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.
Then again, they probably would have taken her mind off her aching feet. In all honesty, she should be glad it was only her feet aching. Modesty had never been Twyla’s biggest trait. A lavish wedding would have been more her sister’s style. It was rather amazing that other than the green dresses, the actual wedding had been a simple affair. Granted, it had happened in the middle of the largest Fourth of July party the state had ever known. That made up for the simplicity of the wedding in Twyla’s eyes, no doubt.
Norma Rose’s wedding wouldn’t be simple. She’d been planning it for weeks. That, too, was a bit surprising—how easily Norma Rose had accepted Twyla getting married before her. If Josie had been more herself, she’d have questioned all of those things. Both of her sisters insisted she’d understand some day—how the most important thing truly is who you’re marrying, not where or when it’s taking place, or even what you’re wearing.
Hearing either Twyla or Norma Rose say that was as out of the ordinary as roses blooming in winter. Never one to voice her opinion when it wasn’t necessary, Josie had held her tongue. It wasn’t as if she had plans of marrying anytime soon. If ever.
“I mean it this time, Josie.”
The voice startled her so deeply that if not for the chair still nearby, she’d have toppled over. With both hands gripping the back of the chair, she took a stabilizing breath before lifting her gaze.
One foot braced on the lower brass rail, arms crossed and leaning against the bar a few feet away, Scooter Wilson stared her down like a John would a whiskey runner. Scooter was about as formidable as a copper, too. Over six feet tall and as beefy as any of her father’s men, Scooter’s size alone made people think twice before questioning him. That was just one of the things she’d admired about him. Or used to admire when they’d been kids. His attitude of late had her questioning if they’d ever been friends.
The other thing she used to admire had been his looks. His slicked-back black hair, parted on the side and combed behind his ears, made women of all ages stop at his gas station just to get a close look. Some didn’t even need gas in their tanks or air in their tires.
“I mean it,” he repeated.
Looks were as deceiving as friendships. They both faded over time.
“I heard you the first time, Scooter,” she replied. “And earlier today, and yesterday, and last week, and—”
“And I’m tired of saying it.”
Josie refrained from saying she, too, was tired of hearing it. This was Scooter. He didn’t care what she wanted. There wasn’t much he cared about. Other than his gas station and flirting with the girls who visited it.
If those girls could see him right now, in his black suit, with a white shirt and shiny black boots, they’d be pulling in to his station two at a time. Then again, they probably had already seen him. Everyone for miles around was here today.
“Why aren’t you dancing?” she asked.
He didn’t so much as blink an eye. “Don’t change the subject, Josie.”
“That would be a little difficult,” she snapped. “Considering the way you’ve hounded me.”
Scooter didn’t just step forward, he lunged, and took her arm in a tight hold. “Enough is enough, Josie.” The sound of giggles on the balcony made him lower his voice. “You need to be glad you only got arrested for speeding in Duluth.”
Enough was enough all right, and she’d had more of Scooter than she could handle. “I got arrested for speeding on purpose.”
The instant the words left her mouth, Josie repented.
Scooter’s sapphire-blue eyes narrowed and his lips tightened. “You got arrested on purpose?”
She wasn’t intimidated easily, but Scooter had a way about him that unsettled all sorts of things inside her. Lying to him would be useless. “Yes,” she hissed.
He cursed under his breath and released her arm when a man and woman, whispering and giggling, entered the ballroom. Josie kept her gaze averted as the couple made their way to the sweeping staircase leading to the second and third floors above.
She knew exactly when they were far enough away not to hear. Not only had their giggles faded, Scooter had grabbed her arm again.
“What about her?” he asked. “Are you going to save her, too?”
Josie pinched her lips together. Answering wasn’t worth her breath.
“You know what they’re going up there to do,” he said.
Normally not embarrassed by talk of sex, it had become a common subject in her life—her underground life—Josie chided herself for the sting in her cheeks. “Of course I know.”
“And you’re fine with that?”
Once again Josie told herself not to answer. Not to respond to his nit-picking.
“You’re a hypocrite, Josie Nightingale,” he said. “Right under your own roof, you live with and condone the very thing you get on your soapbox to preach against.”
The air in her lungs turned fiery as her spine stiffened. Josie wrenched her arm from his hold. “I do no such thing.”
“Like hell you don’t,” Scooter retorted, planting his face so close to hers the tips of their noses almost touched. “Nightingale’s is known for the women on the third floor.”
“It is not,” she argued. “Most people don’t even know about it.” Justifying the activities at the resort was not something she’d ever had to do before, but she’d justify the very air she breathed to get Scooter off her back. “Those women choose to rent rooms during large events, just like everybody else. Nightingale’s has nothing to do with it, nor does it take a share of their profits. And,” she added, emphasizing the point Gloria
