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Bronco laughed. “Thanks.”
Twyla pinched her lips against a sense of chagrin. She liked Bronco, he was a nice man. She just didn’t like him being her tail all the time, and, in all fairness, she had led him on more than one wild-goose chase.
“I’ll have her back in a couple of hours,” Forrest said.
“Good enough,” Bronco replied, leaning back in the chair he often settled upon near the front door.
Twyla understood her father paid his watchmen well, as he did all his employees. Even she made a nice salary, but she did feel a pinch of sympathy for Bronco and the others. Their jobs had to be so boring. “Oh, goodness,” she said, while crossing the parking lot and the realization hit that she was leaving the resort. “I didn’t even fetch my purse.”
“You aren’t going to need it,” Forrest said, opening the passenger door of his roadster. “I’m not going to charge you for the ride.”
She laughed, feeling freer than she had even in the past two weeks. “Well, that’s good to know.”
Forrest chuckled. He shut the passenger door after she’d climbed in, then walked around the hood of the car. Twyla leaned over to check if she could catch her reflection in the chrome framing the windshield. Her image was a bit distorted, but she could see well enough to double-knot the yellow scarf around her neck so it wouldn’t come loose while they were driving.
Or flying.
Applesauce and horsefeathers! She was going flying!
Little old Twyla Nightingale flying. It just couldn’t get much better than this. Just couldn’t. Twisting, she checked her hair and earrings and then wished she had grabbed her purse so she could reapply the lipstick that had rubbed off during breakfast.
* * *
Forrest climbed behind the wheel, amused at the way Twyla was using the windshield frame as a mirror. When she’d finished and sat back, he asked, “Are you ready?”
“Indeed I am,” she answered with a full smile. “Indeed I am.”
He started the engine and drove slowly across the parking lot, not wanting to stir up dust. Her yellow-and-white dress looked brand-new and he wondered if he should have told her to go and change. Once the thought of taking her flying had formed, excitement had filled his blood. He hadn’t been up in his airplane for weeks and missed it. There’d been a time when he’d flown every day, and even then, he couldn’t wait to get back in the cockpit.
Currently his money was so limited he couldn’t squander it on fuel just for fun. This might be his only chance to take Twyla on a short flight. Practically every time he got in the cockpit, he’d found himself thinking about her, and how much she’d enjoy flying.
Forrest kept his speed low while driving along the curvy road that went from the resort to the main highway, and they had to stop to wait for the morning train at the tracks near the Bald Eagle depot. It was an oddity for a township to have its own depot when it didn’t have a town, but Bald Eagle was the exception. Jacob claimed Roger had a lot to do with that, and Forrest didn’t doubt it. Trains hauled as much moonshine as runners.
Once on the highway, Forrest increased the speed of the roadster. Even though the road was dirt, it was firmly packed and didn’t stir up dust like some of the side roads. Laughter had him glancing over to the passenger seat. Twyla had her head back and her arms in the air. Her yellow scarf flayed behind her in the wind.
“Haven’t you ever ridden in a convertible?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Father claims breezers are dangerous. He only buys cars with tops. This is wonderful.”
He laughed. “If you think this is wonderful, you’re going to love flying.”
“I know,” she said.
Forrest had to drag his eyes back to the road. She was a looker, with her yellow scarf flapping behind her. All the Nightingale girls had been cute, but the years had turned Twyla into a more-than-beautiful woman. Her tease-me attitude took her one notch above her sisters. She’d always had that quality, but now she knew how to use it.
A few miles later, Forrest turned off the highway and once again slowed his speed to accommodate the gravel road. He was still pondering Twyla’s attitude and beauty. Two things he’d never overlooked in the past—and two things he couldn’t get beyond right now.
“Isn’t this Dac Lester’s dad’s farm?” she asked.
Lester had a large dairy operation that kept the area, as well as most of St. Paul, supplied with milk. “No,” Forrest answered, “it runs alongside Lester’s land and he runs his cattle on it, but my grandfather owned it. It was part of my inheritance. I had a hangar and runway built on it a while back.”
