Soaring Home

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.