He’d gotten whiffs of her perfume in the past, but this morning, with his eyes closed, he’d examined the smell fully. Dissected the scent right down to wondering where she’d applied it. Her wrists, behind her earlobes, in the hollow of her neck...
Scooter shot to his feet, thanking Moe and asking Josie if she was ready in one breath. The fresh air would do him good. At least he hoped so. Marriage wasn’t in the scheme of things and keeping her safe was where his focus needed to stay.
They exited the building through the side door, the very one she’d disappeared behind yesterday with Gloria. Norma Rose had asked the other woman to oversee the front desk, with some coaxing from Ty. Scooter and Ty had talked last night about the incidents. The fireball and the boathouse. Roger had been told about both and had appeared surprised. He’d said the fireworks show had been perfect. That he would never have known about the fire if he hadn’t been told.
He was upset, too. That someone had been so close to harming his daughters. On his own property, no less. The conversation had taken place in the hallway upstairs, where Roger had given Scooter permission to sleep in the chairs. He’d assured Scooter that his men were on duty, but considering the number of guests filling the resort, they all agreed that one extra person on guard was a good idea.
Scooter had come within inches of telling Roger all he knew. Common sense, or perhaps his will to live, had held him back. While sitting in that chair last night, he’d mulled over his options, and come up with a plan. Josie wasn’t going to stop going to Duluth until she had to. He was going to see to it that she had to.
“We’ll take my motorcycle,” he said, waving toward the parking lot.
She didn’t say a word, but her grin sparked an inner fuse inside him. One that really hadn’t needed to be lit.
The sun was straight overhead, sending down rays of heat that suggested today could be the hottest of the year so far. It had to be pushing eighty. He was already hot enough to burn toast. Had been ever since he’d heard Josie leave her bedroom. Imagining her soaking in a tub of water had taken over his mind.
“What about the stands you built?” she asked. “We can’t carry them on your motorcycle.”
“We don’t have to,” he said. “Bronco had them hauled up to the barn last night.” The hours after she’d raced upstairs had been busy. Roger had ordered his men to comb the entire resort thoroughly upon hearing what had happened. No specific clues had been unearthed, or anyone identified, but by then a large number of partygoers had already left. Scooter had remained stoic and had stuck to his prankster theory. His gut told him Roger hadn’t bought it, but when the man had remained silent on the subject, Scooter had, too.
They arrived at his motorcycle and after he got the engine running, Josie climbed on behind him like a natural. He shifted into gear and took off for the dock, his skin blistering beneath his clothes everywhere she touched him. Thankfully it was a short ride.
Scooter told Josie to wait on the dock while he pulled the boat out of the boathouse. The resort’s boats were all dinghies, painted white with red trim, which made identifying the one on the water last night impossible. Just as frustrating was that several dinghies had petrol motors, all also identical.
He hopped in as soon as the boat hit the water and Josie caught the bow as it floated up to the dock. Once she was seated, he took up the oars.
Looking behind him at the boathouse, she said, “The doors have already been repaired.”
He nodded. “Bronco saw to that last night, too.”
She hung a hand over the side of the boat, skimming her fingers over the water. “A lot seems to have happened after I went to bed last night.”
Scooter considered not answering, but since she had no way of escaping, other than if she dove in the water and swam to shore, he decided to take advantage of the moment. “So, what made you so mad last night?”
She leveled a dull stare on him.
“I’m serious. One minute...” He bit his tongue. That hadn’t been how he’d meant to start out, reminding himself of things he’d never forget. Because he couldn’t take it back, he waited until his silence had settled before he said, “The next you were mad as a gopher and running for the house.”
Resting both hands next to her hips, palms flat on the bench seat, she let out a sigh. “No one knows who I am, Scooter. No one.”
“In Duluth, you mean.”
She turned, gracing him with a lovely profile as she stared out across the water.
“Plenty of people around here know who you are,” he pointed out. “More than one could have seen you in Duluth any number of times.”
Without turning, she said, “Maybe, but they wouldn’t have recognized me. I’m careful.”
In the hopes of making her understand, he attempted to tell her what she thought was a disguise was far from it. “Wearing pants and a shirt—”
“I wear those under other things.”
“What other things?” he asked. “When I picked you up—”
“I’d already changed,” she interrupted.
“How? When? In jail?”
“No, in my car.” The frustration in her voice said she didn’t want to tell him, but would in order to justify her actions. “I have several dresses. Old-fashioned ones I’m able to slip on and off quickly. Scarves with gray hair sewn in them, and a purse that everything fits into.” Lifting her chin, she said, “I’ve walked past you and you never recognized me. I’ve had tea at your mother’s table, with you in the kitchen.”
His mother had women from the Ladies Aid Society over all the time. He never gave any of them a second look. Minus six or seven of them, they were all pushing eighty. Yet he knew them all, by name and look. The tingle that inched over his shoulders made him stare at her more intently. A second later he saw beyond the Josie he’d always thought he’d known. Disbelief had him blinking his eyes and shaking his head. It couldn’t be, yet he asked, “Mrs. Weatherby?”
She shrugged.
As preposterous as it seemed, his mind was finding similarities. “You’re Anita Weatherby?” He shook his head again. The glasses and stringy gray hair he could understand, but... “No one could make their face look that old. That wrinkled.”
“I draw wrinkles on with a pencil.”
“A pencil?”
“Yes and then cover them with rice powder.”
He’d never closely scrutinized any of the women that graced his mother’s kitchen, but he would in the future. Scanning Josie’s face, he couldn’t imagine she was Anita Weatherby, but add glasses, ugly gray hair and a colorful scarf and... “Wrinkles can’t be drawn on,” he insisted.
Josie’s believe-me-or-not shrug twisted his thoughts. She’d almost had him—for a minute. He pulled in the oars to let the boat float up against the anchored raft. “Furthermore,” he said smugly, “Anita Weatherby has lived on the far side of the lake, over by Hog Back Ridge with her sister, Colene Arneson, for years. Ever since their husbands died, prior to the war.”
She stood up and looped the tie down around the post before turning his way. “Until three years ago when she moved to Missouri to live with her daughter.”
“Exactly,” he said. “And she didn’t like it and moved ba—” His voice trailed off as Josie’s grin increased.
“Moved back,” Josie said with a twinkle in her eyes, “in with her sister Colene, who is ten years younger than Anita and very active in the Ladies Aid Society. As a matter of fact, Colene is one of the founding members.”
“The real Anita Weatherby is still in Missouri, isn’t she?” Scooter’s mind was putting more than one piece of the puzzle together. “And there’s an old road that leads from the resort to the back of the lake.”
“To Hog Back Ridge,” Josie said, climbing onto the platform. “However,” she added, “Anita is ailing and rarely leaves the house these days.”
“She doesn’t have to,” he said, climbing onto the platform beside her. “Gloria makes regular house calls to check
on her health.”
As if their conversation was as trivial as discussing the weather, Josie turned her attention to the charred bits of wood that yesterday had been barrels and crates full of fireworks.
“So, what are we going to do with this stuff?” she asked.
Scooter reached down and grabbed the bucket out of the boat. It was the same one he’d used to douse the flames last night. “We put the big pieces in here, and kick the ashes into the water,” he said. However, his mind hadn’t shifted far off topic. “It’s not as ironclad as you think it is.”
She’d already started picking up chunks of blackened wood. “What’s not?”
Her back was to him, and she didn’t turn around. “Your little scheme. When your father discovers—”
That had her spinning about. “You can’t tell him, Scooter. You can’t.”
He told himself to ignore the pleading in her eyes, and her tone. It didn’t do much good. In fact, it only made him think about last night. Holding her. Kissing her. That had been an idiotic thing to do—acting on the desires he’d had for years. It could only make things worse, and that he didn’t need.
“It has to stop, Josie.”
She tossed a chunk of wood into the bucket with enough force that the pail tipped over. They both bent down to retrieve it. The faint lemon scent that filled his nostrils added a degree or two to the temperature of his blood. He wouldn’t give in to his desires again. Would not.
“I know I have to stop lying to my father, Scooter, but not until—”
He grasped her shoulder. “Until when, Josie? When you’re taken by one of those ships? Sold overseas to some man’s harem? That’s what happens, you know. The girls who refuse to work at the docks are shipped out, never seen again.”
“That doesn’t happen anymore,” she said. “There are too many border patrol officers checking for whiskey.”
Bile rose in his throat. Maize had never said a word about what had happened to her. Refused to talk about it to this day. Scooter, however, had an imagination, and didn’t like the things that formed in his mind when he thought of his sister’s imprisonment. Even as short as it had been, she’d been hurt. Not in ways anyone could see, but inside, where she still kept it hidden. “Just because they aren’t being shipped out doesn’t mean they aren’t being hurt. Doesn’t mean they aren’t being forced—”
“I know,” Josie said, sinking down onto her knees. “Which is why I can’t stop. Please, Scooter, don’t try to make me. I have to finish what I started. I have to.”
There were no tears in her eyes, but he could hear the sorrow in her voice and that made his throat turn raw. He kneeled down and this time took her by the arms gently. “You could get hurt or worse.”
“Not if I’m careful. And I am.” She shook her head. “But there are others, and they are being hurt.”
“Others?” In his mind, he’d put all the blame on Galen Reynolds. It wasn’t until he’d learned about Josie’s trips to Duluth that he’d considered the other women who hadn’t been as lucky as Maize. Not until Josie’s call from jail, after talking with that truck driver, had he started contemplating that perhaps the men Galen might have been in cahoots with were still in Duluth.
She nodded. “And they need my help. I can’t stop now.”
He’d already concluded he’d do whatever it took to make her stop. If that meant helping her complete what she’d started—whatever that might be—then that’s what he’d do. “I won’t tell your father, Josie, but only if you let me help.”
She glanced up at him. With her eyes full of caution, and perhaps a hint of regret, she shook her head.
“It’s your choice,” he said. “You either tell me everything that’s going on, or I tell your father.”
Her eyelids fluttered shut. The single tear that slipped out struck him harder than if she’d been sobbing. So did her sigh.
“You can’t help, Scooter,” she whispered. “No one can. Gloria would be furious to know I’ve told you as much as I have.”
He caught her beneath her chin, keeping her gaze locked with his. “I don’t give a damn about Gloria. She never should have dragged you into this. But I do care about you, Josie. No one will know that I’m helping you. I promise.”
The want in her eyes could have blinded him and the desire to kiss her right then had him pulling up fortitude he didn’t know he had. Keeping his lips from going where they wanted to go, from doing what they wanted to do, he repeated, “Just you and me. I promise.”
Putting a touch of finality to his words, he let her loose and tossed a couple of chunks of wood into the pail as he stood. His mother had told him to let what had happened rest years ago, and stupidly, he had, mainly because Roger had started waging vengeance against Galen, and everyone had known who’d win that war.
“Scooter—”
He continued tossing burned wood in the bucket. She needed some time to weigh the consequences of the options laid out before her. “Let’s get this cleaned up so I can pull up the anchors.”
Josie didn’t say anything, just started picking up the large pieces of wood, and in no time they had the area cleared of anything except ashes, which he kicked through the cracks between the wooden planks. With or without her information, he’d be investigating what was happening in Duluth.
“I’ll put this in the boat and then get the anchors,” he said, lifting up the bucket.
“How many anchors are there?”
“Two,” he answered. “I wanted the platform to be as steady as possible.”
“Are they tied to these ropes?” she asked, leaning over the left side of the raft, where he’d threaded anchor ropes through the large holes he’d drilled in the side boards.
“Yes, but they’re heavy. I’ll get them.”
She shot him a glare. He chose to ignore it. After setting the pail in the boat, he went to the side of the raft opposite her, to pull up that anchor first. Made from a large chunk of old scrap iron he’d had lying around, the anchor was heavy and it took a hefty tug to break it loose from the sandy lake bed.
Hand over hand, he pulled up the rope until he was able to grasp the iron and set it on the platform. No longer held down, the barrel under the raft on that side rose in the water, making the raft rock.
A yelp had him turning around.
Backside in the air, Josie was hanging over the edge, pulling on the other anchor rope.
“I told you I’d get it,” he said, rushing to her side of the raft. The fast shift of weight rocked the structure more. He tried to grab her, but wasn’t fast enough. Her squeal ended with a splash.
Chapter Eight
Head first, Scooter jumped in, searching the spot where Josie had submerged. Her hands could be twisted in the rope, pulling her downward. Although the water was clear he couldn’t see her, so he surfaced in order to dive lower.
“You fell in, too?”
He spun around. Josie held on to the raft with one hand, water dripping from her hair and eyelashes.
Her eyes widened and then she dove sideways. He watched as she retrieved his hat before it sank. Her movements were agile, her form sleek, confirming what he’d already known. Just like him, she’d been swimming in this lake her entire life.
A moment later, she plopped his hat on his head. He waited for the cascade of water to subside before reaching out and grabbing her waist. The desire to pull her close assaulted him again, along with the idea of kissing her. He was dead set against either of those things happening again, and hoisted her upright and then set her on the platform. Releasing her as soon as she was settled, he placed his hands on the wood beside her.
“No, I didn’t fall in,” he said. “I jumped. I didn’t know if the anchor rope was wrapped around your hands.”
She scooted backward and then stood, moving to the far side of the raft so it wouldn’t topple over when he crawled out of the water. “Of course it wasn’t wrapped around my hands. I know better than that.”
The sun w
as shining down on her like a spotlight, allowing him to see right through her white top and the thin undershirt she had on beneath it. Regardless of the fact he was in water up to his armpits, fire shot through his veins. The way she had her hands on her hips emphasized the wet material over her breasts. His eyes refused to look away, so he closed them, but it did little more than burn the vision into his brain.
Hoisting himself onto the raft, he spun around to face the lake, and took his time dumping the water out of his boots as an excuse not to glance her way again.
“You don’t need to keep trying to save me, Scooter. I’m completely capable of taking care of myself.”
There were a dozen ways he could respond to that, but he chose silence. It was his best option. After removing his socks, he tucked them inside his boots, which he then tossed into the boat. Then he grabbed the anchor rope.
“So now you aren’t talking to me?”
He shook his head and kept pulling on the rope.
“Ducky, Scooter, just ducky.”
A grin tugged at his lips. She was too cute for her own good. “Maybe I just don’t have anything to say,” he said.
“That would be a first.”
He grabbed the second anchor, made from another chunk of scrap iron, and set it on the platform. Set free, the raft, and the boat tied to it, started to drift. He should climb into the boat and tow the raft to shore and then head home. Get as far away from her as possible. That would be the smart thing to do. As much as he knew it couldn’t happen again, he wanted to feel Josie in his arms again. Kiss her again.
“We’re all sworn to secrecy.”
Scooter turned around. She’d sat down, and he refrained from mentioning how black her wet britches would be from sitting in the layer of ash covering the wood. Her shoes were sitting beside her and her bare feet, her toes, were as cute as the rest of her. He bit the inside of his cheeks, trying to dissolve yet another bout of desire. His willpower wasn’t easily found, so he dug deeper. She was Roger Nightingale’s daughter, and Roger didn’t like anyone sniffing around his daughters.
The Forgotten Daughter Page 11
