Soaring Home. Christine Johnson

give me a lesson?”

      “No, absolutely not.”

      “It will be a coup for the company. They can tell the military that the plane’s controls are so simple, even a woman can manage them.”

      “No,” he growled, keeping his voice low so he didn’t draw the attention of the gossips.

      “You haven’t heard me out. The military has to train raw recruits, right? What better selling point? It’s a sure bet, good for both sides. The army can train all the aviators they need in minimal time, and the company sells hundreds and thousands of planes.”

      She held her head high, doubtless expecting him to agree or even applaud her logic. Though her argument made some sense, the answer was still no. Even if he was willing, the Curtiss executives would never agree to it. Women didn’t fly in the war. They sure didn’t test warplanes.

      “It’s not possible,” he said. “Sorry.” Best to crush her hopes now.

      “You promised.”

      Those two tiny words smashed through every argument Jack could devise. He’d promised. With painful clarity, he recalled the exact moment. It did not include flying.

      “I promised to let you and your mechanic friend work on the engine.” He rubbed his aching head. Never let it be said that Jack Hunter reneged on his word. “I did not agree to give you a ride or lessons.”

      If she was disappointed, she didn’t show it. “Very well. That’s why I’m here.”

      “Give me an hour.” With luck, he could stretch that to two and prevent this woman and her friend from damaging his plane.

      “One half hour, and I’m waiting right here.”

      “Suit yourself.” Stubborn was too mild a description for Darcy Shea. Before entering his room, he made sure she understood. “Under no circumstances will you be flying.”

      “But—”

      He bolted for his room before she could finish protesting.

      Jack should have known this little project would end in disaster. He shouldn’t have given in to those pretty eyes, but Darcy Shea had a talent for talking him into doing precisely what he didn’t want to do.

      Thus, one day later the motor lay in pieces on the ground, with Burrows due on the three-thirty train. Jack did not want to witness the explosion when Burrows saw his motor torn apart. He hoped Darcy’s powers of persuasion also worked on fiery mechanics.

      “I don’t suppose you can finish before three-thirty,” he asked Simmons, who was standing on a ladder propped against the fuselage.

      The kid grunted and pulled a valve out of the number three cylinder. He handed it to Darcy, who then placed it in order on the white sheet she’d spread on the barn floor. Rows and rows of parts, each carefully cleaned and labeled.

      She stepped back to survey Simmons’s progress. “Don’t worry, we’ll have it apart by then.”

      “And repaired?”

      Darcy blinked slowly, taking it in. “You said not to fix it. Just take it apart. That’s what you said.”

      Her voluminous overalls left everything to the imagination except two delicate ankles, and her hair had been braided and coiled so tightly that she looked like a spinster, but her smile could charm a dead man. It sent prickles across his skin.

      “Are you listening to me?” she demanded.

      Jack nodded.

      “Well, don’t change your instructions halfway through the project.”

      “Yes, ma’am.” He was tempted to salute. She certainly acted like an officer. “I’m just anxious to finish.”

      She cocked her head. “It would go faster if you helped.”

      “I’m no mechanic.”

      “Neither am I, but I’m helping.” Her long eyelashes brushed the top of her cheek when she blinked.

      “You’re doing fine without me.” He nodded up at Simmons. “Besides, three’s a bit crowded.”

      The Simmons kid glared, reinforcing Jack’s opinion that he had eyes for Darcy. Anyone could see it. Except Darcy.

      Jack downed the last bit of coffee from his vacuum bottle and checked his watch. Nearly one o’clock. He yawned and stretched. Maybe he should help. But then he’d miss watching Darcy.

      Simmons suddenly cried, “Found it.” The kid climbed down the ladder and waved the oil screen under Jack’s nose. “Plugged.”

      “Huh.” Jack didn’t dare comment, or he’d give away that he knew more about the motor than he’d let on.

      “What Hendrick means is a plugged screen stops the oil from flowing,” Miss Shea explained with unnecessary pertinence. “Without lubrication, the engine locks up.”

      “Leave it for Burrows,” Jack snapped, irritated at being tutored like a novice. He’d been flying almost ten years. He knew more about planes than the whole population of Pearlman put together. “I’m going to get some lunch.”

      Simmons stood dumbly staring at his feet, as if he expected something more.

      “Repairs have to be made by the company mechanic,” Jack explained. He screwed the top on the vacuum bottle. “Thanks for the help.”

      Simmons gulped and nodded, but Miss Shea braced her hands on her hips, oblivious to the grease she was depositing there. He could tell by the set of her mouth that she was angry.

      “What is it?” Jack asked.

      Her lips worked a full minute. “You know what.” She nodded toward Simmons, who was packing up his tools.

      He hated when women assumed he could read their minds. “Humor me.”

      She whispered, “Hendrick Simmons put in a lot of time on your plane, when he could have been working at the motor garage. He deserves some…compensation.”

      “Why didn’t you say so?” Though it irritated him that she expected payment when they’d volunteered, he pulled out his wallet and settled with Simmons.

      “Want a ride, Darcy?” asked the kid, pocketing the money.

      She shook her head. “Brought my lunch.”

      Simmons hesitated. Clearly, he didn’t want to leave Darcy alone with Jack, nor should he.

      “I’m locking the barn.” Jack put on his cap. “I’m afraid you can’t stay, Miss Shea.”

      Jack’s words spurred Simmons on his way, but Darcy took her time gathering her lunch basket. “I’m going to eat under the big oak. I brought roast beef sandwiches. There’s enough to share.”

      “Share?” Jack wasn’t so sure that was wise.

      “What’s wrong? You don’t eat beef? Or is it the company you find objectionable?”

      “Not at all.” He searched for an excuse. “I wanted something hot.”

      “I can set your sandwich in the sun.”

      He had to double-check, but sure enough, Darcy Shea was teasing. It had been a long time since a woman had teased him, and it felt good. “That won’t be necessary.”

      “Then you’ll join me?”

      “After an invitation like that, how could I refuse?”

      She unpacked the basket beneath the big oak: sandwiches wrapped in paper and a mason jar filled with a pale yellow liquid that had to be lemonade. His mouth watered. He hadn’t sipped a lemonade in years.

      “What else do you have in that basket of yours?” He made sure he stood a good ten