Soaring Home. Christine Johnson
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“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
MILLS & BOON
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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