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“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.”
