The Soldier's Rebel Lover

It wouldn’t be forever.

Just for the next couple of months.

She’d manage.

That was if Scooter didn’t follow through on his threat and put a stop to it all.

That’s what truly couldn’t happen.

There were simply too many lives at stake.

“I’m not worried,” she told her father. Another lie, but he’d been waiting for her response. “Norma Rose hasn’t booked another large party until Labor Day.” Taking a deep breath, Josie added, “Everything will be fine. Just fine.”

“You’ve always been the most sensible and levelheaded one of the bunch,” her father said. “I’ve always appreciated that. Even if I haven’t told you.” He kissed her forehead again. “You’ve never given me the worries your sisters have.”

Once again her smile wobbled.

“Must be that Ladies Aid Society you’re so involved in,” he said.

Josie closed her eyes, fighting harder to keep the smile on her face.

Letting go of her shoulders, her father straightened the maroon suit coat over his black shirt and vest. “I’m going to mingle,” he said. “It’s not every day a man gets to rub elbows with Babe Ruth. You should have some fun, too—visit the dance floor. Looks like your sisters are having the time of their lives.”

Her sisters all had reasons to be having the time of their lives. They’d not only found love, but in a sense they’d also found their freedom. Being one of Roger Nightingale’s daughters wasn’t an easy road. Up until a few years ago, they’d been just one more poor family among many others in the area. That had changed. Wealth changed a lot of things. Once again she told herself to be grateful for that. Luck had been on their side. If not for their father, and his determination, their lives would be very different.

“There’s Babe,” her father said, pointing toward a man as large as he was, and just as boisterous. “You coming?”

Inviting Babe Ruth had been Twyla’s idea, and the stunt had worked. People from all across the state had driven to the resort in hopes of meeting the baseball legend. “In a bit,” she said. “I have a few other things to see to up here.” Gesturing toward the empty ballroom—most of the tables had been moved outside, leaving a mere smattering of them in the adjoining dining room—she added, “Now that the barbecue is over, I want to check on dessert and make sure the chefs are making hors d’oeuvres for later on. The fireworks won’t go off for hours. We wouldn’t want anyone getting hungry. Especially Babe Ruth.”

Prohibition restricted the sale of alcohol, but the resort didn’t sell drinks. It sold tickets that included all the food people could eat. The tickets weren’t cheap, but people paid the price because along with the food came free drinks. Her father chuckled and patted her shoulder. “That’s my girl. Your momma would be as proud of you as I am. Of all of you.”

Josie nodded and watched him walk to the stairs leading to the ground. Reggie, the resort’s long-standing bartender, had set up a portable bar beneath the balcony. Now that she was alone, the noise—that of the people beneath her, the music, the gaiety in general—vibrated against her eardrums. This was by far the largest party the resort had hosted and the entire day had gone without even the tiniest mishap.

She was thankful for that, but would be even more grateful when the day was over.

Josie spun around and walked through the open double doors leading into the resort’s ballroom. Once nothing more than an old dance pavilion her grandfather had built to entertain weekend visitors to the lakes, the room now rivaled ballrooms in California and New York. Leastwise, that was what Norma Rose claimed. Her sister would know. She’d spent hours studying pictures of those places while designing the renovations on this room.

Stopping near one of the few tables left behind, Josie wrapped one hand around the back of a chair to steady herself while adjusting her shoe with the other hand. Blisters were forming on her heels from the hideous shoes she’d been requested to wear.

Her matching dress, identical to the one Twyla had bought to wear today, was just as bad as the shoes. The entire ensemble was an ugly pea-soup green—green was Twyla’s favorite color. Josie much preferred her soft-soled slip-on shoes, dungarees and loose-fitting blouses. They were not only more comfortable, but they also didn’t stand out. In them, a person could easily hide in a crowd.

After adjusting the second shoe, she wiggled her hips to shake the handkerchief hemline of the silk dress back into place. Cut above the knee in the front, but almost touching the floor in the back, the dress was as repugnant as the color. And the matching beaded headdress covering her hair had long ago started to itch. Fashion was not her thing. Thank heavens Twyla had been too busy to put much effort into insisting she pierce Josie’s ears before the wedding.

That was all she’d have needed. Swollen earlobes.