Soaring Home. Christine Johnson

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