The Rebel Daughter (Daughters Of The Roaring Twenties Book 2)

by Lauri Robinson

  “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, alth
ough 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.”