The Bootlegger's Daughter. Lauri Robinson

      She thrust the basket at him and spun back to the door as soon as he took the handles. “Follow that pathway,” she said, pointing to a well-worn dirt trail. “You’ll eventually come to cabins. Five of them. The Northlander is the last one. It’s marked.” She pulled open the door. “There’s a road leading to it, as well. If you want your automobile, you’ll need to go back out to the parking lot and drive around the other side of the main building then follow the road that curves toward the lake.”

      “I’ll get my truck in the morning,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to disturb the other guests.” He thought about giving her a wink, but chose a smooth smile instead. “As I said, I’m a gentleman.”

      She was a cold one; she barely even blinked as she said, “Suit yourself.”

      “I usually do,” he said. “As you do, too, I’m sure.”

      Holding the door with one hand, she leveled a stare on him. “You, Mr. Bradshaw, cannot be sure about anything concerning me, so don’t pretend to be.” Slowly, her gaze went from his shoes to his hat. “But I can be sure about plenty where you are concerned.”

      “Oh?” He shifted the basket to one hand. “Like what?”

      “You’ll discover that soon enough.” With a haughty flick of her chin, she entered the building and closed the door with a resounding thud.

      The brick structure was solid and well-built, yet Ty knew she’d be able to hear him through the open window beside the door as he let out a bellow of laughter. The echo of another door inside the building slamming filtered through the night air and Ty laughed again before he turned to follow the pathway. He started whistling, not exactly sure why, other than the fact he felt like it.

      Norma Rose Nightingale had met her match in him, whether she was prepared for it or not. Mainly because no one, not even a spicy little tomato with a fine set of legs, would stand in his way of ousting Bodine. No, siree. She was just one of many good-looking women with sexy legs covering this earth. He’d tolerate her because he had to, but he wouldn’t bow to her haughtiness. The sooner she discovered that, the better off they’d both be. In the meantime, getting on her good side was going to make a fine game of cat and mouse. He had time. Palooka George’s party was two weeks away.

      The cabin was easy to find and was a log structure much like Dave Sutton’s abode. Using the key to enter, Ty set the basket down. His research had already told him this cabin didn’t have a pull string hanging in the center of the room. It had been wired with light switches. Part of the renovations taking place to several of the cabins on this side of the resort.

      A low whistle of appreciation escaped without him thinking about it as he flicked the little switch. The workmen camped out behind the barn in several tents had done a fine job. This place was as shiny as a freshly minted penny. He picked up the basket and walked across a thick braided rug, upon which a table and two chairs sat. There was also a small heating stove in the corner. Some serious dough had been laid down to fix up the cabin; even the bed sitting in the center of the room was new, mattress and all.

      There was an old-fashioned washstand in the corner, with a pitcher and bowl, along with a new dresser, and the windows that had been left open to release the smell of paint had screens on them. A nice touch considering the number of mosquitoes he’d encountered during his walk along the trail. There’d been a water spigot on the way here, too, which the cabins would share, along with a privy and bath house.

      All the comforts of home.

      If he’d had a home.

      Ray Bodine had seen to it that he didn’t.

      Ty made up the bed and stripped down to his short-legged and sleeveless muslin union suit before lying on the fresh sheets with both arms behind his head and a thick pillow beneath them. Tired, he closed his eyes.

      This was nice. Far better than most of the hotels he usually resided in. No banging of doors, noisy occupants returning to their rooms at all hours of the night, and no traffic, no sirens blaring and horns honking from dusk to dawn.

      It had been a long time since he’d experienced such silence, since before the war, really, and he didn’t believe he’d ever had frogs and the gentle rhythm of water washing onto the shore to serenade him to sleep.

      Norma Rose’s image fluttered behind his closed lids. He smiled at the idea of changing that starched little attitude of hers. He doubted she’d ever been kissed. That, too, would be fun to change.

      It was all part of his plan.

      Holding that thought, with a cool breeze wafting over his skin, Ty gave in to slumber.

      * * *

      He was up early, due to the hammering next door, but was well rested and he bade good morning to the carpenters working on the cabin beside his—named the Willow—as he collected water from the spigot in the pitcher from the washstand.

      Apart from the noise of the hammers, the woods were quiet, serene with the waves of the lake still gently crashing ashore. He took his time returning to his cabin, pretending to enjoy the scenery, including the large weeping willow next to the cabin the men were working on. A large crate sat beneath the tree’s long, leafy branches that hung almost to the ground.

      The Duluth Building Company.

      Interesting. Nightingale’s resort was only twenty miles from St. Paul, yet he ordered building supplies from Duluth, a hundred and fifty miles north. Then again, Ty doubted the crate was actually used for building supplies.

      After cleaning up with the water he’d fetched, Ty left his suit coat, vest and hat on the fancy brass hooks supplied for such things, and found a secure spot for his holster and gun under the new mattress before he left his cabin.

      He meandered quietly, walking the full circle of cabins on this side of the main building. There were ten in total including his and all were named. Whitewater, the Cove, Double Pine and other such titles. Several had small buildings a few yards away from the main bungalow that were summer kitchens, he discovered, after sneaking peeks in a few windows.

      Taking advantage of the quiet morning, he explored the layout of the other buildings on this side of the parking lot. Woodsheds, a large barn that no longer held animals and was locked tight, a laundry building, complete with the latest washing machines and surrounded by poles connecting several lines of drying wires and a set of tents that belonged to the men working on the cabins.

      Crossing the parking lot, Ty paused when a curtain fluttered in one of the windows. He grinned and waved, pleased, knowing full well that Norma Rose was behind the curtain in her office, watching him.

      With a chuckle, he started walking again, making his way up the road to Dave’s cabin—the Eagle’s Nest. He’d see Norma Rose soon, and liked the idea of letting her steam a bit as she wondered just when that would be.

      Ty didn’t stop at Dave’s cabin. Instead he walked to the end of the road, counting a total of another ten cabins. It appeared the other side, where his cabin was, was where the renovations had started. Though not run-down, the cabins on this side were a pale green, whereas the ones on the other side were dark brown. There were signs of dry rot around the windows and along the eaves of these ones, too. A fraction of bewilderment struck Ty. Perhaps all the renovations—not just those on the cabins, but those completed on the main building over the last couple of years—weren’t just a cover-up strategy.

      Others might believe that, but he didn’t. No resort could make the kind of money Nightingale had brought in the past few years. The workmen camped behind the barn were carpenters by day, runners by night, when their crates marked “building supplies” were full of shine, brought here and stored in the barn until they were loaded on the train via the back road that connected the Bald Eagle Depot to Nightingale’s. Ty would now admit, after seeing things up close, a few of those crates had contained building supplies at one time.

      His research had been thorough. The Night peddled Minnesota Thirteen whiskey. Initially a home-brew formula, it was now more sought after