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Her sisters would never understand that, and she’d never admitted it, not to anyone. Just like she wouldn’t admit she couldn’t fill in for her sisters and keep helping the Ladies Aid Society.
It wouldn’t be forever.
Just for the next couple of months.
She’d manage.
That was if Scooter didn’t follow through on his threat and put a stop to it all.
That’s what truly couldn’t happen.
There were simply too many lives at stake.
“I’m not worried,” she told her father. Another lie, but he’d been waiting for her response. “Norma Rose hasn’t booked another large party until Labor Day.” Taking a deep breath, Josie added, “Everything will be fine. Just fine.”
“You’ve always been the most sensible and levelheaded one of the bunch,” her father said. “I’ve always appreciated that. Even if I haven’t told you.” He kissed her forehead again. “You’ve never given me the worries your sisters have.”
Once again her smile wobbled.
“Must be that Ladies Aid Society you’re so involved in,” he said.
Josie closed her eyes, fighting harder to keep the smile on her face.
Letting go of her shoulders, her father straightened the maroon suit coat over his black shirt and vest. “I’m going to mingle,” he said. “It’s not every day a man gets to rub elbows with Babe Ruth. You should have some fun, too—visit the dance floor. Looks like your sisters are having the time of their lives.”
Her sisters all had reasons to be having the time of their lives. They’d not only found love, but in a sense they’d also found their freedom. Being one of Roger Nightingale’s daughters wasn’t an easy road. Up until a few years ago, they’d been just one more poor family among many others in the area. That had changed. Wealth changed a lot of things. Once again she told herself to be grateful for that. Luck had been on their side. If not for their father, and his determination, their lives would be very different.
“There’s Babe,” her father said, pointing toward a man as large as he was, and just as boisterous. “You coming?”
Inviting Babe Ruth had been Twyla’s idea, and the stunt had worked. People from all across the state had driven to the resort in hopes of meeting the baseball legend. “In a bit,” she said. “I have a few other things to see to up here.” Gesturing toward the empty ballroom—most of the tables had been moved outside, leaving a mere smattering of them in the adjoining dining room—she added, “Now that the barbecue is over, I want to check on dessert and make sure the chefs are making hors d’oeuvres for later on. The fireworks won’t go off for hours. We wouldn’t want anyone getting hungry. Especially Babe Ruth.”
Prohibition restricted the sale of alcohol, but the resort didn’t sell drinks. It sold tickets that included all the food people could eat. The tickets weren’t cheap, but people paid the price because along with the food came free drinks. Her father chuckled and patted her shoulder. “That’s my girl. Your momma would be as proud of you as I am. Of all of you.”
Josie nodded and watched him walk to the stairs leading to the ground. Reggie, the resort’s long-standing bartender, had set up a portable bar beneath the balcony. Now that she was alone, the noise—that of the people beneath her, the music, the gaiety in general—vibrated against her eardrums. This was by far the largest party the resort had hosted and the entire day had gone without even the tiniest mishap.
She was thankful for that, but would be even more grateful when the day was over.
Josie spun around and walked through the open double doors leading into the resort’s ballroom. Once nothing more than an old dance pavilion her grandfather had built to entertain weekend visitors to the lakes, the room now rivaled ballrooms in California and New York. Leastwise, that was what Norma Rose claimed. Her sister would know. She’d spent hours studying pictures of those places while designing the renovations on this room.
Stopping near one of the few tables left behind, Josie wrapped one hand around the back of a chair to steady herself while adjusting her shoe with the other hand. Blisters were forming on her heels from the hideous shoes she’d been requested to wear.
Her matching dress, identical to the one Twyla had bought to wear today, was just as bad as the shoes. The entire ensemble was an ugly pea-soup green—green was Twyla’s favorite color. Josie much preferred her soft-soled slip-on shoes, dungarees and loose-fitting blouses. They were not only more comfortable, but they also didn’t stand out. In them, a person could easily hide in a crowd.
After adjusting the second shoe, she wiggled her hips to shake the handkerchief hemline of the silk dress back into place. Cut above the knee in the front, but almost touching the floor in the back, the dress was as repugnant as the color. And the matching beaded headdress covering her hair had long ago started to itch. Fashion was not her thing. Thank heavens Twyla had been too busy to put much effort into insisting she pierce Josie’s ears before the wedding.
That was all she’d have needed. Swollen earlobes.
Then again, they probably would have taken her mind off her aching feet. In all honesty, she should be glad it was only her feet aching. Modesty had never been Twyla’s biggest trait. A lavish wedding would have been more her sister’s style. It was rather amazing that other than the green dresses, the actual wedding had been a simple affair. Granted, it had happened in the middle of the largest Fourth of July party the state had ever known. That made up for the simplicity of the wedding in Twyla’s eyes, no doubt.
Norma Rose’s wedding wouldn’t be simple. She’d been planning it for weeks. That, too, was a bit surprising—how easily Norma Rose had accepted Twyla getting married before her. If Josie had been more herself, she’d have questioned all of those things. Both of her sisters insisted she’d understand some day—how the most important thing truly is who you’re marrying, not where or when it’s taking place, or even what you’re wearing.
Hearing either Twyla or Norma Rose say that was as out of the ordinary as roses blooming in winter. Never one to voice her opinion when it wasn’t necessary, Josie had held her tongue. It wasn’t as if she had plans of marrying anytime soon. If ever.
“I mean it this time, Josie.”
The voice startled her so deeply that if not for the chair still nearby, she’d have toppled over. With both hands gripping the back of the chair, she took a stabilizing breath before lifting her gaze.
One foot braced on the lower brass rail, arms crossed and leaning against the bar a few feet away, Scooter Wilson stared her down like a John would a whiskey runner. Scooter was about as formidable as a copper, too. Over six feet tall and as beefy as any of her father’s men, Scooter’s size alone made people think twice before questioning him. That was just one of the things she’d admired about him. Or used to admire when they’d been kids. His attitude of late had her questioning if they’d ever been friends.
The other thing she used to admire had been his looks. His slicked-back black hair, parted on the side and combed behind his ears, made women of all ages stop at his gas station just to get a close look. Some didn’t even need gas in their tanks or air in their tires.
“I mean it,” he repeated.
Looks were as deceiving as friendships. They both faded over time.
“I heard you the first time, Scooter,” she replied. “And earlier today, and yesterday, and last week, and—”
“And I’m tired of saying it.”
Josie refrained from saying she, too, was tired of hearing it. This was Scooter. He didn’t care what she wanted. There wasn’t much he cared about. Other than his gas station and flirting with the girls who visited it.
If those girls could see him right now, in his black suit, with a white shirt and shiny black boots, they’d be pulling in to his station two at a time. Then again, they probably had already seen him. Everyone for miles around was here today.
“Why aren’t you dancing?” she asked.
He didn’t so much as blink an eye. “Don’t change the subject, Josie.”
“That would be a little difficult,” she snapped. “Considering the way you’ve hounded me.”
Scooter didn’t just step forward, he lunged, and took her arm in a tight hold. “Enough is enough, Josie.” The sound of giggles on the balcony made him lower his voice. “You need to be glad you only got arrested for speeding in Duluth.”
Enough was enough all right, and she’d had more of Scooter than she could handle. “I got arrested for speeding on purpose.”
The instant the words left her mouth, Josie repented.
Scooter’s sapphire-blue eyes narrowed and his lips tightened. “You got arrested on purpose?”
She wasn’t intimidated easily, but Scooter had a way about him that unsettled all sorts of things inside her. Lying to him would be useless. “Yes,” she hissed.
He cursed under his breath and released her arm when a man and woman, whispering and giggling, entered the ballroom. Josie kept her gaze averted as the couple made their way to the sweeping staircase leading to the second and third floors above.
She knew exactly when they were far enough away not to hear. Not only had their giggles faded, Scooter had grabbed her arm again.
“What about her?” he asked. “Are you going to save her, too?”
Josie pinched her lips together. Answering wasn’t worth her breath.
“You know what they’re going up there to do,” he said.
Normally not embarrassed by talk of sex, it had become a common subject in her life—her underground life—Josie chided herself for the sting in her cheeks. “Of course I know.”
“And you’re fine with that?”
Once again Josie told herself not to answer. Not to respond to his nit-picking.
“You’re a hypocrite, Josie Nightingale,” he said. “Right under your own roof, you live with and condone the very thing you get on your soapbox to preach against.”
The air in her lungs turned fiery as her spine stiffened. Josie wrenched her arm from his hold. “I do no such thing.”
“Like hell you don’t,” Scooter retorted, planting his face so close to hers the tips of their noses almost touched. “Nightingale’s is known for the women on the third floor.”
“It is not,” she argued. “Most people don’t even know about it.” Justifying the activities at the resort was not something she’d ever had to do before, but she’d justify the very air she breathed to get Scooter off her back. “Those women choose to rent rooms during large events, just like everybody else. Nightingale’s has nothing to do with it, nor does it take a share of their profits. And,” she added, emphasizing the point Gloria Kasper took pride in, “Dr. Kasper checks every girl who enters, making sure they’re healthy and not here against their will.”
“Securing your investments.”
Scooter’s words were lined with loathing. The twisting in Josie’s stomach intensified, gnawing on her backbone. “Fine,” she snapped. “Believe what you want. It makes no difference to me.”
“Well, it makes a difference to me,” he growled. “I’m sick and tired of waiting to hear if you’ve come up missing or not. I told my mother—”
“You what?” Josie bit her lips together and glanced around to make sure the ballroom was still empty.
“I told my mother to tell Gloria you’re done.”
Relief that no one had heard her shout disappeared. Josie grabbed the lapels of Scooter’s suit jacket. “It’s not for you or anyone else to say when I’m done. And,” she added with all the fury spiraling toward the top of her head like a champagne cork let loose, “you need to remember where Maize might be if not for Gloria.”
Her stomach sank before the words had completely left her mouth.
* * *
Eric Wilson, otherwise known as Scooter because of the motorcycles he’d coveted since seeing his first one around the same time he’d learned to walk, hadn’t been this angry since he didn’t know when. Josie Nightingale knew how to get him fired up, and she’d had him running on all cylinders for the past two weeks. Before then, too, but not to this degree. Passing out condoms to prostitutes was one thing, but her recent activity—attempting to steal girls away from their pimps—was far more dangerous than her pretty little brain could fathom.
“I know exactly where Maize would be,” he replied. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to prevent.” Grabbing her shoulders, he gave them a quick shake. “To stop you from ending up where my sister did.”
“I’m not going to end up anywhere,” she retorted.
Scooter wanted to shake her harder, maybe rattle some sense into her, but he knew that wasn’t going to happen. Josie thought herself untouchable. Not just because she was one of The Night’s daughters, but because her ruse had worked too well for too long. He knew exactly when it had all started—three years ago, when his sister Maize had been found missing after taking a job at the Plantation nightclub. Galen Reynolds had owned it back then—and he was a crook like no other. The man had been selling women, and like most everything else of the criminal nature Galen embarked in, he’d gotten away with it.
Scooter knew all about Gloria Kasper, too. She was now the resident physician at Nightingale’s but back then, when Maize had gone missing, Gloria still lived in town, in the house she and her husband had lived in for years. Long ago, when Gloria had been a young bride, she’d discovered her husband was doing more than tending to certain patients while on house visits and had put a stop to it. However, she’d been a bit too late. Her husband had already been infected. Gloria took it upon herself to find a cure, or at least a way to stop the disease he’d caught from spreading. She’d jumped on the condom bandwagon faster than the army. A few years later, after her husband died, she had become a doctor.
She’d also become a vigilante. Gloria understood prostitution was the oldest profession known to man, and knew no amount of protesting or rallying would put a stop to it, so she set out to make it as safe as possible for those involved. Men and women.
Astute, but also very secretive, Gloria had known about Galen Reynolds’s trafficking. She’d also been the first person Scooter’s mother had contacted when Maize hadn’t come home one night. Which was also why—though it had never been proven—her home had been burned to the ground after Maize had been rescued. Another reason Scooter was dead set on stopping Josie. Galen Reynolds may be in prison for counterfeiting, but Josie was getting herself involved with other people, men and women, some far worse than Galen.
He wanted to tell Roger everything he knew and put an end to Josie’s shenanigans, but that could backfire. Just like his plan had backfired years ago when his sister had gone missing. He’d gone to the Plantation that night, to find out what Galen had done to Maize. If Brock Ness hadn’t been delivering milk the next morning, Scooter had no doubt he’d have died in the ditch he’d been pitched into.
Brock had hauled him home and, to Scooter’s shock, when he’d awakened, his sister was home. No amount of questioning had gotten him a straight answer from either his mother or sister, but he cobbled enough bits and pieces together to know Gloria had been behind Maize’s rescue. Since Josie’s arrest, he’d discovered she was Gloria’s right-hand gal, and that her father knew nothing about it.
The Night had a reputation that far preceded him, and would be furious to learn what his daughter was up to, but that wasn’t what scared Scooter. It was what Roger would do that frightened him. Roger would go after the top dog, barrel in to put a stop to it, much like Scooter had done when he’d gone to see Galen Reynolds. That had taught him a valuable lesson. Top dogs were always protected. Roger Nightingale was no fool. Scooter understood that, and the man had a fair amount of protection circling him and his family, but Roger’s night watchmen wouldn’t be enough in this case. People—namely Josie—would get hurt.
Scooter had thought long and hard about this. He had no choice; it kept him up at night. The girls on the third floor of the resort proved Roger didn’t believe prostitution rings were dangerous. Scooter, however, knew the opposite. He hadn’t been able to rescue Maize, hadn’t been able to protect her from what had happened, but he wasn’t about to let history repeat itself.
Some of Josie’s anger had receded, as had his. Scooter let go of her shoulders. In truth, his fury should have increased. She had no idea of the danger she was playing with, how close she may be to having her life snuffed out.
“Dang it, Josie,” he growled. “This has to stop.”
“I don’t have a choice, Scooter,” she said, rather despondently.
“Yes, you do,” he insisted.
The shimmering green beads covering her blond hair flapped near her shoulders as she shook her head. “No, I don’t. I’m the only one who can get in and out unseen.”
Frustration filled his stomach. “You aren’t getting in and out unseen, Josie. Pants don’t make you invisible.” He stopped shy of stating she looked even more fetching in her britches and shirts than she did in the green dress she wore right now—although the color wasn’t very flattering. Normally he didn’t notice such things, but Josie usually, when she did wear a dress, chose one of simple colors. White, blue, yellow. The one she had right now was a pond-scum green. Twyla had probably picked it out for her wedding, as she and Norma Rose had on identical dresses.
“I have to go,” Josie said. “There are things I need to see to in the kitchen.”
He didn’t doubt that. The party had just gotten started and would continue for hours. Both Twyla and Norma Rose were otherwise occupied, which would leave most of the work to Josie. When she’d started taking on a bigger role at the resort a month or so ago he’d hoped that would curtail her other activities. It hadn’t. Her phone call from the Duluth jail had dropped his heart clear to his knees two weeks ago.
Scooter took hold of her elbow as she started to walk away. “Why’d you say you got arrested for speeding on purpose?”
The shock in the depths of her sky-blue eyes said she’d hoped he’d forgotten that tidbit of information.
She sighed heavily, but just as she was about to say something, they were interrupted.
Chapter Two (#ulink_25297c11-e995-5a69-9e6d-7c9347a42596)
“Isn’t this party swell?” Twyla asked excitedly as she and Forrest crossed the room.
“Just swell,” Josie muttered under her breath. Remembering—as if she’d been able to forget—Scooter stood beside her, she pulled up a brilliant smile. “Yes, it is,” she told her sister. “One people will long remember. Who could ever forget Babe Ruth?”
“He’s so funny,” Twyla said, using Forrest’s shoulder the same way Josie had used the chair to hold her balance as she fiddled with one and then the other shoe. “He told me every woman should love baseball for the pure fact it’s played on diamonds.”
Josie merely grinned. Babe had been saying that to women all day. She almost found an ounce of comfort knowing the shoes were hurting her sister’s feet as badly as they were hers, but didn’t. It was Twyla’s wedding day, and nothing, not even tight shoes, should dampen her enjoyment.
“I was on my way to the kitchen,” Josie told Twyla, glad for the opportunity to escape Scooter. “Want to come with me? We can get something for our heels.”
Twyla laughed as she graced her new husband with a somewhat sheepish grin. “That’s exactly what I came inside for.”
“I told her she should have bought a larger size,” Forrest said teasingly.
“It’s not the size,” Twyla insisted. “It’s the style. These were the only ones that were the same color as our dresses.”
“Lucky shoes,” Scooter drawled.
Josie twisted her neck to hide the laugh that caught in the back of her throat, but Scooter caught it. His grin, as well as the glint in his eyes, said he thought the dresses were as ugly as she did. That made her want to smile, but she wasn’t about to let him think they shared the same thoughts on anything—not one tiny iota. Josie reached over and grabbed Twyla’s free hand. “Come on. Moe has bandages in the kitchen.”
Dramatic as Twyla always was, her sister held on to Forrest’s hand as she started walking, stretching her arm out as if Josie was pulling her away from her new husband. When she finally let go of Forrest’s hand, Twyla said, “Don’t let him out of your sight, Scooter. I don’t want to have to go looking for him.”
Josie’s ability to keep her thoughts to herself momentarily disappeared. “Good heavens,” she whispered. “You’ll only be gone a minute.”
