but in many ways that only made things better.

Smiling brightly, and elegantly waving a hand with brightly painted nails, Twyla greeted another couple and directed them toward the elaborately carved wooden front desk, where Josie would write them a meal receipt. They would then be directed to the ballroom and adjoining dining room, where the celebration of Palooka George’s fiftieth birthday would soon begin.

Up until two weeks ago, Josie, younger than Twyla by two years, and Ginger, younger by five years, had also been living on the sidelines. Norma Rose, the oldest at twenty-five, had been the only one permitted downstairs during parties. Mainly because until recently she’d run Nightingale’s all by herself, ever since it had been transformed from a dance pavilion to an expansive resort catering to those with wads of cash to spend. Their father, Roger Nightingale, claimed he ran it, but everyone knew that Norma Rose did, while Roger oversaw his bootlegging business. Her father’s profession didn’t bother Twyla in the least. Without bootlegging, she’d still be wearing Norma Rose’s hand-me-downs, which had been someone else’s hand-me-downs before Norma Rose had acquired them.

Folks could hate Prohibition all they wanted; Twyla loved it.

She loved the glitzy and glamorous parties, the racy freedom and even the wild and wicked underground world that flourished more every day. No one could have guessed her life could change so fast. Especially not Twyla. It had all happened when Ginger had run away with Brock Ness, and Ty Bradshaw had shown up searching for some gangster. Although everyone thought Ty was a lawyer, Twyla now knew differently, but her lips were sealed and would remain so. He’d caught the hoodlum he was after out in Wisconsin, or so Twyla had heard, but that wasn’t what had changed things. Norma Rose had. Shortly after Ty arrived, Norma Rose turned a proverbial corner. Love, that’s what had done it. Ever since falling for Ty, Norma Rose wasn’t focused on running the resort by herself.

Finally, thank heaven above, she’d asked her sisters to help run the place.

Twyla had jumped at the chance to step up, and so had Josie. Ginger was still in Chicago and Twyla didn’t expect her to return home anytime soon, but that opinion she kept mostly to herself—except when she was with Josie, who felt the same way. The two of them had discussed that Ginger had been in love with Brock for some time. Neither Twyla nor Josie were looking for love. They had other seeds to sow.

Josie was the quietest of the sisters and rarely complained, but Twyla knew she had been as tired of Norma Rose ruling them as Twyla had. Before Ty appeared on the scene, Norma Rose had staunchly refused anyone’s help—other than to make beds and scrub floors. Those chores she’d passed out like candy at a parade.

There was more to it than the chores. For the past few years, along with their father, Norma Rose had treated them as if they were still the young girls who’d all shared a bedroom in their old farmhouse, where the flu had swooped down one winter as dark and pitiless as any plague. That had been devastating to all of them. Within weeks of each other, their mother, brother, grandparents and several other community members had died.

The epidemic had taken more than lives. It had taken hopes and dreams and promises never meant to be broken. Those were the things Twyla remembered slipping away that cold, dark winter. Those were also the things she was determined to get back.

The deaths of so many in their family had left holes. Big holes right in the very center of her heart. It had been a painful time to live through, but she had. And so had her father and three sisters. Norma Rose had appointed herself to take on the role left vacant by their mother’s death, and life had marched forward much as it had before. It hadn’t been until a couple of years later, when another blow shook their family, that things changed immensely. It was also when Norma Rose had taken it upon herself to see that none of the Nightingale sisters became doxies—her words, not Twyla’s.

Twyla wasn’t overly concerned about being labeled a doxy—people could think what they wanted, she knew the truth—but she was interested in having fun and adventures. That was the part of her life that had completely disappeared. There were no adventures for a girl locked in her bedroom. If you asked her, none of them were likely to become doxies—not with their father. Very few people chose to anger Roger Nightingale, who was known as The Night in some close-knit circles. Even fewer were brave enough to actually show interest in one of his daughters. Not that kind of interest.

That, too, played in Twyla’s favor. Now that she had her father’s blessing—for he had been very happy she and Josie were helping Norma Rose—she was going to live it up. She was going to dance until the sun came up with as many men as she liked. Have herself some good old-fashioned adventures.

She’d be careful, though; men were a slippery slope. On that particular subject, she was more wise than people realized. Take Norma Rose, for instance. As smart as her sister thought she was, it hadn’t taken long for Ty to make Norma Rose turn over a new leaf.

Twyla saw why. The way Ty looked at Norma Rose made her sister melt in her shoes. No one had ever done that to Norma Rose before. Not even...

Twyla stopped her train of thought, or at least rerouted it. Nothing lasted forever. Life had taught her that years ago. Besides, right now she had a lot of living to do, a lot of making up to do. She would admit watching Ty and Norma Rose made her smile. It was time Norma Rose found someone else, something else, other than the resort. Her sister had gone through a bad time a while back, and Twyla was happy to know Norma Rose had finally gotten over it.

The two of them—Ty and Norma Rose—hadn’t announced wedding plans or anything, yet Twyla knew that would happen soon. At least she hoped beyond all hope on this green earth that was what would happen, because she had plans. Big plans. All those people who’d teased her about being the little sister who couldn’t come out and play would soon be eating their words. By the end of the summer, Nightingale’s resort would be known as her playground, and it would be the place everyone wanted to play.

“Good evening, Twyla.”

Twyla’s thoughts were shattered and her spine quivered as if a hairy spider had just zipped up her back. She turned, ever so slowly, to face the one man she’d just refused to think about. The one man who could very well throw a wrench into everything, into all her dreams of stepping into Norma Rose’s shoes and running the resort.

That could not happen. Would not happen. She pulled up every evil thought she’d ever had against him, in the hope it would help. “Good evening, Forrest,” she said calmly, coldly. “Glad you could make it.”

“I’m sure you are,” he said dryly.

With immense effort, Twyla held a smile on her face and continued to greet and direct the couples still streaming through the open double doors, as she told Forrest, “Josie will write you a receipt.”

“I’ll wait for you,” he said, smiling and nodding at guests as if he had every right to do so while standing next to her. “Considering neither of us has a date.”

He was a smooth one, Forrest Reynolds, always had been. A real charmer, even as a kid, teasing all the girls and pretending to be a hero. In truth, leastwise in Twyla’s eyes, Forrest was the reason Norma Rose had become a tyrant over the past few years. Norma Rose had always been bossy, but after Forrest had left, she’d turned gnarly. She’d worn nothing but black and acted like a spinster twice her age. At one time Norma Rose had been in love with Forrest, but then he and his father, Galen Reynolds—an evil man if ever there was one—had broken her heart. Nope, Twyla would not let Forrest spoil her sister’s happiness, or ruin the life she was finally getting a chance to live.

“I don’t need a date,” Twyla muttered out the corner of her mouth. The evil thoughts she’d poured forward were slipping, perhaps because there weren’t too many. At one time she’d considered Forrest a friend. Her best friend. She reminded herself she’d been about ten years old back then. That allowed the reason he was standing beside her now to pop forward. “You’re only here because with Brock in Chicago, we needed a musician.” It was the truth. Brock going to Chicago to play on the radio had left the resort without a top-notch performer, which the guests of Palooka George’s party expected. “Norma Rose only agreed to let you come because you wouldn’t loan us Slim Johnson if she didn’t.”

“She didn’t put up much of a fight,” Forrest said. “Far less than I expected.”

Twyla spun to shoot a glare directly into his chocolate-colored eyes. They were such a contrast to his blond hair that she had to suck in a quick breath before she could spout, “You leave my sister alone.”

“Norma Rose and I are old friends,” Forrest said, curling his lips into a sly smile. “Just like you and I. And I look forward to getting reacquainted with all of you.”

She wasn’t fool enough to believe that. If he’d wanted to get reacquainted with any of them he could have made an effort months ago, when he’d first returned to town with his convertible roadster and airplane. Her hopes, if she’d had any, of reigniting their friendship had died long ago. “My father put yours in prison,” Twyla reminded him. “I don’t believe that would lay ground for any of us to be friends. I for one have no desire to get reacquainted with you, and I know Norma Rose feels the same.”

“Same old Twyla,” he drawled.

She’d give about anything to be able to kick him in the shin.

Glancing around, he added, “I’ll let Norma Rose decide that.”

Kicking him might be impossible, but she wouldn’t allow him to ruin things. Not again. “Stay away from her, Forrest,” Twyla warned. “Test me on this, and I guarantee you won’t like the outcome.”

He had the gall to laugh right in her face. Then again, he’d always had the gall to laugh at her. Usually she’d laughed with him. Not anymore. She let her glare tell him that.

“Everything’s still a challenge to you, isn’t it?” He flicked the end of her nose. “When are you going to learn you are no match for me, Twyla, and no match for your sister, either?”

That invisible creepy spider moved from her spine to her chest, where it wrapped all eight hairy legs around her heart and squeezed tightly. She was a match for Forrest and would prove it. No one would get in her way. Especially not some flyboy who thought himself a hero because he’d returned home in the nick of time to save his family business, the Plantation nightclub.

“I hope you’re hungry,” she said, in between greeting guests and wearing the smile that moments ago had started to slip but now returned, rejuvenated. The Plantation would never rival the resort, no matter who ran it. “Because you’re about to eat your words.”

The glimmer in his eyes was full of challenge. To say Forrest Reynolds was handsome would be an understatement. He’d always been more on the gorgeous side. Besides his contrasting brown eyes and blond hair, he was tall and lean, the type of man who looked good in everything he wore. His navy blue suit was fitted—wide across the shoulders, slender at the hips. He looked ravishing in it, and although she’d never told anyone nor ever would, no one looked as dashing as Forrest when he was wearing his flyboy getup. With brown boots that came up to his knees, his bulky leather jacket and that hat with its floppy ear flaps and round goggles, no man came close to his handsomeness. Her heart fluttered just thinking about it.

Only because she appreciated a handsome man. She always had. Forrest, handsome or not, was no contest for her. Few knew, but Twyla had long ago learned how to charm men into doing just about anything. She’d learned how to be slick, too, in order to sneak away from the resort without being seen by her father’s men, the watchmen and guards who surrounded the property twenty-four hours a day. There was, after all, only so many nights a girl could stay locked in her room. She’d met her quota some time ago.

If she was a compassionate woman—which she was not—she might feel a bit sorry for Forrest and his beliefs.

As she only came up to his shoulder, he leaned down slightly, and the warmth of his breath tickled her ear. She’d just pierced the lobes a little over a week ago and was thankful they were no longer sore and throbbing. She sincerely hoped Forrest noticed those were real diamonds dangling on the silver loops. He was not dealing with a poor little girl anymore. She was far from that. In fact, they were on even ground these days. Her family now had as much wealth as his—if not more—and she would gladly use that against him, along with everything else she could come up with.

“Don’t forget where I live, Twyla,” he said as softly as the wind blew.

Caught off guard between the scent of his cologne and the warmth of his whisper, she stuttered slightly. “Wh-what?”

“Where I live. The Plantation.”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course I know you live at your nightclub. Everyone does. So what?”

“It’s next to the amusement park.”

After greeting another guest, she said, “Everyone knows that, too.”

“Where you held your kissing booth.”

Her stomach dropped to the floor. There were a few things she wasn’t proud of, namely the childish things she’d allowed Mitsy Kemper to talk her into while rebelling against Norma Rose and her father, but she truly didn’t believe anyone would have the gall to bring them up, especially to her face. If her father ever heard about some of her antics, things could change. Swiftly.

“Aw, there’s your father,” Forrest said. “I think I’ll go say hello.”

Twyla grabbed his arm. Her father knew nothing about the kissing booth and several other things, and if he learned of them, whether she was twenty-three or eighty-three, she’d be back to watching life from the sidelines. “Don’t you dare,” she growled.

Forrest lifted a brow.

Damn. He knew he had her cornered, just like always. If they were anywhere but the front foyer of the resort, where people continued to file through the door, she’d tell him just what she thought of him. And of the way he always seemed to be one step ahead of her. She wasn’t prepared for this. She needed time to think.

That spider was now in her stomach, stinging the dickens out of her.

She bit down on her bottom lip, hard, forcing her mind to come up with something. Anything.

Hadn’t she heard something about keeping enemies close? Well, Forrest was enemy number one. Therefore, the closer she kept him, the better. Norma Rose would be furious, but it was the only option. Forcing her lips into a smile, Twyla added, “After all, you are my date.”

“Your date?”

“Yes,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “My date.”

* * *

Forrest questioned his sanity. He’d spent years distancing himself from all of the Nightingales—out of necessity—yet here he was, back at square one. What had he been thinking?

That the past wasn’t over. That was what he’d been thinking. Requesting to be allowed to attend the parties Norma Rose had asked to hire Slim for had seemed logical at the time. It would give him the chance to talk to Roger Nightingale face-to-face, but now he wondered if he should have spent more time considering the consequences.

Maybe it was just Twyla’s obvious disdain toward him that caught him off guard. He hadn’t expected that from her, although he should have expected it from her and all the Nightingales, including the new lawyer it was rumored Norma Rose was glued to. He was prepared for the lawyer and Norma Rose, just not Twyla. A million years may not have prepared him for her.

It wasn’t her attitude that surprised him. She’d been the one to call him to ask about Slim Johnson filling in for Brock and had been more than a little put out when he wouldn’t talk to her. No, it was her that surprised him. The woman she’d become.

Forrest glanced down at the redheaded sister. Seeing her from afar hadn’t done her justice. If he’d known then—when he requested attendance—what he knew now, he might have approached this situation a bit differently.

Maybe.

The bottom line was, it had to be done.

Her hair was naturally blond, like all the Nightingale girls, but being the wild one, Twyla had dyed it cherry-red. It had faded since he’d last caught a glimpse of her at the amusement park. Her hair was now more auburn, and the color looked good on her. It brought out the blue of her eyes and made her stand out in a crowd in a best-looking-gal-in-the-room sort of way.

She definitely stood out in a shimmering silver dress that barely covered her knees and a tiny pill hat swathed with silver netting. Twyla had always been the most brazen of the sisters, and Forrest hoped Roger Nightingale knew what he was doing by turning her loose in his resort. Especially tonight. He recognized faces. Lots of them. There were more gangsters filing through the door than roamed the streets of Chicago. That also made him wonder if all the tales he’d heard about Roger Nightingale and his bootlegging business were true.

Things had certainly changed since he’d left town. His return hadn’t been overly welcomed, either, but he hadn’t expected it to be. The tapping of a toe, along with those glittery blue eyes shooting daggers at him, brought his mind back to the conversation at hand, which had been... Aw, yes, being Twyla’s date for the evening.

“I thought you didn’t need a date,” he said, nodding to another couple he recognized who’d just walked through the front door—the local sheriff and his wife. Nightingale sure knew how to play the game. Galen should have taken lessons.

“I don’t need a date,” Twyla said coyly, gracefully sweeping a hand toward the front desk, indicating that was where the couple could purchase their meal tickets, which included complimentary drinks. No one had to be told that; it was a given. The resort didn’t need the lure of a blind pig to bring in drinking customers, or the ploy to make the government think it was all legal. People poured through the doors knowing full well drinks would be flowing all night. Even lawmen.

Twyla was peering back up at him and batting those long lashes. Forrest bit back a grin. She did make a dazzling hostess—a glimpse of the glamour people could expect all evening—however, all the charm she had in that sweet little body wouldn’t work on him. He was immune by self-inoculation, if there was such a thing, but he could let her think differently for now. Toying with Twyla, challenging her every word and action, had long been a favorite pastime, and he’d missed it.

Last week, when he’d attended Big Al Imhoff’s anniversary party, Norma Rose was the only sister he’d seen. She’d disappeared shortly after it started. So had Roger. Forrest had left early, too, but he couldn’t do that tonight, and connecting himself to Twyla would give him more chances to do what had to be done. There were things that needed to be cleared up between their families and it would help if he knew for sure if Roger had orchestrated Galen’s arrest.

To his benefit, Twyla had never been able to keep a secret. At least, not from him.

It wasn’t Twyla’s intake of breath, but the flash of fear that raced across her face that had him shifting his gaze to the hallway that led to the resort’s offices. A cold lump formed in his gut. Norma Rose stood in the hallway, in a shimmering purple dress with a single feather poking out of the matching headband that circled short waves of blond hair. She’d fared well, and for a moment the past returned. He wondered how different things could have been. If he hadn’t been who he was and the Nightingales hadn’t been who they were. Unfortunately he couldn’t change any of that back then. He couldn’t change it now, either.

Norma Rose wasn’t alone. A tall man stood beside her. Oblivious to anyone watching, they were looking at each other and laughing and in truth, looked happy, very happy. The man was obviously the lawyer, and for a moment Forrest wondered if he should leave and telephone Roger to say what he had to say. But he wanted to look the man in the eye when they spoke, so his work was cut out for him. All thanks to Galen Reynolds, the man his mother had married years ago and the reason all the Nightingale sisters hated him.

Norma Rose and the lawyer, who Forrest had heard was called Ty Bradshaw, made a striking couple. Despite the way Norma Rose felt about him, he did hope Ty made her happy.

She reached out and plucked something, a piece of lint perhaps, from the lawyer’s shoulder and then kissed his jaw. The man’s hand roamed over her side familiarly and Forrest’s hands wanted to ball into fists. Galen had ruined so much. It was past time it stopped. For good.

The tapping of a toe snagged Forrest’s attention and he turned to the woman at his side. Twyla’s lips were pursed and her little nostrils flared as she breathed in and out. He shoved his hands into his pockets. Galen would not win this time. “You may not need a date,” Forrest told Twyla, “but I do. I hate attending these shindigs by myself.”

A softness entered her eyes, but disappeared quickly. “Really?” she asked sarcastically. Her gaze bounced from Norma Rose and the lawyer to him.

Forrest grinned, though it was as false as the floorboards of a bootlegger’s truck. “Everything’s more fun when you have a partner.” That part was true. Twyla had always been fun and adventurous. Then again, they’d only been kids. She could have changed, and might well have, considering the way her blue eyes turned brooding and rather cold.

Yet, to his surprise, she nodded.

“All right, then.”

“All right then,” he repeated, for no other reason than to get in the last word, knowing that it would irk her. Norma Rose still hadn’t noticed him. He was watching out of the corner of his eye, trying to make it look as if he wasn’t. She wouldn’t be impressed to see him at Twyla’s side. From all he’d heard over the years, she’d like to see him six feet under.

Twyla, however, was watching him. She knew exactly what he was doing—and not doing. That much hadn’t changed; keeping a secret from Twyla hadn’t ever been any easier than her keeping one from him. Under her unyielding gaze the blue tie that matched his suit, which he’d struggled to tie in an even bow, started to choke him. Forrest reached up and tugged at his shirt collar, but found little relief.

He tugged harder. It didn’t help, but the smile that appeared on Twyla’s face did. Her eyes had changed, too. They were no longer shooting daggers. Instead they’d softened with something he couldn’t quite explain. Sympathy? He didn’t want that. Not from her. Not from anyone.

“Here,” she said, grasping his hand and pulling it away from his neck. “You’re twisting your tie.” She straightened it and asked, “Isn’t that awfully tight?”

“Yes,” he admitted.

With deft fingers, she undid the bow and pushed his chin up when he tried to look down. A moment later she had it retied and he was no longer choking.

“How’s that?” she asked.

“Fine, thank you.” No one had tied his tie in years and the intimacy of it twisted something inside him. He’d missed that. Intimacy. At one time he’d had a close relationship with all the sisters.

Twyla’s smile never faltered as she turned toward the door again, greeting more couples and directing them to her sister at the front desk.

That was Josie at the desk. She was the tomboy of the family. The one who’d dug worms and caught frogs beside him, and together they’d chased Norma Rose and Twyla, even Ginger at times, dangling their latest finds. Being only two years older than Norma Rose, he’d grown up playing with all four sisters. His mother and Rose Nightingale had been the best of friends at one time. Right up until Rose had died. The flu epidemic had taken their baby brother, too, and his. That was the thing Galen had never gotten over. The loss of his only son.

Forrest shoved his hands in his pockets again, where they balled into fists. His gaze went back to Twyla. She was chatting with a woman who, despite the warmth of the June evening, had a fox fur draped around her neck. Twyla’s laughter, light and carefree as it was, caused dread to churn in his stomach.

Galen Reynolds, who almost everyone thought was his father—only he, his mother and aunt and uncle, besides Galen, knew it wasn’t true—had all but crucified and burned Norma Rose on a stake years ago. She’d overcome that, the entire family had, and Forrest had to wonder if he shouldn’t just walk out the door. It was over. He should let sleeping dogs lie, as his mother had told him to do when he’d returned home once a couple of years ago. Even now, every time they talked, she’d ask if he’d seen any of the Nightingales and didn’t miss an opportunity to point out it wouldn’t be fair to Norma Rose to dredge up the past.

The trouble was, he’d needed the Nightingales as a kid, and he needed them now, in more ways than he cared to admit. For a moment Forrest considered Twyla, how stirring up the past might not be fair to her, either, but if he didn’t, Galen would win, and that was what he had to stop.

If things had remained as they’d been, he’d have let it all go. He would have forgotten what Galen had done to Norma Rose, to him, and eventually, perhaps he would have reclaimed his friendship with the Nightingales, but as it was, everything had changed again.

He had to do this.

Twyla was as bold as she was beautiful, and he’d make sure she didn’t get hurt. He knew something else, too; her anger toward him, or her dislike, was a ploy. She was just being Twyla. She hated to lose, or to be called out. Their mother had burned plenty of decks of cards and games because of Twyla. She’d pitch a fit every time she lost or got caught cheating, and into the woodstove the games had gone. In truth, she could be a brat when she wanted to be.

Now that he thought about it, Twyla could be the most beneficial to him. She fought to the death but was known to flip sides, and having her on his side would all but guarantee his success in drawing out the information he needed to gain.

Convinced he was doing the right thing, Forrest turned toward the hallway. Norma Rose and Ty were gone. Scanning the open doorway into the ballroom, he took a step to see past the crowd.

“Wandering away already?”

Coming up with the first excuse he thought of, he turned back to Twyla. “Just thinking I should go and see if Slim has everything set up.”

Her rather stoic expression said she didn’t believe that any more than she believed monkeys could fly. “Well, don’t wander too far,” she said. “We’ll be sitting down for dinner soon. I’ll have them add a place for you at the family table.”

“I wouldn’t miss that for the world,” he said. On impulse he flicked the end of her pert little nose. “Not for the world.”

Chapter Two

Less than half an hour later, Forrest found himself right there at the family table, sitting directly across from Norma Rose with Twyla on his left and Josie on his right. There were eight of them in total. Roger Nightingale sat at the head of the table and Palooka George sat on the other end. Ty Bradshaw sat on Roger’s right, opposite Twyla, with Norma Rose beside him. Palooka George’s wife, the woman with the fox fur around her neck and named Dolly, sat on Norma Rose’s other side, across from Josie.

“Thought you’d have stopped out before now, Forrest. I’ve missed seeing you around,” Roger said. “I’m glad to have you back in town.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ve been busy,” he answered. “But thanks to Twyla, I’m here tonight.” Forrest turned to her with a smile that was a bit mocking. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“You’re welcome,” she said demurely. “I’ve always been benevolent, and I hate to see anyone eating alone.”

The family members at the table reached for their glasses or turned to each other, clearly trying to appear as if they hadn’t heard her jibe.

Forrest’s smile didn’t falter. It had always been this way between the two of them. A competition. There had never been a prize, other than getting the best of each other. “Nice one,” he whispered next to her ear.

“I thought it fitting.”

“It didn’t draw blood,” he told her quietly.

“I wasn’t attempting to,” she said, taking a sip from her wineglass. “You’ll know when I am. You’ll need a tourniquet.”

His laugh drew everyone’s attention, including Norma Rose’s. He lifted his glass. “May I propose a toast?” Norma Rose’s startled look held a frown. He could understand why, as their parting hadn’t been pleasant. All the same, Forrest smiled. “For George’s birthday.”

“Hear! Hear!” Roger said. “To George.”

Having been a professional boxer for years, Palooka George was full of stories—animated ones—which entertained everyone at the table while the meal was served. The man was no longer boxing. He was now the leader of a different kind of ring, headquartered in Chicago. Plenty of his cutthroat boys were here tonight, along with several well-known dames who were as hard as the men they clung to. Forrest recognized some faces. These were men who used to visit the Plantation on a regular basis, and Forrest took note of the curious stares generated by his seat at The Night’s table.

All five courses of the meal consisted of delicacies that few in the area would ever have tasted if not for the spectacular chefs Nightingale’s employed, and each course was paired with an accompanying alcoholic beverage. However, each of the Nightingale women had been served only half a glass of wine at the beginning of the meal. After that, they’d been provided nothing but water.

He’d also noticed how Twyla eyed the glasses the men and Dolly consumed, with an almost longing look. Making sure everyone else was engrossed in one of George’s tales, Forrest leaned over. “Remember when we snuck into your grandfather’s basement and took sips out of several of his wine casks?”

Her cheeks turned almost as red as her hair had been right after her dye job. “Shush up,” she said under her breath.

“We didn’t get caught,” he reminded her.

“You didn’t get caught,” she corrected. “Norma Rose found me throwing up after you left. I thought she was going to take a switch to me.” Taking a drink of her water, she added, “Although I doubt I would have felt it.”

Forrest was torn between smiling and frowning. He’d never known she’d gotten sick, or been in trouble, yet could remember she’d been very drunk. So had he. He hadn’t thought about that for years.

“Are you finished?” he asked, nodding toward her plate.

A good portion of the sugary pastry dessert was still on her plate, but she nodded. “Yes. You?”

His plate was empty. “Yes.” There wouldn’t be any business discussed at the table, not the kind he wanted to discuss with Roger, yet he couldn’t come up with a logical excuse to leave. Instead his mind was dredging up a few other secrets that involved him and Twyla, although none of the others included her grandfather’s wine.

“Want to go check on Slim?” she asked. “I’ve had enough boxing stories.”

He grinned. She’d always been honest to a fault. Or blunt. “I’ll make our excuses,” he said, laying his napkin over his plate. After explaining that he and Twyla were going to see to the music, he thanked Roger for his hospitality, wished George a happy birthday and nodded to the others as he stood to pull out Twyla’s chair. He purposefully didn’t do more than glance in Norma Rose’s general direction. She seemed sincerely taken with the lawyer, and Forrest wasn’t here to cause her any trouble. Reuniting friendships with any of the Nightingales beyond tonight wasn’t part of his plan. The repercussions of what he had to do would likely make that impossible.

Loaning Slim Johnson to them had been an excuse to visit when he’d needed one. Plus, Slim deserved the opportunity. He was a good musician and the small weekend crowds at the Plantation were nothing compared to the ones at Nightingale’s. Slim was hoping the chance to play here might give him as much luck as it had given Brock Ness.

With his hand resting on the small of Twyla’s back, Forrest guided her into the ballroom. Slim had been playing music while folks ate but had left the stage a short time ago, taking a break while he could, before the dancing started. There’d be no resting then.

As they walked, Forrest allowed another thought to cross his mind. “Where’s Ginger?”

Twyla’s answer was delayed, and she didn’t look at him when she said, “In Chicago with a friend.”

Both were sure signs she was lying, at least partially. Forrest may have been gone for several years, and many things may have changed, but Twyla’s inability to lie to him hadn’t. The fact that Roger Nightingale wouldn’t allow one of his daughters out of his sight hadn’t, either. Forrest may not have had any contact with the family since he’d returned, but the Nightingales were celebrities in these parts, and folks talked. He hadn’t heard Ginger was out of town, which meant it was hush-hush.

* * *

“Looks like Slim’s out on the balcony,” Twyla said, directing Forrest in that direction. She had to stay on her toes when it came to him. A moment ago she’d almost let it slip that Ginger was in Chicago with Brock. No one outside the family knew about that and it had to stay that way. Being next to Forrest was affecting her mind.

The setting sun glistened across the lake as she allowed him to escort her outside. She did want to speak with Slim, but getting Forrest away from her family was a priority. Norma Rose didn’t appear to be upset by his presence at the family table, which was odd. For years, Norma Rose had blamed Forrest for everything and swore she hated him. Up until the moment Ty appeared. He didn’t seem upset, either. Neither did her father. The only one who’d looked at her as if she’d lost her mind when she led Forrest to their table was Josie, and that was who Twyla decided she should steer clear of tonight. Though Josie did somehow seem to know everything that went on, she didn’t know everything, and keeping it that way would be best.

Slim, a man who wasn’t exactly what she’d call slim, was leaning against the railing, looking out over a lawn decorated with manicured flower beds and a water fountain before the ground gradually sloped toward the lake, where a swimming beach and boathouses filled the shoreline. Rather short and pudgy, Slim had pleased the crowd last weekend with his ability to play several instruments. His singing wasn’t all bad, either, when it came to the slow ballads that some of the older folks liked dancing to.

“Quite the gala you have going on tonight, Twyla,” he said as she and Forrest approached.

“Thank you. Palooka George has been a friend of my father for years, and he expected nothing less than the best.” Tossing a glance at Forrest, she added, “I’m sure you won’t disappoint any of us.”

Forrest grinned, which irked her.

Slim grinned, too, but he sounded sincere when he said, “I hope not.”

She stepped forward to rest her arms on the wooden rail, hoping Forrest wouldn’t follow. The warmth of his hand on her back had burned her skin. Right through the sequins of her dress. Maybe the tiny bits of metal were the reason why his touch had felt so hot. Then again, it could just be her fury. Keeping him away from Norma Rose was seriously going to interrupt her good time tonight. She’d noticed how his eyes had rested on her sister during the meal. That alone had made her stomach ache. His gaze hinted he wanted to renew the relationship he’d ended when he’d left town years ago. That would not happen. Not on her watch. She’d just gotten her life back and wasn’t going to lose it again. Most definitely not over some old flame.

He’d stepped up on the other side of Slim, and the two of them started talking about guitar strings and how Slim had restrung his instrument for tonight. For the most part, Twyla ignored them, still trying to get her mind and body in sync after Forrest’s little walk down memory lane. She hadn’t needed the reminder about her grandfather’s wine cellar. Not now. Not tonight. Back then, when they all used to play together, Forrest had been a part of the family—a mixture of the big brother she’d never had and the boy she’d wanted to grow up and marry. That part—the marrying part—had dissolved when it was clear Norma Rose was the sister he wanted. Having him as a brother-in-law would have been the next best thing to a girl in her early teens. Therefore she’d accepted it readily enough and gone on to search for her own knight in shining armor.

Just when that search should have hit its peak, Prohibition was introduced. One would have thought that would have increased her opportunities of meeting fascinating and interesting men, but in her case, it threw up a roadblock faster than if she’d been a bootlegger driving an old jalopy in downtown Minneapolis. That city was as dry as an empty bottle. An odd thing, considering all one had to do was cross a bridge into St. Paul to enter a city as wet as the Mississippi River, which separated it from Minneapolis. Prohibition seemed to have separated the two cities far more than anything else ever had.

Like many others, it hadn’t taken long for her father to capitalize on the new law. His work at Hamm’s Brewery had helped. He knew the ins and outs of the world and those in it, and used all of that to turn Nightingale’s into a highfalutin resort that rivaled others nationwide. Men poured into the place like leaves falling off the trees in October, but rather than being able to rake them in, she and her younger sisters had become little more than prisoners, locked in their gilded cages atop the largest speakeasy in the nation, watching all those men come and go.

Forrest was the reason Norma Rose wasn’t locked away like her, Josie and Ginger. The two of them, Forrest and Norma Rose, had never really dated, it was just known they’d be together. After finishing the private high school he’d attended, Forrest had gone to college, but by then he had a car, so he was home more often than the previous years. He’d spent a good portion of the days he was home at their house. Back then, her family had still lived in the old farmhouse on the other side of the barn located across the resort’s parking lot, and Forrest had always been welcome.

It wasn’t until he’d graduated from college that things had changed. He’d been gone for months and her entire family had been looking forward to seeing him. They’d all gone to his graduation party, even her father, which had been unusual. Galen Reynolds and Roger Nightingale had never seen eye-to-eye. Their relationship became worse after that night. The rest of the sisters had already gone home, leaving Norma Rose behind for Forrest to give a ride home.

It had been a scene she’d never forget. The way Galen had hauled Norma Rose into the house that night, cursing and shouting.

Galen had never liked any of them, but after the flu epidemic had taken many lives, including his five-year-old son, August, he’d really started hating all of the Nightingales. He claimed the girls’ mother had killed August by exposing him to the flu.

Forrest’s mother, Karen, didn’t agree with her husband, but she’d never said that in front of him. No one ever said much in front of him. He was too mean. His evil glares used to put the fear of the devil in all of them.

When Galen had hauled Norma Rose into the house that night, their father had ordered all of the girls upstairs. The walls hadn’t prevented them from hearing Galen calling them gold-digging doxies. Twyla had feared for her father’s life that night and had been thankful after Galen had left and she’d snuck downstairs to find her father unscathed.

The feud really started then. Galen spread rumors about Norma Rose, calling her all sorts of names. Though things calmed down some over the years, the rivalry hadn’t completely stopped until last year, when her father, by then far wealthier than Galen Reynolds ever hoped to be, had seen that the man was run out of town.

The damage had been done to Norma Rose. After that dreadful night, she’d flipped into a tyrant whose goal became proving to the world that none of the Nightingale girls would ever be doxies.

Twyla couldn’t say she wanted to be some man’s doll, but she couldn’t stay locked up any longer. She wanted to live fancy-free. A man wasn’t needed to do that, but they did make things more fun. A woman just had to know how to play with them. To Twyla’s way of thinking, one never knew what was in someone else’s heart. Especially a man’s heart. And that’s where the problem lay. In a person’s heart. That’s what made someone who they were. They could think all they wanted, or say all sorts of things, but their actions showed what was in their heart. Who they really were.

Take Forrest, for instance. He’d supposedly been in love with Norma Rose, but he certainly never showed it. Rather than standing up for Norma Rose against his father’s blasphemy, he’d left town. Without a word he’d just vanished, and hadn’t retuned until last year, after his parents had gone to California. It had been hard to believe. For years Forrest had protected all of them. Not that they’d ever been in real danger, but he’d squashed spiders and shooed away garter snakes.

She snuck a peek his way, where he stood next to Slim.

Rumors, mostly started by those who’d been in cahoots with Galen Reynolds, claimed Galen had gone to California for his health. Others said he’d run away with his latest doxy. Only those close to Twyla’s family knew Roger Nightingale had been behind Galen’s move. She wondered if Forrest knew that, and what he thought about it. From the tidbits she’d heard—because her father didn’t ever let them hear much of anything—the film company Galen bragged about owning in Hollywood was nothing but a front for something much more illicit.

Exactly what, she didn’t know, but considering the mobsters who used to frequent the Plantation, she assumed bootlegging was involved. It was behind most everything that went on anymore. From small towns to big cities, there was rarely a person who wasn’t somehow and in some way involved in making, selling or running booze.

Apart from Forrest. Word was there hadn’t been any booze served at the Plantation since his return.

He hadn’t even bothered to let any of them know when he’d returned home. That would have been enough for her to knock him off the pedestal she’d put him on in her early years if she hadn’t already. It was a good lesson to learn. Never trust a man. Never believe anything could last forever.

“Twyla?”

She spun around. The look on Forrest’s face suggested he’d said her name more than once. Huffing out a breath, half wondering, half knowing why her mind had wandered so far from the present, she asked, “Where’s Slim?”

As soon as the words left her mouth she heard the music, and certainly didn’t appreciate the way Forrest lifted his brows and grinned.

“Lost in thought, were you?”

“More like plotting,” she answered. It had always been like this with Forrest. The two of them never fought or argued; they just tried to outwit the other one. It was a game she’d missed.

He laughed. “If every woman thought they were as smart as you think you are, this world would be one dangerous place.”

Twyla didn’t have time to tell him it was dangerous, that she’d grown smarter during his absence, because her father chose that moment to walk out the door and cross the wide balcony.

“Forrest, I want to have a word with you.” Dressed as he always was, in a maroon three-piece suit, black shirt and shining black-button shoes, Roger Nightingale’s presence was strongly felt. However, as formidable as he might appear to others, her father was the one man Twyla did trust. She knew fully what was in his heart. Not even while being banished to her room as soon as the lights had come on had she ever doubted that her father loved her and her sisters. Sure, he spoiled them, bought them anything they wanted from cars to clothes to cosmetics and all things in between. But none of that assured his love. The way he protected them did. Even when he thought they didn’t know that he was doing it.

Forrest used to be like that, always watching over them. Until... She grabbed his arm. Her father would want to talk to Forrest, find out his plans. As wonderful as her father’s protection was, it was not what she needed right now. Not when Forrest might squeal about the kissing booth and everything else he knew.

“It’ll have to wait, Daddy. Forrest and I are heading for the dance floor. We need to get this party started. George will only turn fifty once, and we want it to be a party he’ll remember,” she said, hooking Forrest’s arm with hers. She tried to tug him toward the door, but his feet were planted firmly and he didn’t even wobble.

Twyla cringed inwardly, and when Forrest’s gaze left her father and landed on her, she knew her eyes were full of pleading. She was virtually begging him to leave. She really, really didn’t want him talking to her father.

Her stomach fell, along with her eyelids when he turned his somewhat regretful gaze back to her father.

A thundering laugh snapped her eyes open. Her father slapped Forrest’s shoulder playfully. “You never could say no to my daughters any more than I could.”

Forrest chuckled, too. “That was true.”

Twyla picked up on the was and Forrest’s tone.

Her father however, laughed again. “That may be the downfall of us both.”

Forrest turned to her again and a glimmer of a smile crossed his lips before he said, “Or it could be a crutch, which—” he turned back to her father “—isn’t always a bad thing. A crutch can allow a man to walk when he otherwise couldn’t.”

Twyla caught a double meaning behind his statement but couldn’t fathom what it was.

“Ain’t that the truth,” her father said. “Go on. You two hit the dance floor. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“All right,” Forrest said. “I do look forward to talking with you.”

“But not as much as you look forward to dancing.” Her father laughed again as he waved a hand toward the door. He’d become more of his jovial self the past couple of days, and the broad smile on his face was a welcome sight.

That was the other thing Twyla didn’t want to see change. Over the past couple of weeks, her father had been overly worried. She assumed Ginger running off to Chicago was a part of it, but believed more of it had to do with the hoodlum Ty had been chasing. She never tried to fool herself into believing that her father’s business wasn’t a dangerous one. Lucrative, but dangerous. Twyla also understood it could all end, too. The money, the parties. Nothing was forever, but there were things she’d fight tooth and nail to not lose.

“Thanks, Daddy,” she said, and meant it. She gave Forrest another hard tug.

He followed this time, and she wasted no time in pulling him through the doorway.

Slim was playing the piano and doing a good job of it. Twyla led Forrest past the few couples already on the dance floor, not stopping until they reached the center. She’d never been nervous around Forrest, yet for the briefest of moments her stomach fluttered and hiccupped as they stood looking at each other. A crazy thought dashed across her mind. What if Norma Rose was still in love with him? Her sister acted as if Ty was the only man she had eyes for, but she’d proclaimed to have loved Forrest at one time. And he was just as handsome as Ty, if not more so.

Keeping Forrest away from Norma Rose would be easier—much easier—than keeping Norma Rose away from Forrest. Dealing with gangsters was easier than dealing with Norma Rose when she set her mind to something.

“Shall we?” Forrest asked, holding out his hands.

Twyla swallowed and cleared her mind. Norma Rose was in love with Ty, not Forrest, but that didn’t mean Forrest couldn’t ruin everything. That’s what she needed to remember. Reaching out, she pressed one hand against one of his and laid her other on his shoulder.

“We shall,” she said. “Lead the way.” Eyeing his brown eyes critically, she added, “Unless you’d prefer I lead.”

His fingers folded over hers as his other hand grasped her waist firmly and tugged her close. “I prefer to lead.”

Catching the breath his touch had momentarily stolen, she followed his side step and backward glide. “Oh? Do you always get what you prefer?”

“Yes, since I took control of my life.”

“By becoming a flyboy?” she asked. It had intrigued her that he flew airplanes. It irritated her, too. Thinking about the adventures he’d had while she’d been locked in her bedroom. Yet she kept her thoughts from going there. He’d gone on to become a flyboy after ruining her sister’s life, which had now been saved, no thanks to him. Norma Rose deserved every ounce of happiness she found with Ty. They all deserved the happiness they were finding, and the adventures. Oh, yes, the adventures. She’d soon have more of those than him. Airplane or not.

“Among other things,” he said, guiding her in a swift twirl beneath their clutched hands. When she ended her spin and faced him, he added, “Life either bests you, or you best it. That’s a lesson you’ve yet to learn, Twyla, my dear.”

“Well, Forrest, my dear,” she said, spinning again. “I’ve already learned that.”

“Have you?” he asked, pulling her close before shuffling her sideways across the floor in a fast two-step.

“Indeed I have.”

He laughed, a sound that tickled her insides. Or perhaps it was the dancing, the gaiety surrounding them, as other dancers sashayed around and across the floor. Then again, it just might be that he thought he was going to win the game of wits they were playing. That was a delusion on his part.

Twyla laughed, too.

Leading her back two steps and then sideways, he said, “Aw, Twyla, indeed you have not.”

There was so much more meaning behind his statement, her feet faltered, and if not for Forrest she would have tripped and fallen all the way to the floor. His hold increased, keeping her upright and dancing.

Peeved by both his hold and his attitude, Twyla planted her heels on the dance floor, bringing them both to a stop. To her dismay, the music stopped at that exact same moment. She chose to consider the timing as luck. She’d been about to tell him the game hadn’t even started yet, this one that he’d challenged her to, and was thankful she hadn’t spoken those words. They’d have carried loudly through the silent room, and she certainly didn’t want anyone else to know about the game they’d always secretly played.

Forrest merely lifted a brow.

She repeated the action, but added a glare. It was time for him to realize she had grown up and taken control of her own life.

And she would win. Even if that just meant keeping him from talking to her father tonight.

The music started again and, more determined than ever, Twyla took the lead this time, initiating footsteps that had Forrest hopping to keep up. She loved having the upper hand, being in control, and Forrest had best learn to move a whole heap faster or he’d be trampled in her wake.

Packed with couples, the dance floor vibrated beneath her feet. She laughed again and kicked her heels higher as she pushed Forrest backward and pulled him forward. He was keeping up, and that kept her moving faster and bolder, stepping so close her body almost touched his before they separated again.

Her temperature rose with each step, and her heart thudded, pumping blood that tingled with excitement to every inch of her body. This was Twyla Nightingale in full bloom. The fact she was kicking up her heels with the best-looking man for miles around increased the thrill of it all.

When the music stopped she was slightly winded, but so was Forrest. Still holding both of her hands, he tugged her toward the edge of the wooden floor, where there was a line of tables.

“Oh, no,” she said, holding her ground by pressing her feet onto the floor. “We aren’t done yet.”

“I have to get out of this suit coat,” he said.

“Not now, Slim’s about to hit the keys again.”

She’d no sooner spoken than notes rang through the air. Dancers cheered, recognizing the ragtime tune that would have people dancing fast and wild, exchanging partners after no more than a couple of twirls.

Forrest hooked her waist and danced her to the edge of the floor, where he released her after a twirl that ended when another man grabbed her waist and danced her back in the other direction. Twisting to keep one eye on Forrest, she watched him toss his suit coat and tie over the back of an empty chair and then grab a woman, dancing deep into the crowd.

Twirling from one man to the next, Twyla tried to find Forrest. He was taller than several others and should be easy to spot, but the constant spinning didn’t give her vision time to focus. The men all looked alike. Without his blue suit coat his white shirt and suspenders blended in with all the others.

As the music briefly paused, signaling it was time to swap partners again, Twyla was spun into another man’s arms. Without noticing who her partner was, she twisted her neck, searching the crowd.

“He’s right behind you.”

Twyla snapped around.

“Forrest is right behind you,” Ty said while shuffling her slightly sideways. “Dancing with Norma Rose.”

Twyla’s stomach fell.

* * *

Forrest willed his hands to rest loosely upon Norma Rose. A part of him wanted to hug her, tell her how deeply sorry he was for what Galen had put her through. Dancing with Twyla had reminded him of all he’d left behind, and how badly things had eaten at him over the years. Especially during those first few months while he’d been incapacitated, healing from the wounds caused by his stepfather.

No one had been safe from Galen.

Forrest had attempted to apologize to Norma Rose a year after he’d left, when he’d been able to walk again, but a car accident had stopped his efforts. Two weeks ago, when Norma Rose called asking to hire Slim for the parties, he’d broached the subject by telling her he’d tried to stop Galen’s allegations, but she’d said his sentiments were a little late. She was wrong. They weren’t just sentiments, and it was never too late. Not for some things.

“This is some shindig,” he said, knowing it wouldn’t be long before Slim stopped the music for everyone to switch partners again. “You outdid yourself.”

She shook her head. “I can’t take any of the credit. This party was all Twyla and Josie.”

“You’re too modest,” he said. “Everyone knows you run Nightingale’s.”

“Things have changed.”

He’d have to be blind not to notice how she twisted to gaze at Ty and the bright smile she flashed at the other man. Forrest didn’t have time to react or comment before the music paused. As graceful as a butterfly, Norma Rose fluttered out of his arms and into Ty’s. The other man swept her onward without missing a beat.

The woman who landed in Forrest’s arms was more like a blue jay—pretty to look at, but loud and ornery.

“I told you to stay away from my sister,” Twyla squawked.

“I’m free to dance with whomever I want,” he said, twirling her in the opposite direction from where Ty spun Norma Rose.

“Not Norma Rose,” Twyla insisted. “She doesn’t want anything to do with you. Hasn’t for years. Don’t you see that?” With a well-aimed glare, she added, “You aren’t welcome here, Forrest.”

He didn’t react to the sting of her words. There was no reason to. He hadn’t expected any of the Nightingales to want anything to do with him. He didn’t blame them, nor did he blame Roger for putting Galen behind bars. Galen did, though, and had sworn vengeance. If what his mother claimed was true, Galen might get his chance, and that was what Forrest was here to stop.

They were near the edge of the floor when the music ended. There would be no more switching partners. The song was over.

Forrest used his close proximity to the tables to grab his jacket and tie. Flipping the suit coat over his shoulder, he gave Twyla a wink. “See you around, doll.”

She looped an arm through his before he’d taken more than two steps. “You’re leaving?”

He had no intention of stopping, but something in her tone stilled his feet. Glancing down, the shimmer in her eyes held a touch of sadness. He felt that, too, deep down where it had settled years ago. Not about to let the emotion show, he grinned. “Are you flipping sides already?”

“Fl-fl—” she stuttered before gathering her tongue. “I’m not flipping anything.”

“You aren’t?”

“No.”

“You just told me I’m not welcome here.”

Her mouth opened and closed a couple of times before she pinched her lips together.

The sight was comical and he laughed.

“Fine,” she said, pulling her arm out of his. “Leave. But you’ll be missing the best party this country has ever known.”

Slim was striking up another tune, so Forrest leaned close to Twyla’s ear and said, “I hate to tell you this, doll, but your ice sculpture is already melting. The fun will be over before you know it.”

With that he marched forward, through the ballroom doors, across the entranceway and out of the double doors that led to the parking lot. He could talk to Roger tomorrow. The man was an integral part of his plan. A plan he was seriously reconsidering. Drawing any of the Nightingales back into his family’s trouble wasn’t right. It was his fight, not theirs. Trouble was, Galen’s pending release wasn’t the thing eating at him. Twyla was. He could only handle small doses of her. She’d already gotten under his skin, too deep for comfort.

He was opening the door of his roadster when his name echoed over the parking lot.

Chapter Three

“What’ll it be, boy?” Roger Nightingale asked with his booming voice while gesturing toward the mass of bottles and crystal highball glasses set upon the credenza in his office.

Forrest didn’t take offense to Roger calling him boy; the man always had, and in a sense it brought back good memories. “I’m fine,” he said, shaking his head while taking a seat in one of the two red velvet chairs facing Roger’s desk. “I’ve learned to limit myself.”

“Limit? You a teetotaler?”

“I guess I am, sir,” he answered respectfully. “By choice. After taking the oath for flying, I learned I need my senses alert at all times.”

“Aw, yes, your piloting,” Roger said, pouring himself a good bump of brandy before walking over to sit down behind his big mahogany desk. The man might look the size of a bear, but he had the stealth of a mountain lion. “Hear tell you’ve got a lot of hours under your belt.”

“That I do,” Forrest said. “Flew airmail from Washington to Pennsylvania for six months and then to New York for another six.”

“I gotta admit those flying contraptions scare the dickens out of me, but they intrigue me, too. How’d you get involved in that?”

Forrest had no doubt Roger already knew. The man spoke to other people who talked with his mother, and she never shied from making his flying part of her conversations. “Mechanical engineering always interested me. After earning my degree I went down to Nebraska, to Lincoln and the air flight school there.” He didn’t mention that had been a year after graduation. It had taken him that long to learn to walk again after both his legs had been mangled. “From there I joined the air service reserve corps. The army didn’t have much use for pilots since the war had ended, but they used us occasionally for things, and then regularly once airmail started.”

“I heard you were one of the pilots that carried mail all the way across the nation,” Roger said, appearing to be genuinely interested.

“I was,” Forrest answered. “The route includes thirteen stops for fuel, mail exchange and aircrew changes. I flew the section from Chicago to Iowa City and back again. The entire trip, from ocean to ocean, took just a little over seventy hours when we first started.”

Roger let out a low whistle.

“Last year we got it down to little more than thirty,” he said. “With night flying.”

“Night flying? How do you fly a plane in the dark?”

“With navigational instruments,” Forrest answered. A familiar longing rose up in him by simply talking about flying. He loved it, and missed it daily. He also knew his flying opportunities would be limited if he couldn’t update his plane. Currently, his controls consisted of an oil pressure gauge and a horizontal indicator, not enough for night flying. “Things change,” he said, not realizing he was responding to his internal reactions. “In February of this year the government passed a new bill. It took the airmail contracts away from the army and opened it up to private aviation companies. Right now anyone can put a bid on flying a route, especially new ones that connect with the transcontinental route between New York and San Francisco.”

“Are you putting in a bid?” Roger asked.

Forrest smiled. Roger had always been able to read between the lines. “I already did. I’ve surveyed and established a route between Minneapolis and Iowa City. It’ll be Minnesota’s first opportunity to have airmail. I won’t know whether or not I’ve got the contract until October, but I’ve already sent in my paperwork along with the fee they required.”

Roger guffawed. “The government, they get money from us in every way possible.” He leaned back then, folding his thick arms across his chest. “What about the Plantation?”

An undeniable ball of disgust rose in Forrest’s stomach. If not for the Plantation, he’d have a new plane, which would guarantee his contract for mail service. Right now, if the government did accept his bid, he wouldn’t be able to fulfill it.

“I’ve heard you made some remarkable changes.”

“I wouldn’t call them remarkable,” Forrest admitted. His goal had been to erase Galen from his mind and life. It still was. “You know Galen never owned the Plantation.”

“I do,” Roger answered. “Your grandfather willed it to you before he died.”

“I wish I’d known him,” Forrest said sincerely.

“He was a good man, but hard, and one hell of a master brewer,” Roger said with a laugh. “Hans was one of the originals in the brewery business. He knew about the artesian wells over in Swede Hollow and said it would be the perfect spot for a brewery, being that close to St. Paul. That’s where they built it, and in no time it was the second-largest brewery in the state. It still is, although right now it’s bottling little more than soft drinks. It’ll make a comeback, though, once Prohibition is recalled. We all know that.”

“That the brewery will make a comeback, or that Prohibition will be recalled?” Forrest asked, interested in the man’s opinion. It was well-known that almost every brewery had caves lining the river or back rooms where plenty of illegal beverages were still being brewed, bottled and sold.

“Both,” Roger said. “Prohibition isn’t working. Not for the government anyway,” he added with a laugh. “For me, it’s been a gold mine, but I only look for it to last a few more years. So do the brewing companies. They’re voicing their objections. They’ve got legislators writing up repeals one after the other.”

Forrest had no desire to get deep into a conversation about Prohibition. It was obvious Roger looked upon the laws governing alcohol as many others did—that they’d been made to be broken. He, on the other hand, held no solid opinion. Though he should, as owner of a nightclub. “How well did you know my grandfather?” he asked, going back to their earlier conversation.

“Very well. Hans Swenson was known and liked by everyone. He got me the job I had at the brewery. He’d already sold out his shares by then, and made a good sum doing so,” Roger added with a wink. “He used that money to build the Plantation, which is where he made his wealth. This entire area was a vacation spot for the rich mill owners in the cities, and they loved the idea of a yacht club. Hans had visitors coming all the way from England. They’d haul their little sailboats on ships into Duluth and then down here by train. It was amazing. Those were the days. They’d sail their boats all day at his place and then come over here to my father’s dance pavilion and dance the nights away.”

Roger sighed as if the memories were turning dark. “A few bad years, and resorts opening up in other places, closer to the cities, made our area wither and dry up like worms left in the sun. Some folks burned their places down. They’d never admit it, but so many insurance claims were made companies stopped insuring resorts in this area. That didn’t stop your grandfather. He built the amusement park to keep folks coming to this area. That’s why the Plantation survived when everywhere else around here dried up. Because it was unique.”

Forrest nodded. He knew a whole lot more than that but couldn’t say any of it. Family secrets were ugly contenders at times and had thrown many a wrench in his plans over the years.

“You could make it that way again,” Roger said. “Hans would like that. He was never impressed with your father.”

“Was anyone ever impressed with Galen?” Forrest asked sarcastically.

“No,” Roger replied swiftly. “No one.”

“What about when he first moved here?” Forrest asked, fishing for information. “I know my mother and your wife were friends—were you and Galen ever friendly?”

“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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