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!
The Runaway Daughter
Lauri Robinson
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
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.