Christine Johnson - Soaring Home

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.