Читать книгу Soaring Home - Christine Johnson - Страница 12

Jack sat at the dining table the next morning with a thunderous headache. Didn’t seem fair, considering he never touched alcohol. He took a gulp of coffee, hoping the strong brew would clear the pain. He, of all people, knew better than to go into a saloon, but it had seemed the right choice at the time.

He unfolded the newspaper and blinked repeatedly to focus his eyes. He could swear that was a photograph of his aeroplane spread across the front page with the one-inch headline: PLANE CRASH-LANDS.

Jack slammed the paper to the table. That illiterate, no-good newspaperman!

Four sets of eyes fixed on him.

Jack nodded at the other boarders. “Sorry.”

He had to get out of this town before the damage got worse. Curtiss hadn’t wanted the prototype scout plane to leave Long Island, but Jack and Burrows had insisted a distance test was required. Chicago and back, that was all. Two days, three at most. But Jack had not counted on disaster. An emergency landing and a missing mechanic added up to one major headache. “Dzien dobry. Good morning.” The stout Polish proprietress set a plate of runny eggs before him. Though his stomach turned, he managed a nod of thanks.

The other boarders—a salesman type, a meek professorial fellow, and two gray-haired gossiping hens—watched with interest, no doubt waiting for the introduction he didn’t intend to make. Boardinghouses attracted the misfits of society, those without the comfort of family, and Terchie’s was no exception.

Jack shielded himself with the offensive newspaper. He had an uneasy suspicion he’d agreed to something last night, but he couldn’t remember exactly what.

“Are you the pilot who crashed?” one of the ladies asked.

Jack grumbled an excuse, gathered his coffee and newspaper, and went to the porch. The open windows let in fresh air as well as the sounds of motorcar horns, people yelling and birds squawking. Better than gossiping hens.

He settled into the overstuffed chair farthest from the windows, and opened the paper to read what that newspaperman had written about him. It took only a moment to get the gist.

Tripe. One hundred percent tripe.

Jack tugged on the ring he wore on a chain around his neck. It had belonged to his grandmother and was his only link to a happier past. He fisted his hand around it. That Devlin fellow had spilled everything, calling the plane a secret military model. If this spread outside Pearlman, Jack would lose his job.

He crumpled the paper in disgust, and then shook it out again when the two gossips approached. Couldn’t a man get a moment’s peace? He scrunched down in the chair, seeking solitude behind the newspaper.

Every printed word battered him: “hapless pilot,” “frozen motor,” “lost mechanic.” Mechanic. Oddly, the word conjured someone other than Burrows. A woman. A pretty woman with dark hair. Darcy Shea. He hoped that promise he vaguely remembered making didn’t have anything to do with her.

Bam! The impact of the door slamming shook the porch and rattled Jack’s raw brain.

“Hey, careful,” he said. “Some of us are trying to rest.”

“Rest? It appears that’s all you’ve been doing. You were supposed to be at the barn over two hours ago.” The woman herself stood three feet away, hands on hips. Darcy Shea. Lovely and irritated.

Jack winced and drowned the pain in another gulp of coffee. “Good morning.” He forced a smile.

“Oh. I see. You forgot.” She plopped down in the chair opposite him.

Jack groaned. He did not under any circumstances want her to stay. “I’ll be there shortly. Go ahead. Get started without me.”

“Mr. Baker won’t let us in the barn without your permission.”

Figures. Not only had he found the pushiest woman in town, he’d stored his aeroplane with the most conscientious price-gouger.

“Fifteen minutes,” he said, hoping she’d leave. He waved her away, but she didn’t move. His head pounded, and every word took effort.

“Fifteen minutes isn’t going to be enough time.” She managed to say it without the usual feminine condemnation. “You need a powder. I’m sure Terchie has some.”

With that she blessedly went inside, taking her head-piercing comments with her. Jack struggled to his feet and headed for the staircase. If he could get to his room before she returned, he’d be safe.

He got to the third step.

“Here you are,” said Miss Shea, waving a packet.

Not quick enough. Jack leaned his forehead on the rail. “Look, Miss—”

“—Darcy.”

“Look, Miss Shea, I appreciate your assistance, really I do, but the best thing for me right now is bed. I feel a fever coming on.”

“All the more reason to take the powder.” She jammed it into his hand.

“You aren’t leaving until I do, are you?” He had a feeling he’d said those words before.

“I’m not leaving until you go with us to the plane.”

“Us?” Jack tapped the powder into his mouth and washed down the bitter stuff.

“Me and Hendrick Simmons. The mechanic.”

He remembered it all: the touch of her hand, her ridiculous request and his even more ridiculous response. What had he been thinking? Burrows would have his head if he let anyone touch his baby.

“Look, Miss Shea, only the company mechanic can work on that plane. It’s a test model. Do you understand?”

“Of course. I’m not a fool.”

“Then you know this is not something for amateur mechanics. So be a peach, and hurry along to whatever normally occupies you at this hour of the day. I’m going to get some rest. It was a pleasure meeting you. Goodbye.”

He headed up the stairs, but the fool woman followed him. He faced her. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Up in that plane with you.” She said it as if it was the most natural and possible thing in the world.

Jack had occasionally met a woman eager to fly just to say she’d done it, but this was beyond reason. This woman was like a hound chomped onto his ankle. She reminded him of…

He shook his head. No. Sissy was stuck in a hospital, whereas Darcy bubbled with life. Yet something about Darcy reminded him of his sister. Spunk? No, stubbornness. Once Sissy made up her mind, nothing could change it.

“Look, I explained everything yesterday. I have government permission to fly this plane. I do not have permission to take passengers. There’s nothing I can do.”

“You can convince them.”

“It’s not in my control.”

She dug in, jaw thrust out. Her full lips pressed into a determined pout. Her wide dark eyes demanded an answer. Yesterday’s attraction rushed back. He should pull away, but he leaned forward, drawn into her snare. The tilt of her neck. The curve of her chin.

Just in time, he caught himself. “Excuse me, I need to rest.”

“Don’t go.” She caught his hand, and her touch hit him like a hundred volts of electricity. “Not yet. You haven’t heard all the advantages. If you teach me to fly—”

“Teach you?” The words exploded in his brain. Never. Jack Hunter would never teach a woman to fly. “I thought you only wanted a ride.”

“And while we’re there, why not give me a lesson?”

“No, absolutely not.”

“It will be a coup for the company. They can tell the military that the plane’s controls are so simple, even a woman can manage them.”

“No,” he growled, keeping his voice low so he didn’t draw the attention of the gossips.

“You haven’t heard me out. The military has to train raw recruits, right? What better selling point? It’s a sure bet, good for both sides. The army can train all the aviators they need in minimal time, and the company sells hundreds and thousands of planes.”

She held her head high, doubtless expecting him to agree or even applaud her logic. Though her argument made some sense, the answer was still no. Even if he was willing, the Curtiss executives would never agree to it. Women didn’t fly in the war. They sure didn’t test warplanes.

“It’s not possible,” he said. “Sorry.” Best to crush her hopes now.

“You promised.”

Those two tiny words smashed through every argument Jack could devise. He’d promised. With painful clarity, he recalled the exact moment. It did not include flying.

“I promised to let you and your mechanic friend work on the engine.” He rubbed his aching head. Never let it be said that Jack Hunter reneged on his word. “I did not agree to give you a ride or lessons.”

If she was disappointed, she didn’t show it. “Very well. That’s why I’m here.”

“Give me an hour.” With luck, he could stretch that to two and prevent this woman and her friend from damaging his plane.

“One half hour, and I’m waiting right here.”

“Suit yourself.” Stubborn was too mild a description for Darcy Shea. Before entering his room, he made sure she understood. “Under no circumstances will you be flying.”

“But—”

He bolted for his room before she could finish protesting.

Jack should have known this little project would end in disaster. He shouldn’t have given in to those pretty eyes, but Darcy Shea had a talent for talking him into doing precisely what he didn’t want to do.

Thus, one day later the motor lay in pieces on the ground, with Burrows due on the three-thirty train. Jack did not want to witness the explosion when Burrows saw his motor torn apart. He hoped Darcy’s powers of persuasion also worked on fiery mechanics.

“I don’t suppose you can finish before three-thirty,” he asked Simmons, who was standing on a ladder propped against the fuselage.

The kid grunted and pulled a valve out of the number three cylinder. He handed it to Darcy, who then placed it in order on the white sheet she’d spread on the barn floor. Rows and rows of parts, each carefully cleaned and labeled.

She stepped back to survey Simmons’s progress. “Don’t worry, we’ll have it apart by then.”

“And repaired?”

Darcy blinked slowly, taking it in. “You said not to fix it. Just take it apart. That’s what you said.”

Her voluminous overalls left everything to the imagination except two delicate ankles, and her hair had been braided and coiled so tightly that she looked like a spinster, but her smile could charm a dead man. It sent prickles across his skin.

“Are you listening to me?” she demanded.

Jack nodded.

“Well, don’t change your instructions halfway through the project.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He was tempted to salute. She certainly acted like an officer. “I’m just anxious to finish.”

She cocked her head. “It would go faster if you helped.”

“I’m no mechanic.”

“Neither am I, but I’m helping.” Her long eyelashes brushed the top of her cheek when she blinked.

“You’re doing fine without me.” He nodded up at Simmons. “Besides, three’s a bit crowded.”

The Simmons kid glared, reinforcing Jack’s opinion that he had eyes for Darcy. Anyone could see it. Except Darcy.

Jack downed the last bit of coffee from his vacuum bottle and checked his watch. Nearly one o’clock. He yawned and stretched. Maybe he should help. But then he’d miss watching Darcy.

Simmons suddenly cried, “Found it.” The kid climbed down the ladder and waved the oil screen under Jack’s nose. “Plugged.”

“Huh.” Jack didn’t dare comment, or he’d give away that he knew more about the motor than he’d let on.

“What Hendrick means is a plugged screen stops the oil from flowing,” Miss Shea explained with unnecessary pertinence. “Without lubrication, the engine locks up.”

“Leave it for Burrows,” Jack snapped, irritated at being tutored like a novice. He’d been flying almost ten years. He knew more about planes than the whole population of Pearlman put together. “I’m going to get some lunch.”

Simmons stood dumbly staring at his feet, as if he expected something more.

“Repairs have to be made by the company mechanic,” Jack explained. He screwed the top on the vacuum bottle. “Thanks for the help.”

Simmons gulped and nodded, but Miss Shea braced her hands on her hips, oblivious to the grease she was depositing there. He could tell by the set of her mouth that she was angry.

“What is it?” Jack asked.

Her lips worked a full minute. “You know what.” She nodded toward Simmons, who was packing up his tools.

He hated when women assumed he could read their minds. “Humor me.”

She whispered, “Hendrick Simmons put in a lot of time on your plane, when he could have been working at the motor garage. He deserves some…compensation.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Though it irritated him that she expected payment when they’d volunteered, he pulled out his wallet and settled with Simmons.

“Want a ride, Darcy?” asked the kid, pocketing the money.

She shook her head. “Brought my lunch.”

Simmons hesitated. Clearly, he didn’t want to leave Darcy alone with Jack, nor should he.

“I’m locking the barn.” Jack put on his cap. “I’m afraid you can’t stay, Miss Shea.”

Jack’s words spurred Simmons on his way, but Darcy took her time gathering her lunch basket. “I’m going to eat under the big oak. I brought roast beef sandwiches. There’s enough to share.”

“Share?” Jack wasn’t so sure that was wise.

“What’s wrong? You don’t eat beef? Or is it the company you find objectionable?”

“Not at all.” He searched for an excuse. “I wanted something hot.”

“I can set your sandwich in the sun.”

He had to double-check, but sure enough, Darcy Shea was teasing. It had been a long time since a woman had teased him, and it felt good. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Then you’ll join me?”

“After an invitation like that, how could I refuse?”

She unpacked the basket beneath the big oak: sandwiches wrapped in paper and a mason jar filled with a pale yellow liquid that had to be lemonade. His mouth watered. He hadn’t sipped a lemonade in years.

“What else do you have in that basket of yours?” He made sure he stood a good ten feet away.

“Dill pickles, boiled eggs and blackberry pie, but you’ll have a hard time eating them from there.” She plopped to the ground and pointed to the grassy expanse in front of her. “Plenty of room to sit.”

He dropped to the grass and bounded right back up. The ground was littered with thousands of acorns. “I don’t suppose you remembered a blanket and wine.”

“It’s lunch, not a picnic. Besides, Michigan happens to be dry, Mrs. Lawrence’s notwithstanding.”

“I know that,” he said, though he found the tone a bit too temperance for his liking. Jack didn’t drink alcohol for personal reasons, not due to some self-righteous cause. He brushed the acorns away so he could sit with reasonable comfort.

“How do you know Michigan’s dry? You’re from New York.”

A wet state doesn’t need blind pigs, Jack wanted to say, but that was a conversation Jack did not care to have, so he turned its direction. “I live and work on Long Island, but I grew up in Buffalo.”

She gave him a peculiar look. “Buffalo? You’re from Buffalo? How odd. Everyone seems to be from there these days.”

“Who is ‘everyone’?”

She shrugged. “No one important.”

After an awkward silence during which the ants made progress toward the lunch basket and Darcy fussed with her napkin, Jack ventured, “Did you make the pie?”

“What if I say I did?”

“It’s not a competition. I don’t care who baked the pie. I’m just making conversation.”

“Oh.” A lovely, dusky blush rose in her cheeks. It was nice to know Miss Darcy Shea could be embarrassed. “I thought, well…never mind.”

He stretched out on the grass, leaning on one elbow, and tipped his cap back so he could watch her every move. If she’d give up that defensive shield she put around herself, she’d be downright attractive.

She unscrewed the lid on the mason jar. “We’ll have to share, unless you still have coffee.”

“Tough luck. It ran out a half hour ago.”

“I suppose I have enough for two.” She set the jar between them and took a bite of her sandwich. She even looked attractive chewing.

He checked the sandwich. Beef and mustard. Homemade bread, with its rich, yeasty aroma. It had been ages since he’d eaten anything other than bakery bread.

“What happens when your mechanic arrives?” she asked while he was chewing. “Will he have the replacement parts? Does he know what to bring? What did you tell him when you talked on the telephone?”

Jack choked down the food. “Is this an interview?”

This time no blush, just an enigmatic twist of the mouth. “I’m just curious.”

Jack ripped his gaze away. “He’ll bring everything he can. But if he doesn’t have a replacement part, we’ll have to wire the factory.”

It looked as if she perked up, but maybe it was his imagination.

“Where is the factory?”

He poured some lemonade into his coffee cup. “Do you have a cup? I’ll pour.”

“Oh, yes.” She dug around in the basket and came up with a glass.

While he poured, she repeated her question. “So where is the factory?”

“The main plant is in Buffalo, but all the prototypes come out of Long Island, under the direct supervision of G.H. himself.”

“G.H.?”

“Curtiss. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of G.H. Curtiss.”

“Of course I have,” she said rather quickly, and for a second he thought she was lying, but she followed with a litany of facts that would impress anyone. “Flew the Rheims Racer to the Gordon Bennett trophy at Rheims. Winner of The Scientific American Cup and the New York World prize for flying between Albany and New York in less than a day. Maker of the JN biplanes.”

“All right, all right. I don’t need a history lesson.”

“So he designed this plane?”

“At least in part.” He sampled the lemonade. Tart but refreshing.

“I’m guessing it’s designed for distance flight.”

What was she getting at? “The plane’s ultimate use is not my concern.”

“You just fly them, right?”

“That’s right.” But there was something about the brightness of her eyes that got to him, that made him say things he shouldn’t. “This flight was a special test.”

“For distance.” She leaned forward. “It had to be. How far can it go on one fueling?”

He shrugged and picked up a hard-boiled egg. “Farther than here.”

She laughed at his joke, but he could see her calculating. “To Chicago and back is a long way. Hundreds of miles in each direction. How many miles can a gallon of fuel go? Not that many. Oh, my. That’s a lot of fuel. The military must be spending a fortune on this.”

He rolled the egg between his hands. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Do they know you’re here?” she asked breathlessly. Her lips parted, moist from the lemonade. She couldn’t possibly know what that did to him.

He blinked, trying to remember what she’d asked. Oh—if his bosses knew he’d been forced to land here. “The proper people know.”

“Do you think Mr. Curtiss is anxious?”

She was assuming he had a greater knowledge of Curtiss than he did. He’d met the boss a few times. It wasn’t as if they were friends.

“Maybe a little,” he said with a wink, glad to see she followed with a smile, “but I can handle it.”

She leaned toward him, and a curl drifted across her brow. He resisted the urge to brush it aside.

“You mean your mechanic can handle it,” she said.

He laughed. “Touché.”

For a moment she stilled, deep in thought, and he wondered if he’d somehow offended her. Then, slow as a propeller starting to turn, her eyes widened. He wanted to believe that glow in her face was for him, but he’d only be kidding himself. She had hit on something, something important.

“I want to do it, what you do,” she breathed, rising to her knees and sweeping her arms to the open sky. “I want to fly. Ever since the Chicago air meet, I knew that one day, no matter what it took, I would fly.”

He could have looked at her all day, but he had to open his mouth. “But you didn’t.”

She lowered her gaze to meet his, jaw set with determination. “I will.”

Jack began peeling the egg. He knew what she meant, that he could be the one to fulfill her dream. This was the danger point. Rushing in was easy. Getting out wasn’t. Especially with a banker father lurking in the background.

“There are good flight schools around the country,” he said carefully. “Chicago would be closest.”

She sat back on her heels, deflated. “They’re closed. The war.”

“They’ll reopen after the war.”

“I don’t want to wait. Who knows how long the war will last. You’re an instructor. You could teach me.”

The desperation in her voice made him want to help, but he couldn’t. “I teach recruits.”

“I know. But what’s one more person? They’ll hardly know I’m there. I’m not meant to be here, in this small town. I want to do something, set a record, go places no woman has ever gone. Someday I will be the first to fly over the North Pole.”

Jack gagged on the lemonade. “Excuse me?” Her intensity was thrilling, but he had to set her straight. This wasn’t a little jaunt she was talking about. “Do you have any idea how much funding and preparation it takes to make a flight like that? Plus there’s no money in it. Now, be the first to make the transatlantic flight in one hop, and you’ll get yourself fifty thousand dollars. That’s a prize worth going for.”

She didn’t blink. She didn’t breathe. “That’s what you want to do, isn’t it?”

He ran his thumb around the rim of his cup. “It’s not possible.”

“Not now, with the war, but later, after it’s over, you can do it. You can be the first.”

She was so close he could see tiny drops of perspiration on her upper lip.

He cleared his throat. “Others have the jump on me, and the planes aren’t capable of that distance yet.” Though true, his excuse did nothing to break the charge between them, so he joked, “I can’t even make New York to Chicago without engine failure.”

If she thought it funny, she didn’t laugh. She didn’t move an inch. He was uncomfortably aware of the smells of violet and petroleum, not to mention the heat she generated.

“That’s a test flight with a new plane,” she said, seemingly oblivious to the electric moment. “Take an aeroplane you’ve tested and run for hours, one you know inside and out, and you can do it.”

“First I need to get this plane running again.” He cleared his throat, but it was too late. She’d noticed its rough edge.

“Let me fly with you when it’s fixed,” she said, looking at the open field. “I want to know. I need to know what it’s like to fly, even if it’s just for a minute.”

This was what he knew had been coming, but the faraway gaze, reddened cheeks and desperate hope undid him. Memories rushed back. He and his little sister, twenty years ago, playing in the sunlight. The river rushing past. Sissy laughing. Come along, Jackie. Are you afraid? He’d gone with her to the riverbed and look what happened.

He shook his head, banishing the past.

Miss Shea looked at him with the same eager eyes and tense anticipation. Such desire could not be crushed by one refusal. If he didn’t give her that plane ride, she would find another plane and another pilot, likely less scrupulous and willing to risk her life for money or a cheap thrill. Jack wouldn’t see the disaster, but it would be his fault all the same. But if he gave her a ride, he would be in control. He could scare her just a little and rid her of these romantic notions once and for all.

“Promise you’ll tell no one?” He would regret this.

She brightened. “I do, I do! Oh, thank you.” She clapped her hands together, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

His boss would kill him if he knew what he was doing. “That means no newspaper stories. No magazine stories. No stories at all. Promise?”

She nodded. “Absolutely.”

“It also depends on the weather,” he cautioned.

“I know.”

“And it has to be early in the morning, at first light. I want you here at four o’clock, the morning after the plane is repaired. Wind, rain or storms, and the flight is called off.”

“I understand. I’ll be there.” She impulsively squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

“Thank me later.” After he’d scared her enough that she’d never fly again.

Two days later, Darcy stomped her feet in the cool morning air, while Burrows tinkered with the aeroplane’s motor. They’d rolled the plane out of the barn well before dawn, but the engine wouldn’t stay running. By now the horizon had lightened to pale gray rimmed with gold. Jack said they had to fly at first light. If this took much longer, the flight wouldn’t happen.

She glanced toward town. No one coming yet, but the longer this took, the better the chance she’d be spotted. Soon Mum would rap on her bedroom door to wake her. When she didn’t show for breakfast, they’d know.

She nipped her lower lip.

“Be patient,” said Jack, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket. “You don’t want to fly unless everything’s perfect. Haste leads to crashes.”

“That and weather.” Darcy hoped she sounded informed. The Chicago newspapers had blamed the 1911 aviation meet fatalities on high winds. “Today is dead calm.”

“Perfect weather, if it warms up.”

She tucked her hands into the folds of her skirt, wishing she had thought to wear gloves, and watched Jack work. He looked so assured talking to Burrows. This was his element. He belonged in the air.

Excitement tugged at her. If only they’d go.

Jack walked over to her. “You cold?”

She balled her hands and shook her head.

He fetched her a scarf from the cockpit. “It gets colder the higher you fly. Wrap this around your neck and tuck it in. Don’t let the ends come loose or you’ll be flying that plane alone.”

“What?”

“This girl has dual controls,” he explained, “and if your scarf gets tangled in the controls, you’ll find yourself with one hard to handle lady.”

“That won’t happen,” she said, tucking the ends into her coat and trying not to be nervous. “I promise.”

His lips snaked into that lopsided grin.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Is there an end loose? Do I look foolish?”

“Not at all.” But his gaze lingered a little too long.

“Something’s not right.”

He shook his head. “You’ll have a time of it climbing into the cockpit with that skirt. Tuck it tight around your legs once you’re settled or it’ll blow into your face and my field of vision. You should have worn the outfit you had on yesterday.”

Darcy inched up her skirt a little. His eyes widened as she revealed overalls.

“Harriet Quimby had a flying suit that could convert from bloomers to a skirt,” she said. “I thought such an arrangement might prove practical today, given the circumstances.”

He whistled, long and low and with obvious appreciation. “Miss Shea, you surprise me sometimes.”

“Darcy,” she insisted. “If I’m going to put my life in your hands, you should call me Darcy.”

The warm notes of his laughter resonated deep within her. “Is that all you think of my ability to pilot this plane? Well Darcy, let me tell you a little secret. I have never wrecked an aeroplane, and I don’t intend to start today.”

The little flutter inside her roared into full-blown excitement. He wasn’t just any aviator. He was the best, the absolute best—and he was taking her up in his plane.

Burrows hopped down and indicated the plane was ready to go. At last. Hunter confirmed a few last-minute details while Darcy gathered her skirt and climbed aboard. From atop the lower wing, she could see clear to town. No one coming.

“Forward cockpit,” Jack said.

“I know.” Once in the cockpit, she stretched her legs past the rudder bar and eyed the wheel. Good heavens, she could actually fly the plane from here. She placed her hands on the wheel and closed her eyes, imagining for a moment what it would be like to be in control.

“Ready?”

Darcy’s eyes popped open, and she hastily secured her seat belt. She pulled the motor hood over her hair. Jack passed her a pair of goggles, and their hands touched. That same spark. She jerked away and fumbled with the eye gear.

“Remember, we won’t be able to talk in flight,” he said while she retrieved the goggles, “so a thumb down means you want to land.”

Darcy nodded.

Jack shouted to Burrows, and the mechanic gave the propeller a tug. With a whir and a roar, the motor gained speed. The plane began moving forward, slowly at first, then bumping more and more rapidly across the field. The Baker house and barn vanished behind them, and the village approached. She could see Terchie’s and the roof of the bank. Papa.

A wave of regret washed over her. She hadn’t exactly told him what she was doing. He’d only forbid it. But still, it was wrong. Forgive me, she prayed.

The end of the field loomed closer and closer. She gripped the edge of the cockpit. If they didn’t get in the air soon, they’d clip the trees. She could end up like so many aviators: dead or severely injured.

“Watch out,” she yelled, though there was no way Jack could have heard her. She wished they could stop now, wished she’d gotten her father’s approval, but it was too late. Soon she’d be smashed to bits.

They hurtled toward the trees. Then, when it seemed certain they’d crash, the bumping stopped and the plane rose.

Darcy screamed. The icy air blasted her face and made her shiver, but as soon as she looked below, she forgot how cold she was. Trees and houses shrank below her until they looked like toys.

Jack banked to the right, toward town. Pearlman looked so small, so insignificant from above. There stood her house, the kitchen window lit. Maybe her parents would hear the noise and look out, never suspecting their daughter was flying overhead.

She was flying! In the air, above the earth, like the eagle. God had not created her to fly, but she’d done it. She had done it on her own—well, with the help of Jack Hunter—and it was every bit as wonderful as she’d imagined.

From this height she could see how rivers and roads and railways connected the scattered houses one to the other in a great web. This was how God had made the world. How He watched over it. She leaned back, letting the air flow past her face, and gazed straight into the heavens.

This was where she belonged. In the sky. Here, above the busy-ness of the world, she would make her place, and it would truly matter. She’d show the world that women deserved to be treated equally. Same wages, same voting privileges, equal stakes in marriage. She would change the world.

Then the engine coughed. It almost died before racing madly. The plane accelerated.

Darcy looked back.

Jack was frantically working on something in the cockpit. He wasn’t watching where they were going. He wasn’t even steering.

She grabbed the wheel and tried to hold it in place.

Then the engine died.

It grew deathly quiet, with only the whistle of wind rushing past.

The wheel yanked in her hands. She held on tighter.

“Let go,” Jack yelled.

She released it like a hot stove iron. The village, once so far away, was coming nearer and nearer in great swooping circles. They’d stalled and gone into a spin. Spins were fatal.

“Do something!” she yelled.

“I am.”

But the buildings and trees kept coming closer. They were going to crash.

“Brace yourself,” he yelled.

She bent low. An exposed head could be snapped off if the plane tumbled end to end.

In the eerie silence she heard Jack moving around behind her. Why wasn’t he bracing himself for impact?

Then, as she offered a fervent prayer for undeserved forgiveness, the engine sprang to life. The plane shot upward, leaving her stomach on the ground.

Her scream trailed across the dark-edged sky. Were they really going to live? She looked back. Jack stared at the controls. She checked below. Yes, the ground was where it belonged. She gulped in the sweet air, but she couldn’t stop shaking.

Jack circled, lined up the field and brought the plane down. It bumped and hopped over the uneven earth, bouncing her brain against her skull. But after the plane came to a halt and the propeller turned slower and slower until it stopped, a fierce ache took hold.

She’d flown, had faced the worst that could be endured and had lived.

She swallowed as Jack tapped her on the shoulder.

“Sorry about that. Little problem with the engine. You all right?” He’d already taken off his helmet and goggles, and his sandy hair gleamed gold in the rising sun.

She nodded and pulled off her goggles and hood. The flight might be over, but her dream was not. It had only begun. This experience only confirmed that God had destined her to fly.

She climbed out the far side of the cockpit and pulled down her skirt. By the time she rounded the plane, half the town was streaming toward them.

“Thank you.” She threw her arms around Jack. “It was wonderful.”

“Stop that.” He extricated himself. “Remember, you never got into the plane. You had nothing to do with that flight.”

“I know, I know.” She shoved the motor hood into her pocket, but she couldn’t so easily wash away her disappointment. “I was just congratulating you on an excellent flight.”

Jack glanced from Burrows, who was climbing down from the wing, to the gathering crowd, clearly worried.

“Just a kink in the fuel line,” said Burrows. “I’ll check it over, fill her with gasoline and oil, and we can be on our way.”

“I’ll get the oil.” Jack sprinted to the barn.

Leaving? Right now? How could he fly off, after what had just happened? Jack Hunter held the key to her dream. He could teach her to fly. He couldn’t leave. She started after him.

“Miss Shea?” The wiry mechanic caught her arm. “A word of warning. Jack Hunter is not the marrying type.”

She pulled away. “Who said anything about marriage?”

“I just thought…” he let his voice trail off as Jack reappeared with an oilcan.

Burrows was wrong. Despite Jack’s admittedly attractive qualities, she had no intention of marrying. She had to fly first. Her interest in Jack Hunter was strictly professional.

She caught Jack’s arm. The leather was cold and dead, but the man beneath it was not. “Take me with you.”

He stared, a mixture of shock and wariness that sent her spirits tumbling.

“I’ll earn my way,” she said, words spinning out faster and faster. “I’ll work. I won’t be a financial burden. I have to fly. I will do anything to fly. Anything. Please?”

Jack looked disgusted, and for a second she saw herself through his eyes—a pathetic, pleading woman so consumed with her dream that she’d throw away propriety.

“Darcy?” Papa’s gruff voice shivered down her spine. He’d heard. He’d heard everything. She looked for Jack, but he was climbing into the cockpit. Burrows pulled the propeller. No! The cry wailed deep inside, but she dared not let it out, not when she stood face-to-face with judgment.

Excuse after excuse whirled through her mind in time with the propeller’s revolutions. The din spared her from answering her father immediately, but once the plane sped down the field and arced into the air, sun glinting gold off its wings, the reprieve ended.

“What was that about?” he asked.

She fought the horrible deflation. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” She swallowed, but the pain would not diminish. “It’s over. All over.”

The aeroplane grew smaller and smaller until it vanished.