The Forgotten Daughter. Lauri Robinson

Ginger said, tugging on Brock’s arm. “See you on the water.”

      As the other couple started walking away, Josie said, “You don’t need my help.”

      “No, I don’t,” Scooter said, spinning her to face him with a firm hold on her elbow. “But I’m not letting you out of my sight. Remember?”

      “How could I forget?”

      Dac Lester, a tall, thin man with a permanent grin on his face, caught up with them a few steps later. “We heading out to the raft?”

      “Yes,” Scooter answered. “It’ll be easier to get everything set up while there’s still some daylight.”

      “Sounds good to me,” Dac said. “You joining us, Josie?”

      “Yes, she is,” Scooter answered.

      “Good enough,” Dac said, nodding toward the resort. “My cycle’s on the other side of the parking lot. I’ll meet you at the boathouses.”

      As Dac jogged away, Josie told Scooter, “I have a mouth and could have answered him myself.”

      “I know,” Scooter said. “Trust me, I know.”

      Josie pulled her arm out of his hold and ignored the way he laughed.

      He stayed right at her side, no doubt ready to grab her if she attempted to make a run for it. She might have tried it, too, if there was anywhere for her to run. But that was unlikely tonight. It wouldn’t be worth the effort, either. He’d catch her with these stupid shoes on her feet.

      Eventually, they arrived at his motorcycle parked near the garage. Walter, the man in charge of looking after the family cars, stepped out of the garage as they arrived. He merely tipped his hat toward Scooter and reentered the side door. She wondered what Walter did in there all the time. He was nearly always there, unless he was in her father’s office or walking the grounds.

      Scooter lifted his flat leather hat off the seat and set it on his head. “I’ll get it started before you climb on.”

      She’d always been intrigued by his motorcycle, which was bright red with Indian painted in flourished gold lettering on the fuel tank, but still she insisted, “I’m not riding that. It’s dangerous.”

      “And speeding through downtown Duluth isn’t?”

      She glared, but turned as Dac whizzed past them on his motorbike, waving.

      The start of an engine had her turning back to Scooter.

      He had straddled the seat of his bike. “Climb on behind me,” he shouted above the noise. “But don’t let your leg touch that.” He pointed to a long cylinder. “That’s the muffler. It’ll burn you.”