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Soaring Home
Christine Johnson
Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesSmall-town girl Darcy Shea aspires to be the first woman to fly across the Atlantic Ocean.All she needs is a plane, flight lessons—and the luck to avoid marriage. A husband would never allow her to fly, let alone truly soar. When test pilot Jack Hunter crash-lands practically in her backyard, her prayers seem answered. . . almost.The dashing aviator won't let her near his plane—or reveal the real reason he's keeping her grounded. But Darcy won't give up until both their dreams come true. And even after conquering the wild blue yonder, she may find that love is truly the greatest adventure of all.
“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 (http://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.
