Soaring Home. Christine Johnson

Hunter asked.

      “Oh, yes.” Darcy started to write, but Devlin chose that moment to put the car in gear and drive through the biggest pothole in the barnyard. She flew forward and had to brace herself against the back of the seat or she would have smashed right into Devlin.

      Beattie had bounced forward also, and Mr. Hunter steadied her until she settled back in the seat. He smiled, not just any old smile, but warm and welcoming. With a sinking feeling, Darcy realized he must have meant it for Beattie. Beatrice was the beauty, not her.

      Darcy squeezed the pencil tight and pretended to survey the passing scenery. She reminded herself that she was never going to marry. It didn’t matter if no one found her beautiful. She would be fine by herself. After all, marriage meant being shackled to a man’s will.

      On the other hand, from a purely aesthetic sense, Mr. Jack Hunter had a certain dashing charm. His jacket was of an excellent cut and style, though worn pale at the edges. No pomade, thank heavens. Though oiling the hair was all the rage, Darcy despised the smelly stuff. She imagined sinking her fingers into his thick hair. The soft tug. Silky smooth.

      “Did you have another question?” he asked.

      Darcy gulped, feeling the heat lick up her face. She must have been staring at him.

      “Uh, where are you from?” she asked. Ridiculous question. Devlin must be laughing.

      “New York.” He smiled in a most disconcerting way before resuming his conversation with Devlin.

      “Are you sure you’re all right?” Beattie asked.

      “Fine.” But she wasn’t. Jack Hunter was turning her into a fool, making her forget what she really wanted. Just spit it out. Tell him she wanted a plane ride. But her mouth refused to form the words. Her mind went blank every time he looked at her.

      The car flew down the road toward the newspaper building. More than once they bounced off the seat when it hit a rut. Beattie clung to the door frame, but Hunter took the jolts in stride. Maybe he was accustomed to bumpy rides in his aeroplane. Baker’s field couldn’t have afforded a smooth landing.

      Devlin didn’t apply the brakes until they’d passed the Kensington Mercantile, two doors from their destination. He pointed the motorcar straight at the hundred-year elm outside the press’s front window. With a screech, a squeal and a grinding jolt that threw everyone forward, the automobile shuddered to a stop, bumper just touching the elm.

      “Oh,” hiccupped Beatrice, her eyes wide. “Oh.”

      Devlin rolled out of the vehicle. Now was her chance.

      “Mr. Hunter.” Darcy tried to tap his shoulder, but he moved just out of reach. “Mr. Hunter, if I might have a word.” Since she couldn’t get past Beattie, she jumped out her side. “Excuse me. I have a proposition.”

      Devlin’s head snapped toward her. “Miss Shea, I’m not buying any stories.”

      “But this will be spectacular, and something only I can do, seeing as I’m a woman.”

      “That might be debatable,” Devlin grumbled.

      She scooted around the back of the motorcar, only to find Hunter helping Beatrice out of the backseat. The streak of jealousy flashed through her again, but she shoved it aside. He was doing what any man would do. He would have done the same for her if she’d stayed in the vehicle.

      “Why thank you,” Beattie said. “You are such a gentleman. Just like my Blake.”

      “It’s easy around two lovely ladies.” He smiled broadly.

      Darcy coughed to settle her mind. He could not disarm her with a mere smile. Devlin was sidling near. She had to act.

      “Take me up,” she said without explanation.

      For a moment, Hunter looked surprised. “Take you up on what?”

      “Oh, no,” Beattie said, aghast. “Darcy didn’t mean anything improper. She’s not that kind of woman.”

      Darcy felt the heat rise again in her face. “Up in the aeroplane.” Her voice squeaked. “I’ll write about it for the newspaper. It’ll be the highlight of the year. Remember my articles on the Chicago aviation meet, Mr. Devlin? You sold out and had to make another print run.”

      “Those were for a school project.” Devlin’s ill humor soured. “Besides, you were the only one from Pearlman at that meet. You go up in that thing here, and everyone will know about it. No news. No story.”

      “But they won’t be able to experience it—assuming Mr. Hunter isn’t giving rides. But if you are, just wait until the article comes out, and people will line up around the block.”

      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