The Runaway Daughter

From stowaway…

After years of playing the local gin joint to pay off his father’s debts, talented musician Brock Ness has landed a radio gig in Chicago. Now he’s on the up-and-up, his next stop is securing the dame of his dreams, Ginger Nightingale…

…to Chicago celebrity!

If Brock is headed for fortune and fame, Ginger won’t be left behind! She may be the youngest of the Nightingale sisters, but she’s old enough to know what she wants. And Brock is right at the top of her wish list!

Daughters of the Roaring Twenties

Their hair is short and their skirts are even shorter!

Lauri Robinson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Author Note

Welcome to the Roaring Twenties! It was a time in America where most every citizen broke the law, and new freedoms were discovered.

People across America have tales to tell about their family being involved in bootlegging during this decade, including me. My father often talked about his grandfather and the hay wagon that was never unloaded, but made regular trips across the frozen river into Canada.

Researching this time period became a family affair. Literally! Dressed in roaring twenties fashions, several of us attended the Bootlegger’s Ball at the Minnesota Historical Society. Family members on vacations sent me pictures of speakeasies and other sites they stumbled upon, and others readily joined me on excursions across Minnesota to learn more about the gangsters who thrived in our state during that time.

The Runaway Daughter is the first of a miniseries. It’s Ginger’s story. She’s the youngest Nightingale sister, and is ready to take on the world from page one. Freedom and fun are what Ginger is after and, in her eyes, both of those include Brock Ness.

Brock, however, has his own goals, and is not impressed to find Ginger hiding beneath the tarp of his truck.

I hope you enjoy their story, and I hope you stay tuned for the other books in the Daughters of the Roaring Twenties miniseries.

Dedication

To Scott at the Ellingson Classic Cars. Thanks so much for pulling aside the yellow ropes and allowing me to get up close and personal with a Model T!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Title Page

Author Note

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

About the Author

Copyright

Chapter One

1925

White Bear Lake, Minnesota

The ladder listed, thudding loudly against her windowsill several feet above. Ginger Nightingale caught her balance and eased her foot back onto the rung while cursing the night for being so quiet. A cat would have a hard time sneaking about.

After what seemed like a full minute—or more—of holding her breath, she continued her downward trek. Brock had already loaded his instruments into the bed of his truck and could be leaving any minute.

Stars filled the sky, showing no sign of rain. That was a relief. Her purple dress was as new as her shoes. So were the white cami knickers under the rayon dress. The long, loose-fitting silk camisole and tap pants, trimmed with red lace, felt delicious against her skin, and had been purchased just for this event. She might be Roger Nightingale’s youngest daughter, but she wasn’t a baby. It was time the world realized she was eighteen. A woman of age.

Once on the ground, Ginger grabbed the bag she’d tossed out the window and dashed around the corner of the building. A hint of guilt caught in her stomach. She should move the ladder, but it was heavy and awkward. One of the resort’s groundkeepers would see to it, just as Reyes had hauled it out of the shed when she’d claimed her window needed to be washed.

Another splattering of remorse went deeper.

Father would be furious come morning. Norma Rose, too. Her other sisters, Josie and Twyla, would be squawking, but only because they weren’t as brave as her.

It was the 1920s. Women could have more freedom than ever, if they took it.

She was going to take it.

A full moon lit the parking lot. Brock Ness’s truck was backed up near the resort’s front door and the tarp covering his instruments was more than she’d hoped for.

Life was about to get a whole lot better.

On her tiptoes so the gravel wouldn’t crunch beneath her heels, Ginger ran to the truck. After working a knot loose on the rope holding down the tarp, she peered underneath and frustration rumbled in her throat. Instruments, packed in their heavy cases, took up most every square inch.

The heat of the June night had sweat beading on the back of her neck by the time she’d pushed things around to make a cubbyhole for herself. Climbing over the sideboards and under the tarp was difficult in her knee-length skirt, and once situated she realized retying the rope was impossible. Ginger was contemplating what to do about that when a door thudded and footsteps echoed.

A musician through and through, even Brock’s whistle was perfectly in tune. He was the best performer she’d ever heard, and she’d heard a lot of them. Her father’s resort hosted a different one almost every night, two or three per night on the weekends.

Quickly, yet cautiously, Ginger tucked the tarp inside the sideboards of the truck bed.

“Brock! Hold up there!”

The sound of her father’s voice made Ginger jolt, and she hit her head on the guitar case. Muffling an expletive with her hand, frustration welled inside her. Someone must have squealed. Josie or Twyla. They, as well as half the town, clearly were in love with Brock, and watched his every move. One of them must have seen her.

“That amount I just offered you,” her father said. “Double it.”

* * *

Searching for another way to say no, Brock Ness opened his truck door before turning around. The original amount Roger Nightingale had offered him to play at the resort for the rest of the summer had been a nice head of lettuce, but it smelled too much like another handout. “I can’t,” Brock said.

The resort owner pulled the lapels of his maroon jacket over his barrel chest. “All right then,” Roger said. “The full amount your father owes me. Play for me this summer, and we’re even.”

“You’ll be paid the full amount by the end of the summer from the money I make on the radio in Chicago,” Brock said, climbing into the truck.

“I won’t make this offer again,” Nightingale said.

Roger wasn’t technically a gangster or a bootlegger. He was a middleman. Getting filthy rich connecting wholesalers with suppliers, and as cutthroat as either of the other two.

“I don’t expect you to,” Brock said, closing the door of the Model T truck his father had bought to deliver milk five years ago. “I said I’d pay off my father’s debt and I will.”

“See that you do.” Roger stepped closer and laid a hand on the side of the truck. “You’ve come a long way since dropping milk on my back porch, but a debt’s a debt.”

No one had to tell Brock that. His family’s debt hung around his neck heavier than a ball and chain. “I appreciate you letting me play here as often as you have.”

“I’m a fair man.”

Fair and rich rarely went hand in hand, yet Brock had struggled to stay on Nightingale’s good side for years. “I also appreciate what you’ve done for my family.”

Roger was silent for a moment, then let out a heavy sigh. “If anyone in Chicago gives you trouble, mention The Night. Every big cheese knows the name. I’ve got what they all want, and they keep me happy because of it.”

Although he had no intention of increasing his debt to Roger, Brock nodded and stepped on the starter pedal. “Goodbye, sir.”

The ox of a man stepped back and Brock shifted the truck into first gear, easing across the parking lot so the narrow tires wouldn’t stir up a cloud of dust. It hadn’t rained in weeks and the clear night sky said it wasn’t about to anytime soon. Good. He’d have to drive all night and day to be in Chicago by tomorrow evening, and couldn’t afford a delay.

He should have left two days ago, but Roger had insisted he play one more night at the resort. The money covered his father’s payment for this month, and the rest would put food on his mother’s table until the radio gig started dishing out. Then he’d be able to send money home every week. That was a godsend. The economy was booming, and had been since the war, everywhere except the Ness household.

Brock dropped his foot on the gas pedal, and shifted through the gears as the truck ambled along the road circling Bald Eagle Lake. Ever since his father had taken a stray bullet while delivering milk down the street from a speakeasy raid, the Ness family had been one penny shy of eating at the soup kitchen.

Doctors cost money, and until Roger Nightingale had stepped in, his father’s care had been minimal at best. Brock told his mother to take what the resort owner offered, and promised he’d pay off the debt.

He would.

No matter what.

Melancholy pressed heavily on his shoulders, but his train of thought shifted as the truck backfired. Nightingale had a garage full of cars. Norma Rose, his oldest daughter, had a brand-new Cadillac Phaeton. Red with a black roof. A real beauty. Jimmy Sonny, who worked over at the Ford plant, said that car cost upward of four thousand dollars. Roger had bought her that car as a birthday present. Her younger sister, Twyla, had got Norma Rose’s old car, a coupe that still put the three-hundred-dollar milk truck to shame. Josie had a car, too, another coupe that had been passed down. The only Nightingale girl without her own ride was Ginger. A good thing, too. Giving that dame a car would be dangerous.

The youngest of Nightingale’s four daughters was the doll of dolls. A real flapper with her short skirts and even shorter hair. She was a canary, too. She could carry a tune and hit the high notes like a bird on a wire. A Jane like no other, that was Ginger Nightingale, and she stirred things inside him worse than a man who’d been slipped a Mickey Finn. He’d seen men draw back on drinks peppered with knockout drops. Half a glass later they were fried to the hat. That was the way Ginger made him feel, and he stayed as far away from her as possible. The past two days had been torture. She’d badgered him nonstop about the letter the radio station had sent him. He’d thought twice about even answering her. Roger Nightingale made it perfectly clear that men—especially men who worked for a living—had better stay miles away from his daughters.

Slowing to make the corner onto the main road, Brock forced his mind back to Jimmy Sonny. The mechanic said Ford was designing a radio to be installed in cars. That was thrilling. Someday people could listen to him playing while they drove.

Right now, though, the only one listening to him was him.

The town of White Bear Lake was quiet, and hopefully St. Paul would be, too. There were four five-gallon cans of gas strapped to the truck. A stray bullet could put a stop to his trip before it even started.

* * *

Less than an hour later, Brock discovered St. Paul wasn’t as quiet as he’d hoped. The traffic block ahead said a late night raid was taking place. Easing the gears down, he rolled to a stop as a copper with a shiny set of wrist-nippers dangling from his belt loop strode toward the driver’s door.

Brock leaned an elbow out of his window. “Evening.”

“What you got under that tarp?” the policeman asked.

“Instruments.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Not at all,” Brock answered.

Chapter Two

The dust building up under the tarp had Ginger pinching her nose, but she almost wet herself when she heard Brock give the policeman permission to look under the tarp. She couldn’t be discovered, not this close to home.

They might as well haul her to the hoosegow. At least she’d get bread and water there. At home, her father would lock her in the room that he’d had his men paint pale pink on her last birthday and throw away the key. Pale pink. Norma Rose got a new Cadillac. Ginger, a pale pink paint job. She didn’t even like pink. Red was her color. Bright red. Like her lipstick and fingernail paint.

To be fair, her father had bought her new furniture along with the paint, but a new bed was no fun when you slept alone. That’s what she was tired of. Being alone. Watching all the dancing and fun through the staircase rail. She wanted to live it all, not watch it.

“Peterson, what are you doing? Keep that traffic moving!”

Ginger willed not so much as an eyelash to flutter. That wasn’t Brock or the other voice she’d heard a moment ago. It was pitch-black under the tarp, but the noise said they’d entered town and they might even be surrounded by coppers.

“Might have us a bootlegger here, Sarge.”

The answer came from the first man Brock had spoken to. Ginger’s very toes quivered. She was right. Coppers. Plenty of them.

“No runner’s gonna drive up to a blockade,” the third man said.

Ginger chewed on her lip so hard her lipstick lost its cherry flavor. Panicking right now wouldn’t cut the mustard. She bit down harder, focusing on the pain instead of her welling fear.

“Don’t you recognize that truck?” the third man asked. “It’s the milkman’s. How’s your father doing?”

“Good,” Brock answered.

That was a lie. Ginger knew Brock’s father hadn’t walked since he’d been shot while delivering milk in St. Paul, near Pig’s Eye Tavern early one morning last year.

“Sorry thing what happened to him.” The third man was still talking. “Real sorry thing. Where you headed?”

“Chicago,” Brock answered.

“You don’t say? What for?”

“Got a chance to perform on the radio. The back’s full of instruments. And gas. Enough to make it most of the way. Go ahead and take a look.”

“No need for that,” the man said. “But you best take the river road. There’s a standoff a few blocks up this way.”

“Thanks,” Brock answered.

“Good luck,” the man answered before shouting, “Peterson, clear a path for him to turn around, and then send the rest of the traffic around that way.”

“Yes, Sarge.”

Ginger grabbed the edge of the sideboard as the truck jerked and jolted before it made a full U-turn. Then a loud whistle made her smack her head against the guitar case again.

“Hey!”

Ginger ducked, afraid she’d been seen right through the tarp.

“What?” Brock answered.

“Your rope’s untied. It’s hanging over the side!” the cop shouted.

Ginger broke out in a sweat. She started praying, too. And begging Brock not to stop.

“Thanks,” he replied. “I’ll retie it after I get through town.”

Relief washed over her so thoroughly that Ginger slumped against the guitar case. However, she didn’t release her breath until long after the truck was rolling down the road again.

Then, gasping, she pulled back the corner of the tarp to let a bit of fresh air in. It was cool and refreshing and she poked her nose into the opening and breathed deeply until the stringent scent of gas forced her to tuck the tarp back in place.

City sounds faded and, elated she’d made it this far, Ginger shifted around to lean against the guitar case. Excitement hummed inside her. Chicago. Upon hearing she’d run away, folks might think she’d gone all the way to California. Hollywood. She’d talked about it often enough. Truth was, it made no difference. Chicago was just as good. Freedom. Dancing. Singing. There’d be no more washing sheets and beating rugs. No more cleaning up the remnants of other people’s parties.

Smiling, she stretched her cramped legs as much as possible and let visions of her future dance in her head. When a yawn pulled at her throat, she let it out and snuggled up against the case.

* * *

Dust choked her, and it took a moment for Ginger to remember she was in the back of Brock’s truck. He was whistling a jazzy tune that had her wanting to tap a toe. She didn’t. He was right next to her, pouring gas into the truck’s fuel tank from the extra cans strapped along the backside of the truck.

She’d never realized just how awful gas smelled and was thankful the cans weren’t under the tarp with her. It wasn’t nearly as dark as it had been. Morning must have broken. Chicago might be only a few hours away. She couldn’t wait. She’d wear her white-and-red polka-dot dress and white silk scarf when Brock went to the radio station. Her white shoes, too. He was sure to let her go with him when—“Ouch!”

Ginger slapped a hand over her mouth. Brock must have decided to retie the rope and it smacked the top of her head in the process. She held her breath, hoping beyond hope he hadn’t heard her.

A moment later, sunlight stung her eyes as the tarp flew back.

Brock’s black-and-white tweed flat cap sat cockeyed on his head. One edge of the little brim was right above one dark eyebrow, while the other sat near the side parting of his slicked-back hair. He always looked dapper in that hat. However, right now, his eyes had the menacing glare of a copper on the beat.

Ginger swallowed the lump in her throat. “Good morning.”

“Good mor—what the—” Brock grabbed her arms and pulled her forward, forcing her to sit upright. “What are you doing here?”

His fingers dug into her upper arms and, for the life of her, Ginger couldn’t quite remember what she was doing. All the girls thought Brock was the bee’s knees. Mitsy Kemper claimed to have necked with him once, said kissing him was the cat’s meow. Ginger had wanted to push Mitsy right out of Twyla’s car when she’d been talking about necking with Brock. She might have done if she’d been in the backseat beside her.

Mitsy was forgotten when Brock yanked her up and over the side of the truck.

“What are you doing here?” he all but shouted.

She’d lost a shoe and batted his hands away as soon as he set her on the ground. After checking to make sure her skirt hadn’t been torn, she snatched her shoe out of the truck and slid it on her foot. “I’m going to Chicago,” she said. “You best be glad you didn’t tear my skirt.”

“A torn skirt is the least of your worries, Ginger,” he said, waggling a finger before her face. He paced down the road a short distance before spinning back around. “Chicago? Oh, no you’re not!”

“Yes, I am,” she said, smoothing her bobbed hair so the ends curled near her chin.

His brown eyes, so dark they looked black, narrowed. “Does your father know about this?”

“Of course not,” she said. “He’d never have let me go.” He never let her do anything. Except work. Keep the resort spick-and-span for all his friends. He wouldn’t let her date, either. Said he’d find a man for each of his daughters when the time was right. One with money. Lots of it. Which is why none of them were married. The time would never be right in his eyes. Besides, she didn’t need a man with money. She had saved almost every dime she’d made working at the resort over the years.

Brock growled and slapped the side of the truck. “Are you trying to get me killed?”

A shiver raced up Ginger’s spine. “No.”

“Your father will have me pinched, or filled with lead.” He marched to the front of the truck. “Damn it, Ginger. Of all the stupid, idiotic things…”

Maybe she hadn’t considered all aspects of her actions.

A rumble had her looking down the road, where a cloud of dust was growing. Grabbing her purse out of the truck, she opened the passenger door. “A truck’s coming.”

Brock cursed aloud, but climbed in the driver’s door and started the engine. They’d barely made it onto the short grass next to the road when a larger truck swerved around them, honking as its speed threw rocks against their windshield.

Ginger released a sigh of relief. “Next time you stop to put gas in,” she said, shooing the dust out of the window with one hand, “I’d suggest pulling all the way off the road.”

“Next time—” Brock stopped midsentence. There wouldn’t be a next time. Roger Nightingale was going to kill him. He’d be shot. Stabbed. Poisoned. It didn’t matter which. He was a dead man. Which would leave his family with no hope. None. Zilch.

“What were you thinking?” he growled at Ginger.

She’d opened her purse and was gliding red lipstick over her bow-shaped lips. Once done, she smacked them together, replaced the lid on the tube and dropped it in her beaded bag. “Right now I’m thinking you should start driving or you’re going to be late getting to Chicago.”

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