Soaring Home. Christine Johnson
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acted honorably. He couldn’t be a complete reprobate.
But then, with a nod of the head, he went back inside and ruined every good thought.
Darcy touched the cold, wooden door. Half of her wanted to follow him. Half knew she should go home. Jack Hunter was no good. He was a drinking man.
She had no business even thinking about such a man.
Chapter Three
Jack sat at the dining table the next morning with a thunderous headache. Didn’t seem fair, considering he never touched alcohol. He took a gulp of coffee, hoping the strong brew would clear the pain. He, of all people, knew better than to go into a saloon, but it had seemed the right choice at the time.
He unfolded the newspaper and blinked repeatedly to focus his eyes. He could swear that was a photograph of his aeroplane spread across the front page with the one-inch headline: PLANE CRASH-LANDS.
Jack slammed the paper to the table. That illiterate, no-good newspaperman!
Four sets of eyes fixed on him.
Jack nodded at the other boarders. “Sorry.”
He had to get out of this town before the damage got worse. Curtiss hadn’t wanted the prototype scout plane to leave Long Island, but Jack and Burrows had insisted a distance test was required. Chicago and back, that was all. Two days, three at most. But Jack had not counted on disaster. An emergency landing and a missing mechanic added up to one major headache. “Dzien dobry. Good morning.” The stout Polish proprietress set a plate of runny eggs before him. Though his stomach turned, he managed a nod of thanks.
The other boarders—a salesman type, a meek professorial fellow, and two gray-haired gossiping hens—watched with interest, no doubt waiting for the introduction he didn’t intend to make. Boardinghouses attracted the misfits of society, those without the comfort of family, and Terchie’s was no exception.
Jack shielded himself with the offensive newspaper. He had an uneasy suspicion he’d agreed to something last night, but he couldn’t remember exactly what.
“Are you the pilot who crashed?” one of the ladies asked.
Jack grumbled an excuse, gathered his coffee and newspaper, and went to the porch. The open windows let in fresh air as well as the sounds of motorcar horns, people yelling and birds squawking. Better than gossiping hens.
He settled into the overstuffed chair farthest from the windows, and opened the paper to read what that newspaperman had written about him. It took only a moment to get the gist.
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.