The Bootlegger's Daughter. Lauri Robinson

closely as celebrities and baseball players. To many people, they weren’t outlaws. Some considered them modern-day Robin Hoods. Except, instead of stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, they were getting one over on the government for Prohibition, and people liked that.

      When Forrest’s father, Galen Reynolds, had run the Plantation, proclaimed gangsters had visited the place all the time. Roger Nightingale didn’t believe in such tactics, but the names Ty rattled off weren’t local thugs, they were big-time gangsters from Chicago and New York. They were men who had money, and spent it. People liked that, too.

      “What other names do you recognize?” she asked.

      “Two-shot Malone,” Ty said. “One for the head and one for the heart. Knuckles Page, Roy Ruger, Fast Eddie, Smiling Jack, Point Black Luigi, Sylvester the Sly, Fire Iron Frank, Boyd the Brander.”

      She was memorizing the names as they leaned over the page, head-to-head. Her heart was pounding, too, beating harder with each move of his finger. Some of these people sounded dangerous, and listening to him describe them was, well, exciting.

      “Cold Heart Sam, Evil Ernie, Tony the Tamer, Gunman Gunther—”

      “Where is Ginger?”

      Norma Rose snapped her head up at the sound of her sister’s voice.

      “It’s her day to wash.” Twyla walked into the room, but stopped when her gaze landed on Ty. Her eyes grew wide and a full-blown smile curled her bright red lips. “Hello.” She stepped closer, holding out a hand. “I’m Twyla Nightingale, and you are?”

      “Ty Bradshaw,” he answered, straightening enough to shake Twyla’s hand over the desk.

      Norma Rose wanted to moan. Twyla never ignored the opportunity to meet a man. Any man. They were usually excited to meet her, too, until they learned who her father was.

      Lifting a heavily painted brow at Norma Rose, Twyla indicated her interest in the rather intimate way Ty sat on the corner of the desk.

      “I don’t know where Ginger is,” Norma Rose said coldly. She could attempt to explain who Ty was and what they were doing, but it would be a waste of breath. Her sisters were not interested in the resort, at least not the management of it. “Maybe she isn’t up yet.”

      “Not up yet? She’d better be,” Twyla said. “It’s almost nine.”

      That was surprising. Mainly because it meant the past two hours had flown by. “Did you check her room?” Norma Rose asked.

      “Of course I checked her room,” Twyla said, rolling her eyes at Ty to demonstrate how silly she thought that question was. “She’s not there.”

      “Maybe she’s already cleaning cabins,” Norma Rose suggested. Ginger was far more responsible than Twyla. It would have made more sense if Ginger had been the one standing in her office now. Then again, Ginger wouldn’t look for Twyla, she’d just go about getting her chores done. And unlike Twyla, Ginger wouldn’t wear what Twyla had on to do laundry—a bright pink, rather short dress, with a white silk scarf tied around her neck and white shoes with square heels. The very shoes Norma Rose had been wearing earlier. “I hope you don’t plan on washing sheets in that outfit. You’ll ruin it with a drop of bleach.”