The Runaway Daughter by Lauri Robinson

toward a door at the back of the room.
    Nightingale lifted a single brow, but wordlessly walked toward the door.
    * * *
    Ginger had known her father would find her sooner or later, but she wasn’t remotely prepared to see him walk through the door. She recognized Palooka George behind him, too.
    The only sound in the room, other than her father’s footsteps, was dubbed-in laughter blasting from the radio. The stations did that, telling listeners when they should laugh.
    Brock kissed her cheek, which helped ease her alarm, before he slid her off his lap. “Stay here.”
    Ginger wasn’t about to do that, and grabbed her glass from the table as she followed him. She needed the fortitude, but barely found the wherewithal to swallow a sip.
    “What is this?” her father demanded, throwing a wad of money on the desk of the small office the three of them had entered.
    “The money for my father’s medical bills,” Brock said. “With interest.”
    “Just because you’ve made a little money singing on the radio,” her father bellowed, “you think you can do this? Steal my baby girl.”
    “He’s made a lot of money,” Ginger shouted, though neither man looked her way. They were too busy glaring at one another. That was something she’d never seen before. Most men bowed before her father.
    “I didn’t steal her,” Brock said low and stern. “I telephoned you. Twice. Told you to come and get her. You chose not to.”
    One sentence echoed over and over in Ginger’s ears. “You telephoned him?”
    “I didn’t have a choice,” her father said.
    “Every man has a choice,” Brock replied.
    Furious at the way they were both ignoring her, Ginger released a rage-filled growl. “Every woman has a choice, too,” she yelled. Just in case that hadn’t caught their full attention, she grabbed her glass off the table, pitched half the contents in Brock’s face and the other half in her father’s. “Go to hell, both of you!”
    She slammed the door so hard Palooka George jumped off his barstool. Ginger shoved aside his Bruno, gun and all, as she marched through the crowded but quiet room, refusing to release the tears burning in her eyes.
    By the time she’d climbed the stairs out of the basement and run through the grocery store that served as a front for the gin mill, the knot of betrayal in her chest was so tight she couldn’t breathe.
    Brock had called her father to come get and her. No wonder he’d refused to sleep with her.
    Leaning on a nearby car, she attempted to gather herself. This wasn’t how it was supposed to turn out. She’d loved him for so long. Thought he could be the one man who’d stand up to her father, fight for her.
    “Ginger.”
    She tried to twist away from his touch, but wobbled. “Get away from me.”
    “I tried,” Brock said. “But I can’t.”
    “You called him to…” Her throat burned too fiercely to continue.
    Brock turned her around so she had to face him. “Yes, I called your father,” he said. “To let him know you were all right.” Wiping her cheeks with his thumbs, he continued, “That was when we first arrived, but even then I knew I couldn’t live without you.”
    Ginger found she couldn’t breathe again, this time from shock. “What?”
    Brock’s smile was tender and sweet. “I love you, Ginger. I’ve loved you for some time, but thought, in your father’s eyes, I wasn’t good enough for you.” He shrugged. “You were the reason I came to Chicago. To become someone you could love.” Flashing her a wonky grin, he whispered, “I don’t want to make history without you.”
    If she hadn’t loved Brock before, she’d have gone goofy over him right that second. “I do love you, and I don’t want to make history with anyone but you.”
    “Good.” His lips brushed against hers. “Because I told your father I’m marrying you.”
    She jerked her head back, fear once again clutching at her heart. “You told him?”

Chapter Nine
    “Yes, he told me. He