The Runaway Daughter. Lauri Robinson
answered.
That was a lie. Ginger knew Brock’s father hadn’t walked since he’d been shot while delivering milk in St. Paul, near Pig’s Eye Tavern early one morning last year.
“Sorry thing what happened to him.” The third man was still talking. “Real sorry thing. Where you headed?”
“Chicago,” Brock answered.
“You don’t say? What for?”
“Got a chance to perform on the radio. The back’s full of instruments. And gas. Enough to make it most of the way. Go ahead and take a look.”
“No need for that,” the man said. “But you best take the river road. There’s a standoff a few blocks up this way.”
“Thanks,” Brock answered.
“Good luck,” the man answered before shouting, “Peterson, clear a path for him to turn around, and then send the rest of the traffic around that way.”
“Yes, Sarge.”
Ginger grabbed the edge of the sideboard as the truck jerked and jolted before it made a full U-turn. Then a loud whistle made her smack her head against the guitar case again.
“Hey!”
Ginger ducked, afraid she’d been seen right through the tarp.
“What?” Brock answered.
“Your rope’s untied. It’s hanging over the side!” the cop shouted.
Ginger broke out in a sweat. She started praying, too. And begging Brock not to stop.
“Thanks,” he replied. “I’ll retie it after I get through town.”
Relief washed over her so thoroughly that Ginger slumped against the guitar case. However, she didn’t release her breath until long after the truck was rolling down the road again.
Then, gasping, she pulled back the corner of the tarp to let a bit of fresh air in. It was cool and refreshing and she poked her nose into the opening and breathed deeply until the stringent scent of gas forced her to tuck the tarp back in place.
City sounds faded and, elated she’d made it this far, Ginger shifted around to lean against the guitar case. Excitement hummed inside her. Chicago. Upon hearing she’d run away, folks might think she’d gone all the way to California. Hollywood. She’d talked about it often enough. Truth was, it made no difference. Chicago was just as good. Freedom. Dancing. Singing. There’d be no more washing sheets and beating rugs. No more cleaning up the remnants of other people’s parties.
Smiling, she stretched her cramped legs as much as possible and let visions of her future dance in her head. When a yawn pulled at her throat, she let it out and snuggled up against the case.
* * *
Dust choked her, and it took a moment for Ginger to remember she was in the back of Brock’s truck. He was whistling a jazzy tune that had her wanting to tap a toe. She didn’t. He was right next to her, pouring gas into the truck’s fuel tank from the extra cans strapped along the backside of the truck.
She’d never realized just how awful gas smelled and was thankful the cans weren’t under the tarp with her. It wasn’t nearly as dark as it had been. Morning must have broken. Chicago might be only a few hours away. She couldn’t wait. She’d wear her white-and-red polka-dot dress and white silk scarf when Brock went to the radio station. Her white shoes, too. He was sure to let her go with him when—“Ouch!”
Ginger slapped a hand over her mouth. Brock must have decided to retie the rope and it smacked the top of her head in the process. She held her breath, hoping beyond hope he hadn’t heard her.
A moment later, sunlight stung her eyes as the tarp flew back.
Brock’s black-and-white tweed flat cap sat cockeyed on his head. One edge of the little brim was right above one dark eyebrow, while the other sat near the side parting of his slicked-back hair. He always looked dapper in that hat. However, right now, his eyes had the menacing glare of a copper on the beat.
Ginger swallowed the lump in her throat. “Good morning.”
“Good mor—what the—” Brock grabbed her arms and pulled her forward, forcing her to sit upright. “What are you doing here?”
His fingers dug into her upper arms and, for the life of her, Ginger couldn’t quite remember what she was doing. All the girls thought Brock was the bee’s knees. Mitsy Kemper claimed to have necked with him once, said kissing him was the cat’s meow. Ginger had wanted to push Mitsy right out of Twyla’s car when she’d been talking about necking with Brock. She might have done if she’d been in the backseat beside her.
Mitsy was forgotten when Brock yanked her up and over the side of the truck.
“What are you doing here?” he all but shouted.
She’d lost a shoe and batted his hands away as soon as he set her on the ground. After checking to make sure her skirt hadn’t been torn, she snatched her shoe out of the truck and slid it on her foot. “I’m going to Chicago,” she said. “You best be glad you didn’t tear my skirt.”
“A torn skirt is the least of your worries, Ginger,” he said, waggling a finger before her face. He paced down the road a short distance before spinning back around. “Chicago? Oh, no you’re not!”
“Yes, I am,” she said, smoothing her bobbed hair so the ends curled near her chin.
His brown eyes, so dark they looked black, narrowed. “Does your father know about this?”
“Of course not,” she said. “He’d never have let me go.” He never let her do anything. Except work. Keep the resort spick-and-span for all his friends. He wouldn’t let her date, either. Said he’d find a man for each of his daughters when the time was right. One with money. Lots of it. Which is why none of them were married. The time would never be right in his eyes. Besides, she didn’t need a man with money. She had saved almost every dime she’d made working at the resort over the years.
Brock growled and slapped the side of the truck. “Are you trying to get me killed?”
A shiver raced up Ginger’s spine. “No.”
“Your father will have me pinched, or filled with lead.” He marched to the front of the truck. “Damn it, Ginger. Of all the stupid, idiotic things…”
Maybe she hadn’t considered all aspects of her actions.
A rumble had her looking down the road, where a cloud of dust was growing. Grabbing her purse out of the truck, she opened the passenger door. “A truck’s coming.”
Brock cursed aloud, but climbed in the driver’s door and started the engine. They’d barely made it onto the short grass next to the road when a larger truck swerved around them, honking as its speed threw rocks against their windshield.
Ginger released a sigh of relief. “Next time you stop to put gas in,” she said, shooing the dust out of the window with one hand, “I’d suggest pulling all the way off the road.”
“Next time—” Brock stopped midsentence. There wouldn’t be a next time. Roger Nightingale was going to kill him. He’d be shot. Stabbed. Poisoned. It didn’t matter which. He was a dead man. Which would leave his family with no hope. None. Zilch.
“What were you thinking?” he growled at Ginger.
She’d opened her purse and was gliding red lipstick over her bow-shaped lips. Once done, she smacked them together, replaced the lid on the tube and dropped it in her beaded bag. “Right now I’m thinking you should start driving or you’re going to be late getting to Chicago.”
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