“Ready?” Jack asked.

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

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 before it rose.

Darcy screamed. 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.

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.

CHRISTINE JOHNSON

is a small-town Michigan girl who has lived in every corner of the state’s Lower Peninsula. After trying her hand at music and art, she returned to her first love—storytelling. She holds a bachelor’s degree in English and a master’s degree in library studies from the University of Michigan. She feels blessed to write and to be twice named a finalist for Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart Award. When not at the computer keyboard, she loves to hike and explore God’s majestic creation. She participates in her church’s healing prayer ministry and has experienced firsthand the power of prayer. These days, she and her husband, a Great Lakes ship pilot, split their time between northern Michigan and the Florida Keys.

Soaring Home
Christine Johnson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.

—Proverbs 3: 5,6

For my husband, Eric, who encouraged me to fly with my dreams.

Acknowledgments

First and most important, to God belongs the glory.

To the editors at Steeple Hill, especially Emily Rodmell, thank you for guiding me with skill, patience and encouragement.

To my pilot and nursing friends, thank you for answering my many questions.

To the Writing Buddies, thanks for every ounce of advice. Especially to my critique partners, Jenna Mindel and Kathleen Irene Paterka. You kept me on the sidewalk. Without you, I wouldn’t be here.

To the many writers, readers, family, friends and teachers who have helped and encouraged—thank you for believing.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

1918 Pearlman, Michigan

Darcy Shea squinted into the bright September sky, trying to make out the rigid, oversized bird approaching Baker’s field. Her pulse skipped and bounded. Could it be? Seven years since she last saw an aeroplane. Seven years waiting. It had to be, it just had to.

“Why did you stop?” Best friend, Beatrice Fox, pirouetted under her lace-trimmed parasol. “We’re already late.”

“Just wait a moment.” Darcy stood still, listening.

The sun’s heat shimmered off the baked road. Grasses rustled and crickets hummed, but no low drone of an engine. She absently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Perhaps she was mistaken. She sighed and resumed walking to the grange.

“Blake’s cousin George from Buffalo is visiting this week,” chattered Beatrice. She was lately engaged to the only son of the richest family in town, and every relation seemed to be paying respects. “You’d like him. Perhaps you could spend some time together.”

Darcy cringed. Her friend was forever trying to create a match for her, quite as bad as Papa. “What’s wrong with the man?”

“Absolutely nothing.” Beatrice wove an arm around hers. “He’s handsome, intelligent and our age.”

“Then why isn’t he in the war?”

“Because he’s studying to be a physician. A doctor, Darcy, a professional.” Beatrice tugged slightly, urging Darcy to walk faster. “I have a thought. We can go on a picnic, all four of us. You can’t object to a picnic.”

Darcy did not want to go anywhere with a man she’d never met. “I don’t know anything about him.”

“Blake says he’s a real sport.”

“Blake would say that. It’s his cousin.”

Beatrice tsked her disapproval. “He’s perfectly charming. And educated. There aren’t many opportunities to meet eligible men, so if you want to catch one—”

“I don’t.”

Beatrice planted a hand on her hip. “Darcy, you must be reasonable. You’re twenty-three. People are starting to talk. The war can only be an excuse for so long.”

“I’m not using the war as an excuse. I don’t want to marry. Ever.” She shuddered at the drudgery of children and housework. “Better to fight for women’s rights.”

“Are you still following Prudy and her lot of suffragists? You’ll get a bad reputation. Felicity says some people already wonder if you’re one of those man-haters.”

Darcy didn’t care two pins what Felicity Kensington said, and she didn’t see why Beatrice placed such stock in her uppity future sister-in-law. “I don’t hate men. I just don’t want to marry. I have things to do.” Such as flying. She scanned the sky for the plane. Gone.

“Just meet him and talk a little.”

“No.”

“It’s just a picnic, not marriage.”

A faint drone froze Darcy. The aeroplane. Within seconds she located it low in the eastern sky, heading toward them.

“What is that sound?” Beatrice looked everywhere but up.

The plane dipped and veered toward town. It was landing. It had to be. No plane would fly that low if it wasn’t landing. If only she could be onboard. If only she could fly. Darcy danced across the road.

“Where are you going?” Beatrice called. “We’re already late from the nickel show. Your mother will be furious.”

“No she won’t.” Which wasn’t quite true.

“She’ll make us roll extra bandages.”

Darcy motioned for her to wait. “Just one moment longer.”

The hum intensified until it sounded like a whole hive of bees. An aeroplane. Darcy hung transfixed at the edge of the field. She couldn’t leave now. She hadn’t seen an aeroplane since the 1911 Chicago air exhibition, the day she knew God intended her to fly. In the air, women flew alongside men as equals. That’s where she belonged, not in lowly Pearlman, where not even the scent of an aeroplane could be found.

Until now. The biplane wobbled slightly as it descended, the left wing dipping before the pilot righted it at the last minute. It did not resemble the planes she’d seen in Chicago. This pilot sat farther back, below the upper wing, in a partially enclosed cockpit. The engine was located forward, giving the machine a sleek, fast appearance.

Beatrice shaded her eyes. “What is it?”

“The answer to my prayers.”

The aeroplane headed straight toward them at low altitude. Beatrice shrieked and clutched at her impossibly flowered hat as the plane zoomed overhead and banked to make a run down the length of the empty field. The grass bent flat under the roar, and the turbulence sent Darcy’s hair swirling. The plane swooped onto the field, bouncing once before mowing a wide swath through the grass.

“Whooee!” Darcy ran after it, and then, seeing as Beattie was still hunched on the ground, came back. “An aeroplane. Here, in Pearlman. Imagine.” God had sent Darcy’s dream on canvas-covered wings.

“Tell me it’s gone,” Beatrice whimpered.

“Of course it’s not gone.” Darcy peeled Beattie’s gloved hands off her ears. “It stopped by old man Baker’s empty barn.” Already, Hendrick Simmons from the automobile garage and Dennis Allington from the train depot raced down the road on their motorbikes, twin trails of dust rising in the dry September air. “I wonder if something’s wrong.”

“I don’t care, and neither should you.” Beatrice smoothed down her dress. “I thought that horrible thing would kill us.”

“It wasn’t going to kill us. The pilot knew where he—or she—was going. Imagine! It could be a woman pilot.” Darcy had to meet her somehow.

The beep of a motorcar horn sent them scurrying to the edge of the road. Frank Devlin, editor of The Pearlman Prognosticator, chugged past in his dusty Model T touring car. That was the answer. The newspaper. She could write a story on the plane and talk the pilot into giving her a ride.

“I need to talk to the pilot, Beattie.” Darcy squeezed her friend’s hand. “This story will make the front page, and I’m going to be the one to write it. Tell Mum I’ll be late.”

“We’re already late. Your mother won’t like it. She’ll say your duty is to the Red Cross.”

“My duty is to the people of Pearlman. Tell her I’ll roll double the bandages tomorrow.” Darcy itched to run. A plane. A pilot. Everything she’d dreamed the past seven years had come directly to her. She had to see it.

Beatrice clutched her arm. “Don’t do anything foolish. Promise?”

Darcy pulled away and bounded down the road. “I’m going to ask the pilot to give me a ride.”

“A ride?” came the cry from behind her. “You’re going into the air in that thing? Stop, stop.” Beattie panted, struggling to run in her hobble skirt and heeled shoes.

As much as Darcy loved her, Beattie was such a perfect Jane, all frills and lace. She’d faint from this much exertion. Darcy went back to her. “What are you doing? I said I’d meet you at the grange.”

“You could die,” Beatrice insisted breathlessly, “like that heroine of yours. What’s her name? Harriet Quincy?”

“Quimby, and it was an accident. The passenger moved suddenly and threw the plane off balance. That’s not going to happen here.”

The pilot, dressed in knee boots and leather jacket, climbed out of the plane. A man. Too bad.

“How do you know disaster won’t happen?” Beatrice insisted. “She fell a hundred feet.”

A thousand, actually, but Darcy didn’t correct her. Though silent now, the plane beckoned to her. The smell of burnt oil hung in the air. A sizeable crowd had gathered around the plane, and opportunity was slipping away. If the pilot had only stopped to fuel, he might be gone within the hour.

“Sorry, Beattie, but I have to go.”

“But, your father. He won’t like it,” Beatrice huffed. “What will he say?”

Darcy knew exactly what Papa would say. No, with a capital N. Respectable young ladies don’t fly aeroplanes.

But they did. They did.

“He doesn’t need to know,” Darcy insisted.

“He’s your father.”

“I’m a grown woman.” Nothing and no one would keep her from her dream. “And if he doesn’t know, he won’t be hurt. Promise me, Beattie.”

Across the field, the pilot had returned to the cockpit and the crowd was turning the plane, readying it to fly off. Her future was about to disappear into the pale blue sky.

“Only if you promise to go on the picnic with George.”

Darcy gritted her teeth. It was extortion. “All right, but only if I reach the plane before it takes off.” Without waiting for confirmation, she hitched up her skirts and ran across the field. The wiry grass tangled around her ankles. She stumbled on the uneven ground.

Dennis Allington pulled on the propeller. The engine coughed and rumbled to life.

No time. No time.

Darcy gasped for air, her lungs burning. She couldn’t run any faster. She couldn’t get there in time. Her whole future was flying away.

Her hair tumbled from its pins as the plane inched forward. Then the motor spluttered, choked and died. A thistle caught her shirtsleeve. She tore loose as the men gathered along the back of the wings. They pushed. She stopped, gulping for air, as the machine coasted into the barn.

Thank heavens. She composed herself and twisted her hair back into a knot, so she’d look professional for the interview.

By the time Darcy slipped through the open barn doors, Devlin, Allington, Simmons, old man Baker, and half of the supposedly employed men of the town had gathered around the aeroplane in a big semicircle. Darcy tried to wedge through, but they stood like a fence between her and the plane.

She circled around, looking for a gap, and spied Hendrick Simmons. Her childhood friend would let her through. She made her way toward him as the pilot climbed out of the cockpit. He tossed his goggles into the forward seat before jumping to the barn’s dirt floor, still seeded with trampled bits of straw.

“Should be a matter of two, three days at most,” the pilot said to Baker, who was doubtless calculating precisely how much rent he could weasel out of his new tenant. “Do you have a telephone?”

“Don’t need them newfangled contraptions,” Baker said, his lower lip drawn over his upper, due to the few teeth he had left and his general disinclination to spend money on luxuries like false teeth.

“There’s one in town—” Darcy began, but Devlin cut her off.

“Closest one’s at the Prognosticator office.” He stuck out his hand. “Frank Devlin, managing editor of our fair city’s most highly esteemed publication. I’d be glad to loan you the use of our telephone.”

Oh, no. Devlin was going to beat her out of the story and steal the pilot, too.

“Jack Hunter.” The pilot shook Devlin’s hand. “I’ll take you up on that offer.”

Mr. Jack Hunter ruffled his sandy-colored hair with the luxurious ease of a cat rising from a nap. Standing perhaps six feet tall, Hunter had the confident manner to be expected in a pilot. And he was handsome. Easily as athletic and dashing as Douglas Fairbanks. Every unmarried woman in town would swoon over him, but not Darcy. Darcy Shea did not swoon.

“Tell me what fair city this happens to be,” Hunter said.

With one quick thrust, Darcy burst through the circle of men. “Pearlman,” she said before Devlin could answer. “Pearlman, Michigan.”

Jack Hunter took notice, his gaze traveling up and down Darcy’s frame, as if sizing her for a dress, but if he thought he would unnerve her, he was sorely mistaken.

She stared back. Square between the eyes.

One eyebrow rose. “Pearlman? Never heard of it. Anywhere near Chicago, Miss…?”

“Shea. Darcy Shea. And yes, about a hundred miles, less by air.”

“That so?” Hunter chuckled as he fetched a cap from the cockpit. He tipped it slightly. “Many thanks, Miss.” He turned to Devlin. “With any luck, Burrows—he’s my mechanic—will have reached Chicago by now.”

“Let’s get going, then.” Devlin shoved the stump of a cigar back into his mouth. Frankly, it was a wonder he’d bothered to take it out. He never did at the presses, and the stench of the thing overwhelmed even the smell of ink and grease.

Hunter turned to old man Baker. “I’ll be back later to check on the plane.”

Darcy had to act now. If she was going to have any chance at this story and her plane ride, she had to be with Devlin and Hunter in the motorcar, not hanging back in Baker’s barn. She curled behind the bystanders, who pressed closer to the aeroplane.

“Don’t touch anything,” Hunter warned, when one of the kids climbed on the lower wing. “Any damage, Mr. Baker, comes out of the fee.”

That put Baker into action, rousting everyone from the barn. It also gave Darcy opportunity to slip past unnoticed.

“I’m a mechanic…” Hendrick Simmons said weakly as Hunter strode by, but the pilot didn’t hear him.

Poor Simmons. He was a nice guy, forever tinkering with motors, and talkative enough when you asked him how stuff worked, but he hadn’t an ounce of gumption. Darcy, on the other hand, had plenty. Devlin was not going to steal Hunter away from her. She raced to the Model T and slid into the backseat, keeping low so Devlin and Hunter didn’t spot her.

“Cora can place the call while you settle up at Terchie’s,” said Devlin, opening his door. “That’s the hotel here.”

Darcy smothered a laugh. Terchie’s was nothing more glamorous than a boardinghouse.

“Want to bring your bag along?” Devlin asked. “It’ll save you the trouble of hefting it into town later.”

Jack Hunter dropped into the passenger seat. “Don’t have a bag.”

Darcy could see his reflection in the windshield. Even teeth and a boyish grin, just a little lopsided. And his eyes. She sighed. Oh, his eyes. Bright as cornflowers. If she did happen to be interested in a man… Darcy shook her head. What was she thinking?

“Didn’t expect to need it,” Hunter said. “My things are with Burrows on the train.”

He sat so close Darcy could touch him. She could smell the warm leather and faint scent of soap. No starch or stiff collar in his shirt. The black tie hung loose, as if he didn’t care what people thought. And his jacket was soft and brown and buttery.

“Well, I might be a tad larger,” Devlin said, rubbing his expansive gut, “but I could loan you—what on earth?” He’d spied her. “Shea. What are you doing in my car?”

“Uh…” Darcy scrambled for an explanation and spotted Beatrice approaching, red-faced and out of breath. “You do give rides to ladies, don’t you?”

“Ladies?” he spluttered. “Out!”

Hunter grinned at Darcy, and she nearly melted. Those blue eyes. The crooked smile. The strong jaw.

“I don’t see why we can’t give Miss Shea a lift,” he said. “We’re going that direction anyway.”

In that instant, Jack Hunter won her gratitude. Now, if he would just give her a plane ride….

Devlin didn’t share Mr. Hunter’s generosity. “I don’t have time to ferry girls around town.”

“I’m hardly a girl,” Darcy noted for Mr. Hunter’s benefit, “but that’s not the point. We’re tired and hot.”

“We? I see only one of you.”

Darcy waved to her friend who had reached the barn. “Beatrice. Here. Mr. Devlin is giving us a ride into town.”

Poor Beattie looked overheated and frazzled from the rapid walk, but somehow that made her more beautiful. Unfortunately, Jack Hunter noticed. He hopped out of the car and opened the rear door.

An irrational wave of envy swept over Darcy as he helped Beatrice into the seat beside her. Why not her? Darcy wasn’t as beautiful as Beattie, but she and Hunter shared an interest in planes.

“Good afternoon, Miss—?”

“Fox. Miss Beatrice Fox.” She folded her parasol, tucking it daintily beside her.

So proper. So pretty. So engaged. Darcy throttled her petty jealousy and apologized. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for you to follow.”

Then Jack Hunter flashed that smile at her. Her. Darcy Shea. Not Beattie. Not any other woman. Her. She fanned herself with the notepad. My, it had gotten hot.

Beatrice was staring at her. “Do you feel all right? You look rather flushed.”

Darcy touched her hot cheek. “I’m fine.” She cleared her throat and tried to remember why she’d gotten in the motorcar in the first place. It certainly wasn’t to lose her head.

While Devlin cranked the engine, Hunter worked his charm. “Tell me what brings two lovely ladies to a dirty old farm.”

“I’m a reporter,” Darcy said, getting back her wits.

“Ah.” His eyes narrowed. “And you, Miss Fox?”

She blushed. Beatrice always blushed. “Nothing very important.”

“It had to be important to walk all the way out here.”

Beattie’s blush deepened, and Darcy nudged her friend to remind her that this little encounter was all about getting a plane ride.

“Not really,” Beattie warbled, glancing at Darcy. “I’m with Darcy. She wanted to see your aeroplane, but we’re supposed to go to the grange hall to roll bandages for the war effort.”

The car chortled to life, and Devlin shuffled back to the driver’s seat.

“A noble effort,” Hunter said as Devlin got in. “Our boys overseas will thank you.”

“And what do you do for the war effort, Mr. Hunter?” Darcy asked, holding up a pencil so he couldn’t mistake her intent.

Hunter noted her writing implement and answered dryly, “I train recruits to fly.”

Train to fly. The words flashed through Darcy like electricity. He could not only take her up in an aeroplane, he could teach her to fly it. She could be up there, in the blue expanse, looking down on all creation. She could proclaim to every man on earth that women were capable of doing anything. She could change the world.

“Aren’t you going to write that down?” Hunter asked.

“Oh, yes.” Darcy started to write, but Devlin chose that moment to put the car in gear and drive through the biggest pothole in the barnyard. She flew forward and had to brace herself against the back of the seat or she would have smashed right into Devlin.

Beattie had bounced forward also, and Mr. Hunter steadied her until she settled back in the seat. He smiled, not just any old smile, but warm and welcoming. With a sinking feeling, Darcy realized he must have meant it for Beattie. Beatrice was the beauty, not her.

Darcy squeezed the pencil tight and pretended to survey the passing scenery. She reminded herself that she was never going to marry. It didn’t matter if no one found her beautiful. She would be fine by herself. After all, marriage meant being shackled to a man’s will.

On the other hand, from a purely aesthetic sense, Mr. Jack Hunter had a certain dashing charm. His jacket was of an excellent cut and style, though worn pale at the edges. No pomade, thank heavens. Though oiling the hair was all the rage, Darcy despised the smelly stuff. She imagined sinking her fingers into his thick hair. The soft tug. Silky smooth.

“Did you have another question?” he asked.

Darcy gulped, feeling the heat lick up her face. She must have been staring at him.

“Uh, where are you from?” she asked. Ridiculous question. Devlin must be laughing.

“New York.” He smiled in a most disconcerting way before resuming his conversation with Devlin.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Beattie asked.

“Fine.” But she wasn’t. Jack Hunter was turning her into a fool, making her forget what she really wanted. Just spit it out. Tell him she wanted a plane ride. But her mouth refused to form the words. Her mind went blank every time he looked at her.

The car flew down the road toward the newspaper building. More than once they bounced off the seat when it hit a rut. Beattie clung to the door frame, but Hunter took the jolts in stride. Maybe he was accustomed to bumpy rides in his aeroplane. Baker’s field couldn’t have afforded a smooth landing.

Devlin didn’t apply the brakes until they’d passed the Kensington Mercantile, two doors from their destination. He pointed the motorcar straight at the hundred-year elm outside the press’s front window. With a screech, a squeal and a grinding jolt that threw everyone forward, the automobile shuddered to a stop, bumper just touching the elm.

“Oh,” hiccupped Beatrice, her eyes wide. “Oh.”

Devlin rolled out of the vehicle. Now was her chance.

“Mr. Hunter.” Darcy tried to tap his shoulder, but he moved just out of reach. “Mr. Hunter, if I might have a word.” Since she couldn’t get past Beattie, she jumped out her side. “Excuse me. I have a proposition.”

Devlin’s head snapped toward her. “Miss Shea, I’m not buying any stories.”

“But this will be spectacular, and something only I can do, seeing as I’m a woman.”

“That might be debatable,” Devlin grumbled.

She scooted around the back of the motorcar, only to find Hunter helping Beatrice out of the backseat. The streak of jealousy flashed through her again, but she shoved it aside. He was doing what any man would do. He would have done the same for her if she’d stayed in the vehicle.

“Why thank you,” Beattie said. “You are such a gentleman. Just like my Blake.”

“It’s easy around two lovely ladies.” He smiled broadly.

Darcy coughed to settle her mind. He could not disarm her with a mere smile. Devlin was sidling near. She had to act.

“Take me up,” she said without explanation.

For a moment, Hunter looked surprised. “Take you up on what?”

“Oh, no,” Beattie said, aghast. “Darcy didn’t mean anything improper. She’s not that kind of woman.”

Darcy felt the heat rise again in her face. “Up in the aeroplane.” Her voice squeaked. “I’ll write about it for the newspaper. It’ll be the highlight of the year. Remember my articles on the Chicago aviation meet, Mr. Devlin? You sold out and had to make another print run.”

“Those were for a school project.” Devlin’s ill humor soured. “Besides, you were the only one from Pearlman at that meet. You go up in that thing here, and everyone will know about it. No news. No story.”

“But they won’t be able to experience it—assuming Mr. Hunter isn’t giving rides. But if you are, just wait until the article comes out, and people will line up around the block.”

Hunter shook his head. “No one is going up in that plane. The motor is locked. Frozen. Won’t run.”

Devlin guffawed, and the two men started toward the newspaper office door. Men. If they thought a simple dismissal could stop her, they were dead wrong.

“Yes, I know you need to make repairs. But after it’s fixed,” she said, tagging along, “you could take me up. On a ride,” she added, so there’d be no repeat of the last misunderstanding.

Jack Hunter stopped on the steps. “In case you’re not aware, Miss Shea, the government has restricted civilian flights due to the war.”

His words slapped hard. She did know it. She’d just forgotten in the heat of opportunity. “But you must have permission.”

“To test new aircraft for possible military use.”

Darcy’s head throbbed. Her dream sat so close she could touch it, but Hunter kept pulling it just out of reach.

“You’ll need to test the repairs,” she suggested.

“Not with a civilian passenger, and definitely not with a woman. Good day, Miss Shea. Miss Fox.” With that, he and Devlin went inside. The door banged shut behind them.

Darcy stood before the closed door. She would get that ride. She didn’t quite know how at the moment, but Darcy O. Shea was no quitter. She’d find a way.

Chapter Two

While Jack waited for the telephone operator to ring back, he stood lookout at the grimy front window. Devlin and Miss Shea had him trapped. Inside the newspaper office or outside, he faced an interview.

Devlin pulled open drawer after drawer in his paper-buried desk, looking for cigars. “They’re in here somewhere.”

“Don’t put yourself out,” Jack said for the third time. “I don’t smoke.”

Miss Shea still hadn’t left the front steps. Something about that woman sent common sense into a tailspin. He could hardly take his eyes off her, and paying extra attention to her friend hadn’t helped.

“What brings you to Pearlman?” Devlin asked from behind the mounds of paper.

Direct and to the point. No dodging about. Jack could respect that, but he still wouldn’t give an interview, even the easy kind Miss Shea wanted to conduct. He blew on the window and rubbed a spot clean with his elbow. If he wasn’t mistaken, the lovely Darcy Shea had finally left with her friend. One threat gone.

“Heading for Chicago?” Devlin said.

“I’m not giving an interview.”

“Did I say anything about an interview? Just a little friendly conversation.”

Jack didn’t believe that for a minute. “I thought any interview belonged to Miss Shea.”

“Humph.” The newspaperman grunted from below the heaping desktop. “It takes more than desire to write for The Prognosticator. It takes a level head and a certain flair with the written word. Miss Shea…well, let’s just say her ambition outstrips her talent.”

Devlin’s dismissal of Darcy rubbed Jack wrong. “Ambition goes a long way toward success.”

Devlin’s head popped up. “What’s your interest in the inimitable Darcy Shea?”

“No interest.” He couldn’t let Devlin see how the woman affected him, so he sauntered across the room and peered into the print shop, where, near as he could tell, no one was working. “Just wondered how many reporters you have on staff.”

“Enough to do the job. Aha.” Devlin held up a fat cigar and then ran it under his nose. “Sure you don’t want it? Next best thing to Cubans, at half the price.”

Again Jack waved it off. Accept a cigar; accept the interview. He had to keep this story out of the newspapers. His bosses at Curtiss weren’t going to be happy when they heard about the locked engine. A sensational news story would put an end to long-distance test flights and tie him to the airfield.

“So the plane’s a prototype.” Devlin puffed to light the cigar. “Military use, eh?”

Jack preferred Darcy’s questions. She just wanted a ride in the plane. Impossible, of course, but he admired her tenacity.

“What’s it going to be used for?” Devlin propped his feet on the desk, sending papers tumbling to the floor. “Bombing? Scouting? Reconnaissance?” A cloud of smoke followed each word.

Such questions from Darcy would be called persistent. From Devlin they were just annoying.

“I can’t tell you any more than I could tell Miss Shea.” When Devlin frowned at the mention of her name, Jack realized he’d struck proverbial gold. He could turn the conversation away from the plane and toward her. “Speaking of Miss Shea, is she from here?”

“Born and raised.” Devlin pulled down his feet and leaned forward. “Is the army going to use the plane in the war? Advantage in the air is advantage on the ground, I say.”

Jack ignored Devlin’s question. “I expect everyone was born here. This is the kind of place a person would hate to leave. She married?” He could not believe he’d just asked that.

“Definitely not.” Devlin chuckled before returning to his questions. “Is the plane destined for European or North African duty?”

“Can’t say.” He wished Devlin had explained that little laugh. What was so funny about Miss Shea not marrying? Most women did. “Her friend is engaged?”

“To the richest bachelor in town.”

“You don’t say.” Jack didn’t care about the pretty blonde. His thoughts clung to the bundle of fire who insisted he give her a plane ride. Spirited. Determined. Fearless. All the qualities of a top-notch aviator. If she was a man.

“For which company do you fly?” Devlin asked.

Jack, still contemplating Darcy’s attributes, answered without thinking. “Curtiss Engineering.”

“That the same as Curtiss Aeroplane?”

Jack choked. He shouldn’t have said that. No one was supposed to know about the scout plane. “This model is just in testing. There’s a long way to go before it’s ready for production—if it’s ever produced.” He was digging himself out of a job. If the powers at Curtiss discovered he’d talked to the press, he’d be fired before he climbed out of the cockpit. “That’s strictly off the record. Can’t jeopardize the war effort.”

Devlin just grunted.

The newspaperman was not going to forget this. Confidential information would end up on the front page if Jack didn’t come up with a bigger story. He ran a hand through his hair, clueless how he could patch up this fiasco.

Thankfully, the telephone rang. Unthankfully, Devlin got to it first.

The newspaperman listened a long minute before saying, “Yep, got it Cora.” He hung the receiver on the wall hook. “Your man’s not there.”

“Not there?” Jack checked the time. Four-thirty. Burrows should have arrived an hour ago.

“Cora talked to the hotel manager. Seems your mechanic hasn’t checked in.”

Things were getting worse. If Burrows hadn’t arrived in Chicago yet, he wouldn’t get to Pearlman until late tomorrow at the soonest. Another day’s delay. Jack blew the air out of his lungs slow and steady. “Guess I’ll send a wire.”

“Should have said so while I had Cora on the line. She sends the cables around here.”

“The same person?”

Devlin scowled. “Pearlman has every advantage of the largest cities.”

“Good.” Jack glanced at his watch again. “I’d better hurry. Get there before she closes. Thank you for your hospitality.”

He fled the office before Devlin resumed the interview. At the bottom of the steps he met a well-dressed man better suited to the streets of Manhattan than a country village. The young man doffed his hat, revealing dark hair that gleamed like engine oil. Jack instinctively mistrusted the type.

“Blake Kensington.” The man extended his hand with a surprisingly open smile. “You the pilot that landed in Baker’s field?”

Jack couldn’t hide his surprise that the news had already spread around town. Nonetheless, he grasped Kensington’s hand and completed the introduction.

“Buy you a soda?” Kensington’s quick, almost imperceptible lift of one eyebrow told Jack the invitation involved more than a simple beverage.

“I need to send a wire first.” One soda couldn’t hurt. He’d hear the man out, and if he proved a pompous fool, beg off.

“The drugstore’s just across the street from the telegraph office. I’ll meet you after you’re done.” Kensington leaned close and whispered, “Back door. Knock twice, wait a second, and then knock three more times.” He clapped Jack on the shoulder and yanked open the door. “Devlin?”

Jack’s flutter of unease blew into a gale when he overheard Kensington say, “I told you front page. Make it right or you’ll hear from my father.”

Jack hurried down the sidewalk past Kensington Mercantile and Kensington Bank and Trust, trying to come up with an excuse to get out of that soda. He idly noted the emptied racks inside Kensington Bakery and the tidy desks inside Kensington Farmer’s Insurance Company. Did that family own the whole town?

On the next corner stood a weathered storefront with a freshly painted sign proclaiming it the communications hub of Pearlman, as well as the town’s official United States Post Office.

He pushed open the door, and a woman in her thirties popped up from behind the heavy oak counter. Her small eyes, snub nose and generous rump gave her an unfortunate resemblance to a sow. Cora, he presumed.

“You must be Mr. Hunter.” She beamed. “Beatrice Fox was right.”

“Miss Fox? About what?”

“Never mind,” Cora giggled.

Jack had lost patience with tittering single women. He had a problem to fix and little time to do so. “I’m here to—”

“—place a wire. What did you want to say in it?”

Small towns. Too nosy. Too personal. Better to live in the city, where a man could blend into the teeming sidewalks. But instead of snapping at Cora, he forced a smile.

“Send it to the Palmer House hotel in Chicago, care of Dick Burrows.” He made out the cable, paid the fee and tucked his wallet inside his jacket.

Cora didn’t budge. She also didn’t send the wire. She stood at the counter, twisting a dull brown curl around her index finger.

“Did I give you the correct amount?”

“Oh, yes,” she sighed without blinking.

“I need it sent right away.”

“Fine,” she huffed. “I’ll do it now.” But her glare made it perfectly clear that she would not send the wire while he waited.

Jack stepped back. What sort of town was this? He couldn’t get out of here soon enough. He turned and found himself face-to-face with the last person he wanted to see. “Miss Shea.”

Her hair was coming loose again, and her skirt sported dozens of burrs, but she was just about the prettiest woman he’d ever seen.

“Mr. Hunter.” She jutted out that determined little chin.

He stepped aside, but she moved in the same direction.

“Excuse me,” he said, attempting to get around her. His mouth had gone dry and that soda sounded better every minute. “I’m meeting someone. At the drugstore.”

Her eyes widened and her lips curved into a frown of disapproval.

He wished he’d kept his mouth shut. “Just for a soda.” Why did he say that? She didn’t need to know every detail of his day.

“What you drink is none of my business,” she said with far too much self-righteousness. She moved to her right just as he moved to his left, and they collided. “Excuse me. Oh.”

Her embarrassed laugh warmed Jack right to his toes. A hint of pink tinged each cheek, making her unbelievably attractive. The heady scent of violet wafted past. He had a terrible urge to kiss her.

“Excuse me.” Her curt tone destroyed the urge. “I need to check the post.”

“Of course.” This time he stood still and let her make the move, which she negotiated without further difficulty. He tipped his cap. “Good afternoon.”

Her delicate neck lifted, and her head turned until those deep brown eyes gazed at him again. “And to you, too.”

My, she could take a man’s breath away. Strong yet vulnerable. Plus she had no idea how beautiful she was. Jack took a deep breath and eased out the door, somehow managing to get to the sidewalk without stumbling.

The street was busy. Horns honked. Harnesses jingled. A dozen passersby could have witnessed that little scene. Cora certainly had. He walked as fast as he could toward the drugstore, dodging a slow-moving Packard and an even slower-moving horse and buggy. He jumped to avoid a fresh pile. Horses! Why didn’t this town join the twentieth century?

“Mr. Hunter.” Miss Shea’s words pierced through him with the efficiency of bullets. She no doubt wanted to pester him about flying. He quickened his step.

“Mr. Hunter.”

Didn’t she know she was creating a spectacle? Didn’t she care? Maybe that’s why Devlin laughed when he asked about her. Maybe that’s why she still wasn’t married.

He ducked his head and nearly barreled into a matron dressed in an outdated gown, oddly reminiscent of a ruler-wielding schoolmarm from the turn of the century.

“Sorry, ma’am.” He dropped into a deep bow.

She was not at all amused. “Watch your step, young man.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

With a nod, the matron dismissed him and marched across the street. “Darcy Shea, where have you been?”

Jack whipped around.

“Mum.” Miss Shea’s disappointment hung in the air with the stench of manure.

Mum? The schoolmarm was Darcy Shea’s mother? For a second he felt sorry for her. He even wanted to stand up for her, but then common sense returned. Jack Hunter didn’t belong in decent society. With his family background, no self-respecting mother or father would welcome Jack’s attentions to their daughter.

He had to put an end to this fantasy now.

Once he knew Darcy was watching, he strode to the back door of the drugstore. He knocked as directed, and before entering caught Darcy’s shocked expression. Good. That’s the way it had to be. Women like her could have nothing to do with men like him.

Darcy’s stomach refused to unknot, even after she was back in the privacy of her bedroom. She plopped on the bed with the hand-stitched quilt, but couldn’t lie still. Jack had gone into Mrs. Lawrence’s blind pig, the illicit drinking house that everyone in town knew about, yet law enforcement completely ignored.

Thank heavens Mum hadn’t seen that. Her opinion of the man would have sunk even lower. And Papa? If he found out, she’d never get that plane ride.

She pressed a damp cloth to her cheeks to cool them. If she appeared at supper all flustered, her parents would think something had happened. But nothing had, other than that little encounter with Jack at the post office, and that meant nothing. No, she could hold her head high and maintain cool detachment when it came to Jack Hunter.

Her sole objective was to get a ride in his aeroplane. To do that, she needed to persuade him to her point of view. But how? What could she give Hunter that would make him grateful enough to offer her a ride? He’d already shot down her story idea. By tomorrow afternoon his mechanic would arrive. She needed to convince him tonight, but how?

She chewed on her fingernails and tapped her foot, waiting for inspiration to come. Her parents wouldn’t allow her to go out after dark unless accompanied by someone they trusted. Beatrice wouldn’t do. She was dining at the Kensingtons’ tonight. She needed someone else, but who? Oo-gah. A car horn sounded below. Darcy raced to the window. Of course. Hendrick Simmons. He would do anything for her, and even Papa couldn’t object. They’d been friends since childhood, climbing trees and riding bicycles and repairing motors.

Repairing motors. Of course. She and Simmons could fix Jack Hunter’s broken engine. He’d be so grateful that he’d give her a plane ride. It was the perfect plan, pure genius.

The clock struck the six o’clock hour. Darcy donned a clean white waist, brushed the dirt off her skirt, and twisted her hair into a tight knot before going down to supper.

A massive, claw-footed walnut table dominated the Shea dining room. Mum favored pressed Irish linen and delicate English porcelain, but Darcy thought it looked out of place, like a top hat on a miner.

Papa set aside the newspaper and downed his daily medicinal of Dr. Caldwell’s Syrup Pepsin, beet juice and vinegar. Mum glanced up as Darcy entered. Her grim expression told Darcy this wouldn’t be easy.

Darcy slipped into her chair. “Sorry I’m late.”

A platter of roast beef sat in the center of the table, surrounded by bowls of potatoes, green beans and carrots from the garden. None of it tempted her.

After Papa said grace, Mum served the beef.

“We missed you at the grange today,” Mum said.

“I’ll roll double tomorrow afternoon. I promise.”

“Tomorrow is too late. You know we ship the bandages out in the morning. Darcy Opal Shea, this wild behavior has to stop. You’re nearly twenty-four, too old to make a spectacle of yourself. Your hair. Your skirt. I was embarrassed. Dermott, did you know your daughter went running through Mr. Baker’s field?”

Papa looked up from the newspaper, clearly only having heard the part of Mum’s harangue that came after her utterance of his name. “Baker’s field? I hear a plane crash-landed there. Did you see it, Darcy? Dennis Allington said it was quite loud.”

“It didn’t crash,” Darcy said. “It had to land due to engine trouble.”

“Is that so?” Her father snapped the paper and folded it against the crease. “Perhaps I’ll go over there and have a look.”

Oh, no. She did not need Papa meddling. “It’ll probably be gone in the morning. I don’t know for certain, of course, but I could ask. Someone in town must know. Hendrick Simmons, for instance. If the plane needed fuel or had a problem, they’d have to go to the motor garage. I could ask him after supper.”

“But it will be dusk,” Mum pointed out.

“We’ll walk there together,” Papa suggested.

Worse and worse. “No reason to waste your time, when I can run over in moments and report back.” A twinge of guilt rushed past Darcy’s conscience too quickly to pay it much mind. With her plan, everyone would gain. Simmons would get the business, Mr. Hunter’s plane would get fixed and she would get her plane ride. It was the perfect solution.

Papa gave her a long look. “You spend too much time with that Simmons boy.”

“He’s just a friend.”

“Exactly,” said Papa. “If you loved him, well, then we’d need to discuss things.”

“I don’t.” Darcy didn’t elaborate. Papa would never understand her refusal to marry.

“Speaking of prospects,” said Mum, “I understand someone new is in town.” She paused dramatically, waiting for Papa to ask who it was. When he didn’t, she proceeded to enlighten him. “Dr. George Carrman, from Buffalo. I ran into him while I was out. He seems a very pleasant, likeable young man.”

“You met him?” Darcy’s mother had an almost miraculous ability to run into any eligible bachelor who happened into town.

Papa furrowed his brow. “We already have Doc Stevens. There’s no need for another doctor—and a young, inexperienced one at that. That’s the way it is these days. The young people get an education and think they can take away a man’s job.”

Mum laughed off his concerns. “George Carrman is not here to take away Dr. Stevens’s job. He’s just visiting.”

“And he’s not a physician yet,” Darcy added. “He’s still studying.”

“Carrman, you said?” Papa pulled his attention from the newspaper. “Don’t know the family. Who’s he visiting?”

“He’s a Kensington cousin.” Mum clearly took pleasure in this announcement. “Must be on Eugenia’s side.”

“Kensington, eh? And a doctor. Don’t suppose he’s married.”

“No, he’s not married,” snapped Darcy. Better to get it over at once. “And don’t worry, Beatrice has already arranged a picnic so I can meet him.”

Father removed his reading spectacles and set them on top of the newspaper. “I’m glad someone is looking out for your future.”

“I’m not interested,” she said.

Mum shook her head.

Papa ran his thumbnail down the newspaper’s fold, creating a knife’s edge. “Don’t go into this with a closed mind, Darcy. He may be a fine young man and deserving of your attention.”

Darcy toyed with the green beans on her plate, separating the two halves and rolling out the little beans.

“Your mother and I only want what’s best for you,” her father continued. “A good marriage will ease our worries. You’re what? Twenty-three? Your sister was already married and had her first child by that age. It’s time to settle on someone.” He unfolded his spectacles and put them on again.

The front door opened, ushering in a tumult that could only be Darcy’s sister, Amelia, children in tow. “Hello, Mum, Papa.” Her greeting trailed through the house.

Darcy had never been close to her older sister. Besides the eight-year difference in their ages, they had nothing in common. Amelia loved clothes and babies. Darcy wanted to be a great explorer. They hadn’t fought—well, not that much. They simply didn’t like the same things.

“I must tell you. I simply couldn’t wait.” Amelia winged into the dining room, coat and gloves still on. Pale and willowy where Darcy was short and dark, Amelia had commanded numerous beaus before settling on Charles Highbottom, a local dairy farmer with enough income to buy the fancy hats and gowns she favored.

The girls, aged five and eight, ran to Grandmum while ten-year-old Freddie went straight to his grandpapa.

Darcy’s father broke into a wide smile. “How’s my Frederick? Find any treasures lately?”

Ordinarily shy Freddie dug in his pocket and extracted a handful of dusty baubles, which he dumped on the table.

“Let’s see what we have here.” Papa bent over the treasures while Freddie explained where he found each one.

Meanwhile, Mum doled out one piece of taffy to each girl. Darcy pushed aside her plate, appetite gone. Amelia was the pretty one, the smart one, the good one. She knew how to carry herself. She knew her place. Darcy had heard the comparisons all her life.

“Papa.” Amelia tugged off her gloves in irritation. “I have news. Are you listening?”

Papa looked up from the army of treasures. “Darcy, do you remember that bear claw I gave you? Wouldn’t that be a fine thing for young Frederick?”

Darcy’s mouth dropped open. The bear claw? Papa had given it to her. That claw was his prize, taken from the grizzly bear he killed years ago on his grand adventure. Give it to Freddie? He’d only ruin it.

“Papa!” Amelia stomped her foot.

“Forgive your father, dearest,” said Mum. “He’s partial to his grandson. Dermott?” Mum managed to capture Papa’s attention. “Your daughter has something to tell you.”

Amelia’s porcelain complexion had turned faintly pink. “It’s terrible timing, what with Charles having to sign up for the draft tomorrow, but that can’t be helped. You’re going to have another grandchild.”

Mum and Papa stared, dumbfounded.

“I thought you didn’t want any more children,” Darcy said.

Amelia hugged her gloves to her chest. “Well, Papa? Aren’t you pleased?”

“Oh, my dearest Amelia,” Mum gushed. “We are. Of course we are. It’s just that it’s such a surprise.”

Papa rose, brushing crumbs from his gray waistcoat. “Amelia, my dear. Good job.” He enveloped her in a hug.

“Congratulations,” Darcy said, though an unreasonable peevishness smothered any true celebration. Marry. Have children. Would nothing else please her parents?

“Good girl.” Papa beamed, pride elevating him an extra inch. “Let’s make it another boy.”

Another boy. There were more important things than having babies. Any woman could bear children, but precious few had the nerve to travel to the ends of the earth. Tears stung Darcy’s lids as she slipped out of the house. She would make her mark. She would do something no one had ever done before. Yes, she would.

Extricating Jack Hunter from the blind pig, or illegal saloon, had seemed like a good and noble idea at the time, but as Darcy approached the drugstore’s back door, the nerves set in. Her hands sweated, and she shivered in the cool evening air. She hadn’t exactly told Papa she’d be going here.

Since the state had gone dry two years ago, Vanesia Lawrence had run her saloon out of the back of the drugstore. Papa called it the blight on the apple of Pearlman, but his opposition hadn’t begun with prohibition. He had drilled the evils of drink into Amelia and Darcy from an early age, their Aunt Meg, who’d married a drunk, serving as his primary example.

Now Darcy stood at the door of a saloon, calling on a man, a drinking man, a man she barely knew. If Papa found out, he’d yank her home by the ears and never let her step outside again.

Dark and damp descended on the narrow alley, trapping the smells of rotted cabbage and horse dung between the brick buildings. Darcy hesitated outside the plain wood door, gathering her courage.

“Shouldn’t be here,” Simmons muttered.

He was right, of course, but Darcy couldn’t back down now, not when she stood this close to her dream. She turned the cold iron knob. The door didn’t budge. “It’s locked.”

“Good, we can go.” Simmons edged away. “I didn’t wanna come in the first place.”

“No, no. We can’t give up yet.” She knocked.

“What’re you doing?” Simmons hissed, tugging her away from the door.

“Finding Mr. Hunter.”

“We should get outta here.” Simmons glanced each way down the alley.

“Please stay, Hendrick. I need you. You’re the ace mechanic who can fix Mr. Hunter’s motor.”

“If you say so.” He drew a circle in the dirt with the toe of his shoe.

“Don’t worry. Remember your dream. Hendrick Simmons, aeroplane mechanic. You’ll have your own shop.”

“Garage.”

“Garage. Your name in big letters on the sign over the door. You can go places, Hendrick.”

“I don’t want my name up in big letters, and I don’t wanna go nowhere else. Them kind of dreams are fine for you, Darcy, but I’m a simple kinda guy. I like Pearlman, and I like my life fine just the way it is.”

Darcy sighed. Squeezing ambition out of Hendrick Simmons was tougher than getting Cora to stop listening in on telephone conversations. “Pearlman is fine, but maybe your children will want more. You could leave them an inheritance. You could be the Henry Ford of aeroplanes.”

Simmons rubbed his brow against his shoulder, somehow managing to smear black grease across his forehead in a faint echo of his sparse mustache. “Aw, Darcy, I don’t even have a girl. There’s no sense talking about children.”

“You’ll find someone.” It might be true, if he ever got up the nerve to ask a girl out. “She’ll appear one day, and you’ll know she’s the one. Who knows, maybe she’ll fly in on an aeroplane. But if a plane’s to come here, there needs to be a mechanic. You could be that mechanic. Imagine, she’d step out of that aeroplane and sweep you off your feet.”

“Aw, Darcy,” he mumbled, burying his hands in his trouser pockets. “I don’t think…”

Mrs. Lawrence—though to Darcy’s recollection there’d never been a Mr. Lawrence—threw open the door. Music and laughter emanated from inside, but Vanesia Lawrence’s orange silk gown filled the doorway. Even on tiptoes, Darcy couldn’t see past her.

“What do you want?” the proprietress said.

Darcy squared her shoulders. “Mr. Jack Hunter. Is he here?”

Mrs. Lawrence hesitated long enough that Darcy knew he was. “Now why would he be here, sugar? I don’t even know the man.”

“I saw him come here this afternoon.”

Mrs. Lawrence smiled lazily. “You must be mistaken. Now run along home to your papa.”

Darcy fumed at being treated like a child, but she couldn’t think up a deserving retort.

“Let’s go,” Simmons whispered. “He’s not here.”

“Yes he is.” Darcy faced off against Mrs. Lawrence. “I know what I saw, and I know what your business is, so you can stop pretending. Either you fetch Mr. Hunter now, or I write an editorial about your little establishment.”

Mrs. Lawrence’s artificial smile curved slightly, the blood red of her lips garish against the orange gown. “A threat, Miss Darcy, needs teeth to be effective. Our newspaper would never print such a piece.”

Which meant Devlin frequented the place, too. Darcy set her jaw. Vanesia Lawrence might block her now, but Darcy would not give up. “Then I’ll find him myself.” She darted past Mrs. Lawrence, but got only three steps into the dark, smoky hallway when she ran into something very solid and very alive.

“Back you go, Miss Shea,” said that all-too familiar voice.

A second later, Jack Hunter deposited her in the alley beside a wide-eyed Simmons, who looked ready to bolt. Mrs. Lawrence calmly closed the door, leaving Darcy alone with both her bait and her quarry.

“What do you want?” Hunter sounded almost bored.

“A moment of your time.” Darcy gave him her broadest smile.

“Couldn’t it wait until morning? This is no place for respectable ladies.”

“I know that, but—” she began, but he’d already turned on Simmons.

“You should know better than to bring her here.”

Simmons backed away.

She was going to lose Hendrick unless she talked fast. “I have a proposition for you, Mr. Hunter.”

“Is that so?”

“A business proposition,” Darcy clarified. She dragged Simmons forward as witness to her honorable intentions. “We only need a few minutes.”

Hunter looked faintly amused. “I already told you I’m not giving rides in my aeroplane, not to you or to anyone.”

“I’m not talking about a plane ride. I’m talking about solving your problem. We can repair your motor.”

To his credit, he didn’t laugh. “I have a mechanic. He’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Late tomorrow,” she emphasized. “We can save you time, get you on your way more quickly.”

“And you, out of pure goodness, want to help me leave as soon as possible.” The shadow of the doorway masked his expression. “That does run counter to your goal, doesn’t it?”

“I do want to help you. Mr. Simmons here is a mechanic. He can fix anything.”

“Good for Mr. Simmons.”

She disregarded the sarcasm. “We can begin now.”

“Listen Miss, didn’t you hear what I said before? This is a prototype. The motor isn’t like anything you have here. We need the correct parts. No matter how good you are,” he nodded at Simmons, “you just don’t have what that plane needs.”

Simmons hung his head, but Darcy dwelled on the meaning behind Hunter’s words. “Then you know what caused the problem.”

“I’m not a mechanic.”

“But you have an idea. Pilots do know their planes, don’t they?”

“It’s a prototype. I didn’t build it. Now if you’ll excuse me, Miss Shea, I’d like to return to my business conversation.” He rapped twice on the door.

Darcy very much doubted she’d interrupted business. More likely he wanted his drink, making him a man of dubious morals. Still, that didn’t disqualify him as a flight instructor, providing he didn’t imbibe before flying, and she’d seen no indication of that.

“Conversation will not get you in the air, Mr. Hunter. Your job, if I understand correctly, is to test this aeroplane and get it in top working condition for military use.”

“Very good. Apparently something I said is getting through to you.”

Darcy wanted to toss back his sarcastic jibe, but that wouldn’t get her in the air, so she pasted on a smile that would make Beattie proud. “Everything you’ve said, Mr. Hunter, is getting through to me. In fact, I’m so concerned for your mission and helping our boys overseas that I want to offer my assistance. Mr. Simmons is perfectly capable of machining a part if need be. If that is not to your satisfaction, at least you’ll have the motor apart so your mechanic can repair it quickly. Considering how anxious you are to leave Pearlman, you should be pleased.”

He took a moment. “You aren’t going to leave me alone until you get your way, are you?”

Darcy curbed her triumph. “That’s right.”

“If Burrows tells me you made it worse, you’ll pay for the damages.”

She agreed with a nod. Papa would be furious.

“And how do I know you have the money?”

Simmons finally found his voice. “Her father’s the banker.”

“The banker, eh? All right, you have a deal. Eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Eight o’clock.” She stuck out a hand to shake on it.

Hunter hesitated before grasping ahold. When he did, it was with a firmness and warmth and duration that sent a shock through her. She tried to breathe. She considered letting go, but couldn’t. She’d stalled, gone into free fall, and the whole world narrowed to just the two of them. Gone were the streets of Pearlman. Gone the moon. Gone Simmons.

Then he smiled, the kind of smile he’d given Beattie, the warm one, the one that said she was beautiful, the one that sent every thought fleeing from her head.

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

His smile curved back into a grin, but his hand still held hers.

“Uh, it’s late,” Simmons said.

“That it is.” Hunter finally let go, but as he did, his fingers brushed her palm.

Her hand tingled. “We have an early start.” What a mindless thing to say.

But he didn’t point out her lack of wit. He smiled softly. “So we do.”

Once again his gaze lingered, and she could not help but return the look. In the light of the half moon, she saw something besides the callous adventurer. He had shown consideration for her reputation. He’d acted honorably. He couldn’t be a complete reprobate.

But then, with a nod of the head, he went back inside and ruined every good thought.

Darcy touched the cold, wooden door. Half of her wanted to follow him. Half knew she should go home. Jack Hunter was no good. He was a drinking man.

She had no business even thinking about such a man.

Chapter Three

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.

Chapter Four

All Darcy’s efforts had come to naught. Jack flew away, and she returned to dull, normal life. Papa must have sensed her despair, because he didn’t lecture. He waited until she spilled the whole story. When the tears subsided, he accepted her apology and requested she devote her free time to worthy causes like the Ladies’ Aid Society and the war effort. No social functions except Beattie’s picnic. Even that came to a dismal end, when pouring rain sent everyone scurrying.

The tedium turned days to weeks. Summer slid into autumn. Though her dream felt as dead as the maple leaves tumbling to the ground, Darcy caught herself looking for Jack around every corner. She gazed for hours into the empty sky. She devoured the newspaper, hoping for word of him. She checked the post every day. Nothing.

Occasionally she’d catch a whiff of a saddle or harness and snap around, looking for the familiar leather jacket. At night she prayed for his return and gazed at the million stars, wondering if he saw the same ones she did.

“I’m so tired of this town,” she complained to Beatrice as they painted signs for the November election. “I need to do something. I need to go somewhere.”

The grange hall bustled with activity, from women preparing voter lists to men setting up tables. Damp wool coats and hats steamed above the clanking radiator. The leaky roof dripped steadily into the tin bucket at the end of their table. The room smelled old and musty and worn.

“You just have the blues,” said Beattie, swathed in an old shirtwaist and apron. “A little sunshine will set you right again.”

“It’ll take more than sunshine.” Darcy dipped a brush in blue paint and laid a wavy streak on the V of the VOTE HERE sign.

“You’ll think of something. You always do.”

Darcy wasn’t so sure. In the past, she would have thrown all her energy into the election. Since this one would give women the state vote, she should be excited, but the old spark had died.

“Maybe I’ll run away,” she mused.

“Stop being a goof. You can’t run away. You have responsibilities. Think of your parents. And Amelia’s expecting.”

Though deep down Darcy knew Beattie was right, she still wished she could recapture the thrill of flying.

“Besides, where would you go?” said Beattie, carefully keeping her paint within the penciled lines.

To Jack’s airfield, of course, but she didn’t want to make it public knowledge yet. Mum stood across the room, talking to Prudy. No one else was near. She could risk telling Beattie. “New York. Long Island to be exact.”

Beatrice’s eyes widened. “Where Jack lives?”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with Jack Hunter. I need to learn to fly, and New York is the only place I can do so while the war’s still on. Besides, that’s where Harriet Quimby learned. New York.” She savored each syllable.

“New York?” Felicity Kensington flounced near, her brunette hair adorned with diamond-studded combs. “I’m going there next week. If there’s anything I can get for the wedding, Beatrice, do let me know.”

“There’s nothing, thank you.” Beattie concentrated on the sign.

“Your dress is finished already? Usually Benton’s takes forever.”

Poor Beattie’s cheeks flamed. The Foxes could never afford a New York dressmaker, least of all Benton’s. Mrs. Fox, a skilled seamstress, was making the dress herself.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Felicity,” Darcy said. “If Beattie needs anything from New York, I’ll fetch it.”

Felicity’s lips pursed into a frown. “I was just trying to help.”

“Thank you.” Beattie smiled at her future sister-in-law, which was more than Darcy would do.

“Shouldn’t you be helping with the voter lists?” Darcy suggested.

Felicity sniffed. “My work is done.”

“Then you can help us paint.” Darcy stuck the wet paintbrush inches from Felicity’s serge suit.

Felicity jumped back. “Be careful. Do you know how much this suit cost? My mother would be furious if I showed up at the Ladies’ Aid Society meeting with my dress ruined.”

Darcy was tempted to flick paint at her.

Felicity looked down her nose. “You are attending, aren’t you? Mother said it’s mandatory.”

Darcy gritted her teeth. “If I’m done here.”

“Well, we shall somehow manage without you.” She flounced directly to Cora Williams, to whom she’d undoubtedly divulge Darcy’s itinerary.

“That ungrateful simp,” Darcy said.

“Now Darcy, don’t be unkind.”

“As if she wasn’t.”

“The Bible says we’re to turn the other cheek, remember?”

“I know, but some people make cheek-turning mighty difficult.”

Beatrice giggled, and Darcy was glad to hear her friend laugh. A wedding was supposed to be a joyful time, but lately Beattie had been terribly overwrought, and Darcy could guess the cause.

“So,” Beatrice said, a knowing look on her face. “You’re going to talk Jack Hunter into giving you lessons?”

Darcy completed the V with a quick swipe. “He’s an instructor, and I’m a pupil, nothing more.”

“Nothing more.” Beattie laughed. “Um-hm.”

“It’s true.” But her glowing cheeks betrayed her.

“I hope you succeed,” Beattie said more seriously. “Did your father give you the money?”

Darcy squirmed. “Not exactly, but I have an idea. I’ll talk Devlin into paying for the lessons in exchange for daily correspondence to the newspaper. That’s how Harriet Quimby paid for flight lessons.”

“Do you think he’ll do it?”

“It’s to his advantage, isn’t it? He’ll sell more papers.”

“Then why don’t you ask?” Beattie nodded toward the door where the newspaperman gathered his hat.

“Oh, uh,” Darcy stuttered. “Not here. Not now.” She hadn’t had time to think this plan through.

“Why not?”

“He looks busy.”

“Looks to me like he’s leaving. Hurry, and you can catch him.”

Though Darcy gave her friend a scathing look, Beattie was right. If she was going to learn to fly, she needed money. The only way to get money was to act. She scooted across the room, arriving just as Devlin grabbed the door handle.

“Mr. Devlin.” Darcy slipped between him and the door. “I wonder if I might have a minute of your time.”

“Not now, Shea. I’m on deadline.”

She pressed her weight against the door. “All I need is one minute.”

He glanced at his watch. “Sixty seconds.”

“I have a stupendous idea. Imagine this headline: ‘Local Woman Learns To Fly.’”

Devlin snorted. “No news there, Miss Shea, though I’ll consider an announcement in the ladies’ column when you pass your licensing exam.” He reached for the door.

“It’s not just about learning to fly,” she said, searching for something that would impress him. “I plan to go for a record.”

“Sure you do. Record for what? First woman over Baker’s barn?”

“First woman to cross the Atlantic,” she blurted out. Never mind she still needed to learn. Jack had mentioned something about a transatlantic attempt. She’d convince him to do it and take her along. “That’s where you come in. The Prognosticator can sponsor me.”

“Transatlantic?” Devlin nearly choked on his cigar. “You?”

“Yes me,” she said with growing confidence. Fulfilling a dream first required believing in it. “Of course, I need to take lessons.”

“Aha, we’re back to that. And I suppose you want me to pay for those lessons.”

“In exchange for stories. Every day.”

“No, Miss Shea.”

“The readers will love it, and when I make the transatlantic attempt, the Prognosticator will have an exclusive.”

“No, no, and no.” Devlin spat a flake of tobacco on the floor. “Your sixty seconds are up.”

“But I can do this. I can take lessons in New York—”

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