K. Weiland - Storming

He pulled her off the curb. “Stay close!”

They ran across two roads, dodging honking automobiles, and sprinted down the sidewalk to where Col. Livingstone had landed his plane. The man himself was standing a few yards off, pontificating to the gathered crowd. Nobody paid too much attention when Hitch snuck himself and Jael right on by. He loaded her into the front cockpit, started up the engine, and hopped in back.

Then people started paying attention.

HOW COULD HE have thought this was a good idea? In the rather impressive list of bad ideas—or at least semi -bad ideas—Hitch had come up with over the years, this one would have to be written in the history books with red ink.

In less than the time it had taken him to taxi this heap of Livingstone’s down that empty street, he had probably ruined any chance of even being in the competition, much less getting a job with Livingstone. His stomach turned all queasy and rolled over on itself.

He flew low over town, headed north toward the impromptu airfield. Half a dozen motorcars careened through the streets, giving chase. In the lead car, a man in a white suit brandished his Stetson. Hard to tell from here, but he looked a little red in the face.

A crowd was following him. That much, at least, was going right. Now Hitch just had to make Livingstone see it that way.

He turned forward again.

In the Jenny’s front cockpit, Jael rode like she was born to it. She sat up straight, neck craned to see the ground below, the tails of her red kerchief snapping in the wind.

He banked hard right just to see what she’d do.

She dropped a hip and rode the turn out like she’d known it was coming. Didn’t so much as grab the cockpit rim. She seemed to catch sight of him out of the corner of her eye, and she turned her head and actually smiled at him. Whatever had scared her on the ground didn’t seem to bother her much up here.

He grinned back.

The sky was like that. Up here, problems slipped away. People couldn’t make demands when you were in a plane. Even if they were riding with you, you wouldn’t be able to hear them. Once you spun that propeller and launched into the blue, fears and worries disappeared. Up here, everything was solid and fluid at the same time. Life was the buzz of the stick turning your hand numb. You held it, you controlled it. It was yours to keep or lose.

The only thing that even came close to experiencing that for yourself was sharing it with someone else for the first time.

Far ahead, the rows of parked planes glittered, mirage-like, in the sun. He banked again and dove low to cross the cornfields. From up here, they looked like a sea of green swirling in his prop wash.

A dark spot he’d taken for a blackbird suddenly flashed white: a small face looking skyward. A dark-headed kid in overalls saw the plane and jumped up and down, waving both arms. He started running, swiping the corn aside to keep up with the plane.

Hitch laughed and dove lower to give the boy a thrill.

In the front cockpit, Jael stood up. She leaned out, one hand on a support wire, and waved down at the boy.

Hitch’s heart jumped into his throat. “Get down!”

She couldn’t hear him, of course, and he couldn’t reach her from here. So he waved his free hand, until finally she glanced back at him.

Her eyes twinkled. She knew she’d done exactly what she shouldn’t have.

Consarn the girl.

She ducked back into the cockpit, and he yawed the plane a smidge to the right, enough to give her a push and tumble her into the seat. She was a gutsy little thing, he had to give her that much.

Once she was sitting again, facing forward, he let himself grin, just a bit.

They left the boy far behind and swooped in low over the airfield. From the back where he sat, Hitch couldn’t see the ground ahead, but he lined up the landing as best he could. The plane glided in to about six feet off the ground, as nice and easy as you could want. He brought the nose up and flared, then settled the whole thing with a bump-hop, then another. He finally brought the wheels to the ground to stay, let the tailskid drop, and killed the engine. The propeller’s noise died.

He slapped the turtleback between the two cockpits. “Are you crazy?”

Jael stood up. Her cheeks were flushed from the wind, and her hair was coming out from the front of her kerchief. “That was… What is your word for it? Polet ! Like Schturming , but not same. Different.”

“Passengers stay in the cockpit, you hear me?”

Earl came running over. “What in blue blazes? Where’d you get that thing? You’ve seen Livingstone? He let you fly his plane? That’s got to be a good sign!”

“Yeah, well, about that…”

Earl drew up short. “What now? Or wait, don’t tell me: You stole the plane.”

“Yep.”

“ What ?”

Hitch glanced over his shoulder.

Even now, a big cloud of dust chased the fleet of automobiles up the road to the field’s entrance.

He hoisted himself up and swung his legs over the edge of the cockpit. “Look, it’s not all that bad.”

“You stole Livingstone’s plane! How is that not bad? Tell me how that’s not bad!”

Hitch’s feet thumped against the ground. “You’re right, it’s bad.”

Earl leaned his head back and groaned. “You did this without having any kind of a plan?”

“Of course I had a plan. It just might not be, on reflection, a very good one. I had to save this girl, see.”

“What girl?” Earl whipped his head around to look at Jael standing in the front cockpit. “I knew there was a girl!”

“It’s the girl from last night.”

Earl didn’t look convinced.

“She saw somebody in town, got scared—and then I had this thought.”

“You should never have thoughts.”

“We needed to make a splash with Livingstone—get his attention, right? So what if I was to do him a favor? You remember the man. What’s the one thing in this world he loves better than flying?” He pointed toward the motorcars streaming in. “You cannot buy this kind of publicity.”

“This is the kind of publicity that lands you right in the pokey!”

The cars careened to a stop a few yards off. Rick drove the first one, with Lilla waving gaily from the back.

Livingstone piled out of the front passenger seat. He smashed his Stetson back onto his head and gave his black string tie a tweak.

Hitch hooked his thumbs into his suspenders, trying to keep his posture both relaxed and confident.

“Well, well, well.” Livingstone’s words were calm enough, softened by the hint of a Georgia accent. The high pitch at the end of each word was the only tip-off he was peeved. “If it isn’t Hitch Hitchcock. I do believe I haven’t seen you since Nashville. When was that, ’17, ’18?” His nostrils flared, and he grinned wolfishly, the careful trim of his Vandyke beard curving around his mouth.

Hitch pasted on a grin that was just as wide. He came forward to shake Livingstone’s hand. “You ol’ bushwhacker. Took you long enough to get yourself out here.” He gestured over his shoulder. “Quite the ship you’ve got.”

Livingstone’s smile widened, but he spoke through his teeth. “Isn’t she?” He was still mad enough, that was clear. And he was likely to stay mad until Hitch did something sensible—like apologize.

“Thought I might help you drum up some extra business. All in good fun, right?” Hitch winked. “Showmanship, always showmanship, isn’t that what you used to say?”

“And am I to understand you’ve pulled these shenanigans for no reason other than the benefit of my circus?”