The Rebel Daughter

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?”