Baroness (30 page)

She gritted her teeth, too aware that the ground came up to meet her, only twenty feet, maybe less. She refused to scream—it would only jar Truman.

He needed his full concentration.

Again, gravity pulled her from her perch, but she held on, her arms, hands burning. Then, just when she thought she would break free, go skidding across the earth, the plane began to arch up. She saw sky as they started to climb. The propeller churned in front of her, and she willed the plane skyward. It seemed to slow down, to crawl out of the turn.

C'mon, fly!

And then, just like that, they stalled. Fifty feet off the ground, the air pressure above the wind equalized, stopped sucking them into the sky, and they dropped like a rock.

She might have screamed, she didn't know, but she let go of her rope, clawing at the air, as if swimming as the plane fell, exhausted, and smashed into the earth.

* * * * *

She couldn't breathe. Every time Lilly inhaled, pain speared through her, turned her inside out, made her moan. It was the moaning that brought her out of the darkness into the gray wash of the room. She smelled it, the antiseptic, the odor of the dying, and another moan elicited when she realized she was in the hospital.

Light streaked through a window beside her bed, and at it stood a man, wide shoulders, dark curly hair. “Truman?” she said, trying to focus her vision. He turned at her whisper. She took a breath and wanted to cry with the agony of it.

Oliver.

He appeared older than she remembered, lines drawn around his mouth, his eyes. He still, however, held power in his aura, and she felt it as he strode over to her. “Lillian, thank God. You've been in and out for the better part of a week. I got here as fast as I could.”

She tried to sort it out, to unscramble her memories. Flying, and then… “Oh no. We crashed.”

He pulled the chair up next to her bed. “Yes, it was a terrible accident. You broke three ribs and your collarbone, your right arm, your left leg. They thought… .” He shook his head, looked away. “I'm so sorry, Lilly, but you had a miscarriage.”

She stared at him, wrapping her mind around his words. “I was pregnant?”

“According to the doctor.” He shook his head. “I don't need to ask what possessed you to start wing walking. You have too much of your mother in you for me to wonder, but…” He got up. “I'll be right back.”

He strode from the room, and she watched him go, listening to his steps in the hallway. Then, suddenly, something like a cry erupted from the corridors. Loud and ferocious, it wheedled through her, held her fast.

It sounded like a man being broken asunder.

And then…
Truman.
Where was Truman? No. He was indestructible. He owned the skies.

“No.” She said it aloud because it helped keep the truth away. “Not Truman.” Her throat filled with acid, her chest tight. “You can't have Truman.”

“Miss Lilly?”

Mr. Stewart. Oliver's father. She should have guessed. She covered her mouth, a thousand fragments breaking through her. “I…” She closed her eyes. How was she supposed to live without Truman? Without him tucking her into the cockpit, his sturdy hands showing her how to fly, his smile that turned her life whole?

She'd done this. This was her fault, trying to save their little show. Trying to be the Flying Angel.

Sobs bubbled out, and she put her hand over her eyes.

“Miss, why are you crying?”

“I…” She couldn't say it.
I killed my husband
.

“If you're wondering about your young man, he's alive.” Mr. Stewart poured her a drink of water. “Although, I think his troupe is about to pull out of town.”

She stared at him, his words noodled in her head. “What?”

“Truman Hawk.” He sat down, held the glass out to her. “You're wondering about the pilot of your plane.”

“He's my
husband
.” She'd never called him that before. Now the word emboldened her. “Where is he?” She let him help her with a drink.

“I suppose he's at the airfield, although I did see him earlier today, right there.” He pointed to the chair opposite her bed.

“He survived.” Her vision blurred. “How?”

“He was thrown clear. You were attached to the wings, but they broke off and tossed you, also. Good thing, because apparently the plane exploded. No wonder your father had words for him when he arrived.” He wiped her chin, and she stared at him.

“They had
words
? What
kind
of words? This wasn't Truman's fault. He didn't even want to do the trick. I did.”

“That's not what he said.” Oliver stood again at the door, his eyes reddened. “He told me that this was all his idea, that you were against it.”

“That's not true.”

“Of course it's not.” Oliver sat down near the bed. “But it might as well be for the guilt the man is suffering. I saw a man torn up about your injuries, a man ready to crawl out of his skin. I didn't realize that he truly had come to care for you. That wasn't our agreement.”

“What are you talking about?”

Oliver glanced at his father. Mr. Stewart put down the glass and turned back to her.

“I met him, that morning when you left Mobridge. He was buying gas, and after seeing you at the air show the day before, it didn't take much to figure out where you'd run off to. I knew you wouldn't return willingly to New York, and I knew that if you left with the air show, it might make it very difficult to find you. So I offered him a deal.”

“A deal.” Her voice turned flat. She glanced at Oliver, who met her eyes, unflinching. “What kind of deal?”

Mr. Stewart made to speak, but Oliver held up his hand.

“Nothing but information. He was to call in regularly and tell us where you were. I was worried about you, Lilly, and just couldn't bear it if you disappeared again. Of course, I had no idea he'd allowed you to start wing walking. If I had, I would have hopped the first train west. Of course, the news of your marriage should have surprised me, but I was a fool to think that wouldn't happen.”

If her chest didn't hurt before, it burned now. “Why?”

Oliver pressed his lips together in a tight line. “Please, Lilly. Truman is an opportunist. He looked at you and saw a future.”

“With a woman he loves.”

“Perhaps. Or just a girl away from home with a rich father.”

Her voice strung low. “You're not my father.”

“So you are trying to prove to me.” He got up. “Lilly, I've arranged passage on the next train out. You'll have a hospital car, and in New York the best doctors waiting.”

“I'm not leaving my husband.”

“Funny, because he's at the boardinghouse, leaving
you
.”

She refused to let those words coil around her, burn. Instead, she turned them out onto Oliver. “Did you pay him to leave me?”

Oliver closed his eyes. Ran his hand along his forehead. Shook his head. “I often wonder just why you think so little of me.” A muscle pulled in his jaw as he looked up. “And why, when I've only wanted the best for you, it's so hard for you to believe that I love you.”

He brushed past the bed, past Mr. Stewart, and out of the room.

She leaned back into the pillow.

“He loves you, more than you know.”

“He's driving Truman away from me.”

“I believe Truman is not the man you think he is.” Mr. Stewart sat on the bed. “But, because your father does not want to take you prisoner, despite what you believe, I feel certain he would allow me to take you to Truman. If you insist on staying with him at that time, I believe I can convince Oliver to let you live your own life, however you choose.”

She stared at Mr. Stewart and saw the tremble around his mouth. Sometimes she forgot that, if Oliver was her adopted father, Mr. Stewart was her grandfather.

“Please, take me to Truman.”

He hailed a nurse, and despite the nurse's protests, she helped Lilly dress. Oliver came in after she'd dressed and, without a word, scooped her into his arms.

She met his eyes. “Thank you.”

“I truly hope I have misjudged him, Lilly.”

Then he carried her out of the hospital and down the street to the boardinghouse. He came up the porch stairs and paused at the door, wedging his foot in to open it.

Voices tumbled out, and she stiffened, recognizing them. Oliver moved her into the foyer, and she could see Truman and Marvel inside the parlor, Truman's back to her. He had that tone, the one that raised the hair on the back of her neck. The one accompanied by “over my dead body.” “You're the one who put the idea into her head—”

“Yes, but you knew that if you refused, it would only make her do it. Just like the wing walking—the more you refused, the more she wanted it,” Marvel snapped.

“I didn't want her to wing walk in the first place!” Truman's voice rose, clung to the ceiling.

“Really, Truman? You didn't see that as a way for her to fall for you, for you to get your way? You always knew how to manipulate the women in your life.”

Lilly stiffened in Oliver's arms.

“I have to admit, I never thought you'd go so far as to marry her.”

She waited to hear Truman say it—“I loved her, I wanted to marry her”—even held her breath for it, but nothing came out.

“Yeah, well, I had my reasons.” Truman snaked a hand behind his neck, rubbed a tense muscle.

“I hope they were good ones, because I'm cutting you loose. I'm flying with Beck and Rango south, to Texas, to try and salvage what's left of my circus.”

“What—you can't leave without me. I'm your star flyer!”

“A star flyer that cost me a plane!”

Truman shook his head. “No, listen—Lilly's rich. Or at least her father is. He'll get me a plane.”

She held back a cry as Marvel considered him. “I get it. Finally this all makes sense. She's your meal ticket out of my circus.”

“Listen, Marvel—”

Marvel held up his hands. “No, I get it. I hear the rumors. I know you always wanted to start your own show. Maybe you even planned this.”

“Planned on nearly killing Lilly?” Truman had that tone again. “Plan on losing the baby she was carrying?”

So he knew. Oliver looked down at her, his eyes glossy.

Marvel should shrink before Truman, with that tone, but instead his voice grew low. “I was just like you, once upon a time. I would do anything to fly. Maybe even marry a girl I don't love.”

“It's not like that.”

“Really? Well, I hope you two live happily ever after.” Marvel pushed past him, but Truman caught his arm, held him fast.

“Don't leave me here, Marvel. Take me with you.”

She heard Moseby's words, richer now with the truth, roil inside her.
Truman will do exactly as Truman wants. Truman is all about flying. It's all he has, and he's not going to give it up for anything…or anyone.

“And Lilly, what of her?” Marvel's gaze filtered out into the foyer, latched onto her. He gave her a look.

Truman shook his head, not seeing her. “It's time—it's time for Lilly to go back to New York, where she belongs.”

She closed her eyes against his words, hearing the truth. Indeed, yes it was.

B
ARONESS

NEW YORK CITY, 1927

Chapter 13

It had taken four years, but Truman had finally landed his own show.

Lilly stared at the advertisement in the
Chronicle,
something his advance man had placed last week. The Flying Daredevils. Seemed apropos, because the advertisement highlighted Truman and his stunts—midair stalls, mock aerial battles, barrel rolls, inverted flying, and, of course, the suicide loop.

And, he'd replaced her with some bimbo named Agnes the Angel.

She closed the paper and slid it onto the desk, staring out the window of her tiny associate publisher's office as the sun simmered between the buildings off the Avenue of the Americas and Broadway, the rays dissected by Macy's, Gimbels, and Stern's, the six- and nine-story monoliths that grew up around the
Chronicle
. The newspaper building now sat in shadow, the statue of Minerva, the Bell Ringers, and Owls draped in darkness even on the sunniest days. Downstairs, the smell of turpentine, graphite, and beeswax rose from the electrotyping of the plates, combining with the redolence of the ink from the rows and rows of linotype machines. Soon the presses would run, shaking the entire building in preparation for tomorrow's edition, rattling her from the inside out. Lilly picked up a cloth napkin and wiped the greasy newsprint from her hands, leaving the smudges in the folds. The torn parchment of an orange skin lay piled on a salad plate, her tea cold in the half-drunken cup, her lipstick pressed along the rim.

The debris of another attempt at her daily column.

Oliver's nod to Esme's request that Lilly join the ranks of the newspaper world.

Lilly wanted to love the life her mother left her, she really did. Wanted to understand how the odor of newsprint, the clatter of linotype machines, the incessant shouting, the roar of the presses, had ignited her mother's passions. How the call of the daily news had driven Esme to launch her own newspapers out West before returning to New York City to helm the
Chronicle,
turning her back on their life in Montana as if it might have been a figment of their imaginations.

Sometimes Lilly thought it might be. She'd long ago lost the fragrance of the West—the sweat of animals, the redolence of buffalo chips, the tangy sweetness of prairie grasses in the wind. She could no longer imagine the Montana sunsets, hear the cry of a wolf wheedle through her mind as she lay in bed.

New York City had finally flushed from her the memories that had stirred her to flee four years ago into a life that now seemed dangerous, even foolish.