Free The Runaway Daughter by Lauri Robinson

Chapter One
    1925
    White Bear Lake, Minnesota
    The ladder listed, thudding loudly against her windowsill several feet above. Ginger Nightingale caught her balance and eased her foot back onto the rung while cursing the night for being so quiet. A cat would have a hard time sneaking about.
    After what seemed like a full minute—or more—of holding her breath, she continued her downward trek. Brock had already loaded his instruments into the bed of his truck and could be leaving any minute.
    Stars filled the sky, showing no sign of rain. That was a relief. Her purple dress was as new as her shoes. So were the white cami knickers under the rayon dress. The long, loose-fitting silk camisole and tap pants, trimmed with red lace, felt delicious against her skin, and had been purchased just for this event. She might be Roger Nightingale’s youngest daughter, but she wasn’t a baby. It was time the world realized she was eighteen. A woman of age.
    Once on the ground, Ginger grabbed the bag she’d tossed out the window and dashed around the corner of the building. A hint of guilt caught in her stomach. She should move the ladder, but it was heavy and awkward. One of the resort’s groundkeepers would see to it, just as Reyes had hauled it out of the shed when she’d claimed her window needed to be washed.
    Another splattering of remorse went deeper.
    Father would be furious come morning. Norma Rose, too. Her other sisters, Josie and Twyla, would be squawking, but only because they weren’t as brave as her.
    It was the 1920s. Women could have more freedom than ever, if they took it.
    She was going to take it.
    A full moon lit the parking lot. Brock Ness’s truck was backed up near the resort’s front door and the tarp covering his instruments was more than she’d hoped for.
    Life was about to get a whole lot better.
    On her tiptoes so the gravel wouldn’t crunch beneath her heels, Ginger ran to the truck. After working a knot loose on the rope holding down the tarp, she peered underneath and frustration rumbled in her throat. Instruments, packed in their heavy cases, took up most every square inch.
    The heat of the June night had sweat beading on the back of her neck by the time she’d pushed things around to make a cubbyhole for herself. Climbing over the sideboards and under the tarp was difficult in her knee-length skirt, and once situated she realized retying the rope was impossible. Ginger was contemplating what to do about that when a door thudded and footsteps echoed.
    A musician through and through, even Brock’s whistle was perfectly in tune. He was the best performer she’d ever heard, and she’d heard a lot of them. Her father’s resort hosted a different one almost every night, two or three per night on the weekends.
    Quickly, yet cautiously, Ginger tucked the tarp inside the sideboards of the truck bed.
    “Brock! Hold up there!”
    The sound of her father’s voice made Ginger jolt, and she hit her head on the guitar case. Muffling an expletive with her hand, frustration welled inside her. Someone must have squealed. Josie or Twyla. They, as well as half the town, clearly were in love with Brock, and watched his every move. One of them must have seen her.
    “That amount I just offered you,” her father said. “Double it.”
    * * *
    Searching for another way to say no, Brock Ness opened his truck door before turning around. The original amount Roger Nightingale had offered him to play at the resort for the rest of the summer had been a nice head of lettuce, but it smelled too much like another handout. “I can’t,” Brock said.
    The resort owner pulled the lapels of his maroon jacket over his barrel chest. “All right then,” Roger said. “The full amount your father owes me. Play for me this summer, and we’re even.”
    “You’ll be paid the full amount by the end of the summer from the money I make on the radio in Chicago,” Brock said, climbing into the truck.
    “I won’t make this offer