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Hunter shook his head. “No one is going up in that plane. The motor is locked. Frozen. Won’t run.”
Devlin guffawed, and the two men started toward the newspaper office door. Men. If they thought a simple dismissal could stop her, they were dead wrong.
“Yes, I know you need to make repairs. But after it’s fixed,” she said, tagging along, “you could take me up. On a ride,” she added, so there’d be no repeat of the last misunderstanding.
Jack Hunter stopped on the steps. “In case you’re not aware, Miss Shea, the government has restricted civilian flights due to the war.”
His words slapped hard. She did know it. She’d just forgotten in the heat of opportunity. “But you must have permission.”
“To test new aircraft for possible military use.”
Darcy’s head throbbed. Her dream sat so close she could touch it, but Hunter kept pulling it just out of reach.
“You’ll need to test the repairs,” she suggested.
“Not with a civilian passenger, and definitely not with a woman. Good day, Miss Shea. Miss Fox.” With that, he and Devlin went inside. The door banged shut behind them.
Darcy stood before the closed door. She would get that ride. She didn’t quite know how at the moment, but Darcy O. Shea was no quitter. She’d find a way.
Chapter Two
While Jack waited for the telephone operator to ring back, he stood lookout at the grimy front window. Devlin and Miss Shea had him trapped. Inside the newspaper office or outside, he faced an interview.
Devlin pulled open drawer after drawer in his paper-buried desk, looking for cigars. “They’re in here somewhere.”
“Don’t put yourself out,” Jack said for the third time. “I don’t smoke.”
Miss Shea still hadn’t left the front steps. Something about that woman sent common sense into a tailspin. He could hardly take his eyes off her, and paying extra attention to her friend hadn’t helped.
“What brings you to Pearlman?” Devlin asked from behind the mounds of paper.
Direct and to the point. No dodging about. Jack could respect that, but he still wouldn’t give an interview, even the easy kind Miss Shea wanted to conduct. He blew on the window and rubbed a spot clean with his elbow. If he wasn’t mistaken, the lovely Darcy Shea had finally left with her friend. One threat gone.
“Heading for Chicago?” Devlin said.
“I’m not giving an interview.”
“Did I say anything about an interview? Just a little friendly conversation.”
Jack didn’t believe that for a minute. “I thought any interview belonged to Miss Shea.”
“Humph.” The newspaperman grunted from below the heaping desktop. “It takes more than desire to write for The Prognosticator. It takes a level head and a certain flair with the written word. Miss Shea…well, let’s just say her ambition outstrips her talent.”
Devlin’s dismissal of Darcy rubbed Jack wrong. “Ambition goes a long way toward success.”
Devlin’s head popped up. “What’s your interest in the inimitable Darcy Shea?”
“No interest.” He couldn’t let Devlin see how the woman affected him, so he sauntered across the room and peered into the print shop, where, near as he could tell, no one was working. “Just wondered how many reporters you have on staff.”
“Enough to do the job. Aha.” Devlin held up a fat cigar and then ran it under his nose. “Sure you don’t want it? Next best thing to Cubans, at half the price.”
Again Jack waved it off. Accept a cigar; accept the interview. He had to keep this story out of the newspapers. His bosses at Curtiss weren’t going to be happy when they heard about the locked engine. A sensational news story would put an end to long-distance test flights and tie him to the airfield.
“So the plane’s a prototype.” Devlin puffed to light the cigar. “Military use, eh?”
Jack preferred Darcy’s questions. She just wanted a ride in the plane. Impossible, of course, but he admired her tenacity.
“What’s it going to be used for?” Devlin propped his feet on the desk, sending papers tumbling to the floor. “Bombing? Scouting? Reconnaissance?” A cloud of smoke followed each word.
Such questions from Darcy would be called persistent. From Devlin they were just annoying.
“I can’t tell you any more than I could tell Miss Shea.” When Devlin frowned at the mention of her name, Jack realized he’d struck proverbial gold. He could turn the conversation away from the plane and toward her. “Speaking of Miss Shea, is she from here?”
“Born and raised.” Devlin pulled down his feet and leaned forward. “Is the army going to use the plane in the war? Advantage in the air is advantage on the ground, I say.”
Jack ignored Devlin’s question. “I expect everyone was born here. This is the kind of place a person would hate to leave. She married?” He could not believe he’d just asked that.
“Definitely not.” Devlin chuckled before returning to his questions. “Is the plane destined for European or North African duty?”
“Can’t say.” He wished Devlin had explained that little laugh. What was so funny about Miss Shea not marrying? Most women did. “Her friend is engaged?”
“To the richest bachelor in town.”
“You don’t say.” Jack didn’t care about the pretty blonde. His thoughts clung to the bundle of fire who insisted he give her a plane ride. Spirited. Determined. Fearless. All the qualities of a top-notch aviator. If she was a man.
“For which company do you fly?” Devlin asked.
Jack, still contemplating Darcy’s attributes, answered without thinking. “Curtiss Engineering.”
“That the same as Curtiss Aeroplane?”
Jack choked. He shouldn’t have said that. No one was supposed to know about the scout plane. “This model is just in testing. There’s a long way to go before it’s ready for production—if it’s ever produced.” He was digging himself out of a job. If the powers at Curtiss discovered he’d talked to the press, he’d be fired before he climbed out of the cockpit. “That’s strictly off the record. Can’t jeopardize the war effort.”
Devlin just grunted.
The newspaperman was not going to forget this. Confidential information would end up on the front page if Jack didn’t come up with a bigger story. He ran a hand through his hair, clueless how he could patch up this fiasco.
Thankfully, the telephone rang. Unthankfully, Devlin got to it first.
The newspaperman listened a long minute before saying, “Yep, got it Cora.” He hung the receiver on the wall hook. “Your man’s not there.”
“Not there?” Jack checked the time. Four-thirty. Burrows should have arrived an hour ago.
“Cora talked to the hotel manager. Seems your mechanic hasn’t checked in.”
Things were getting worse. If Burrows hadn’t arrived in Chicago yet, he wouldn’t get to Pearlman until late tomorrow at the soonest. Another day’s delay. Jack blew the air out of his lungs slow and steady. “Guess I’ll send a wire.”
“Should have said so while I had Cora on the line. She sends the cables around here.”
“The same person?”
Devlin scowled. “Pearlman has every advantage of the largest cities.”
“Good.” Jack glanced at his watch again. “I’d better hurry. Get there before she closes. Thank you for your hospitality.”
He fled the office before Devlin resumed the interview. At the bottom of the steps he met a well-dressed man better suited to the streets of Manhattan than a country village. The young man doffed his hat, revealing dark hair that gleamed like engine oil. Jack instinctively mistrusted the type.
“Blake Kensington.” The man extended his hand with a surprisingly open smile. “You the pilot that landed in Baker’s field?”
Jack couldn’t hide his surprise that the news had already spread around town. Nonetheless, he grasped Kensington’s hand and completed the introduction.
“Buy you a soda?” Kensington’s quick, almost imperceptible lift of one eyebrow told Jack the invitation involved more than a simple beverage.
“I need to send a wire first.” One soda couldn’t hurt. He’d hear the man out, and if he proved a pompous fool, beg off.
“The drugstore’s just across the street from the telegraph office. I’ll meet you after you’re done.” Kensington leaned close and whispered, “Back door. Knock twice, wait a second, and then knock three more times.” He clapped Jack on the shoulder and yanked open the door. “Devlin?”
Jack’s flutter of unease blew into a gale when he overheard Kensington say, “I told you front page. Make it right or you’ll hear from my father.”
Jack hurried down the sidewalk past Kensington Mercantile and Kensington Bank and Trust, trying to come up with an excuse to get out of that soda. He idly noted the emptied racks inside Kensington Bakery and the tidy desks inside Kensington Farmer’s Insurance Company. Did that family own the whole town?
On the next corner stood a weathered storefront with a freshly painted sign proclaiming it the communications hub of Pearlman, as well as the town’s official United States Post Office.
He pushed open the door, and a woman in her thirties popped up from behind the heavy oak counter. Her small eyes, snub nose and generous rump gave her an unfortunate resemblance to a sow. Cora, he presumed.
“You must be Mr. Hunter.” She beamed. “Beatrice Fox was right.”
“Miss Fox? About what?”
“Never mind,” Cora giggled.
Jack had lost patience with tittering single women. He had a problem to fix and little time to do so. “I’m here to—”
“—place a wire. What did you want to say in it?”
Small towns. Too nosy. Too personal. Better to live in the city, where a man could blend into the teeming sidewalks. But instead of snapping at Cora, he forced a smile.
“Send it to the Palmer House hotel in Chicago, care of Dick Burrows.” He made out the cable, paid the fee and tucked his wallet inside his jacket.
Cora didn’t budge. She also didn’t send the wire. She stood at the counter, twisting a dull brown curl around her index finger.
“Did I give you the correct amount?”
“Oh, yes,” she sighed without blinking.
“I need it sent right away.”
“Fine,” she huffed. “I’ll do it now.” But her glare made it perfectly clear that she would not send the wire while he waited.
Jack stepped back. What sort of town was this? He couldn’t get out of here soon enough. He turned and found himself face-to-face with the last person he wanted to see. “Miss Shea.”
Her hair was coming loose again, and her skirt sported dozens of burrs, but she was just about the prettiest woman he’d ever seen.
“Mr. Hunter.” She jutted out that determined little chin.
He stepped aside, but she moved in the same direction.
“Excuse me,” he said, attempting to get around her. His mouth had gone dry and that soda sounded better every minute. “I’m meeting someone. At the drugstore.”
Her eyes widened and her lips curved into a frown of disapproval.
He wished he’d kept his mouth shut. “Just for a soda.” Why did he say that? She didn’t need to know every detail of his day.
“What you drink is none of my business,” she said with far too much self-righteousness. She moved to her right just as he moved to his left, and they collided. “Excuse me. Oh.”
Her embarrassed laugh warmed Jack right to his toes. A hint of pink tinged each cheek, making her unbelievably attractive. The heady scent of violet wafted past. He had a terrible urge to kiss her.
“Excuse me.” Her curt tone destroyed the urge. “I need to check the post.”
“Of course.” This time he stood still and let her make the move, which she negotiated without further difficulty. He tipped his cap. “Good afternoon.”
Her delicate neck lifted, and her head turned until those deep brown eyes gazed at him again. “And to you, too.”
My, she could take a man’s breath away. Strong yet vulnerable. Plus she had no idea how beautiful she was. Jack took a deep breath and eased out the door, somehow managing to get to the sidewalk without stumbling.
The street was busy. Horns honked. Harnesses jingled. A dozen passersby could have witnessed that little scene. Cora certainly had. He walked as fast as he could toward the drugstore, dodging a slow-moving Packard and an even slower-moving horse and buggy. He jumped to avoid a fresh pile. Horses! Why didn’t this town join the twentieth century?
“Mr. Hunter.” Miss Shea’s words pierced through him with the efficiency of bullets. She no doubt wanted to pester him about flying. He quickened his step.
“Mr. Hunter.”
Didn’t she know she was creating a spectacle? Didn’t she care? Maybe that’s why Devlin laughed when he asked about her. Maybe that’s why she still wasn’t married.
He ducked his head and nearly barreled into a matron dressed in an outdated gown, oddly reminiscent of a ruler-wielding schoolmarm from the turn of the century.
“Sorry, ma’am.” He dropped into a deep bow.
She was not at all amused. “Watch your step, young man.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
With a nod, the matron dismissed him and marched across the street. “Darcy Shea, where have you been?”
Jack whipped around.
“Mum.” Miss Shea’s disappointment hung in the air with the stench of manure.
Mum? The schoolmarm was Darcy Shea’s mother? For a second he felt sorry for her. He even wanted to stand up for her, but then common sense returned. Jack Hunter didn’t belong in decent society. With his family background, no self-respecting mother or father would welcome Jack’s attentions to their daughter.
