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“Will she be flying with you?”

“Of course,” said Darcy, popping out from behind him.

“No,” Jack said at nearly the same time. He stepped back in front of her. “Dwight Pohlman will fly as navigator. Miss Shea’s not certified.
The Daily Mail
requires all entrants to have an IAF certificate.” He heard her gasp. He had not wanted her to learn about Pohlman this way. “Miss Shea has supported this effort through her groundwork. It’s impossible to list all her contributions.”

“She’s an investor then,” the reporter prodded.

Darcy practically quivered with rage, yet she kept her voice steady. “I’m a partner and journalist, whose stories are on exclusive to
The Pearlman Prognosticator
.”

Jack had never been prouder of her. She could stand up to anyone.

“You can’t have an exclusive on news,” sneered the reporter.

“If the lady says she has an exclusive, she has an exclusive,” Jack said fiercely. “If you take issue, I suggest you contact the paper’s editor, Mr. Devlin.”

Her anger dissolved into the most dazzling smile, and Jack nearly forgot what he was doing.

“Mr. Hunter, how long do you expect the attempt to take?” From the look on the reporter’s face, he’d asked the question more than once.

Jack answered their questions, but as the interview progressed, Darcy drifted off, the hurt back in her eyes. She acted as though he’d betrayed her, but he’d never agreed to let her fly. Yes, he should have told her Pohlman was going to be navigator, but he’d been afraid of losing her.

“I had to hire someone with experience,” he said to Darcy after the reporters left.

She stood silent, lip quivering, and that shook him even more. What had he done?

He struggled to right the situation. “Pohlman is certified.”

“I could get my certification.” She angrily wiped away a tear. “If you’d just give me more flight time.”

Jack inwardly groaned. He didn’t want her to cry. He hated tears.

“I’m sorry, but Dwight Pohlman is better qualified.”

She started to protest, but he cut her off.

“He has ten years’ experience. He’s taught as many students as I have, and he’s an expert in navigation.”

She choked back a retort, but he could tell she wasn’t pleased. At least she wasn’t crying.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go with experience. You do want me to return alive, right?”

She stood dead still for a full minute before barely nodding.

“I’m glad you care if I live or not.”

His joke fell flat. She wouldn’t look him in the eyes. She wouldn’t even turn her head toward him. Her hurt was palpable, and Jack couldn’t stand it. He had to lift her spirits somehow.

The test flights. Dare he? Those flights were still risky. Many a test pilot had died in a faulty machine. Still, no one knew this plane better than he. No one was more cautious or careful. He could practically ensure her safety by eliminating
weather and mechanical variables. It would put him behind, but it could be done.

He took a deep breath and plunged in. “I need your help with the test flights.”

She whipped around. “You do?”

“Pohlman can’t make it here until April. Before then, we need to run the load and fuel tests. If the weather stays fair, we also need to get in a distance test. This is important, Darcy. Without these tests, the flight will not succeed. Believe me, you’re one hundred percent a part of this.”

With a quick little sob, she flung her arms around him, sending his heart into a tailspin.

“Thank you,” she whispered against his shoulder. It was better than nothing. It kept her in the cockpit, and anything could happen before April. She didn’t wish Mr. Pohlman ill, but a travel delay would be fine. She might make that flight yet.

He smoothed a stray strand of her hair, sending a jolt through her. She’d never understand that man. Hot and cold.

“Plane’s ready, Mr. Hunter,” said Simmons.

Hendrick. He’d been there the whole time.

Darcy jerked away and straightened her coat.

Jack grinned, like he’d made some conquest. “Ready?”

“Now?”

“You do want to help with the test flights, right?”

“Yes. Absolutely. I’ll be right there.” She scrambled to get her goggles while Jack took the plane out of the barn.

The man both frustrated and excited her, one minute saying no and the next changing his mind in the most unexpected way. She was still angry he hadn’t told her about Pohlman, but she had a few weeks to prove herself the better navigator, get her certification, and convince Jack to let her fly the transatlantic attempt.

She waited beside the barn until Jack stopped the plane. The coldness of the ground seeped through the soles of her boots. Spring showed no sign of arriving early. The dead, brown grass poked its spindly stalks to the bright sky.

“Sorry,” said Simmons, walking over to stand beside her.

“For what?”

He shuffled his feet. “It won’t work.”

“Sure it will. The plane’s running great.”

“Not the plane,” he said. “With him.”

Darcy felt a twinge of discomfort. Could Beattie have been right? No, not possible. She and Hendrick were chums. They’d always been chums. He couldn’t possibly think she felt something more. Yet he was acting jealous of Jack.

Simmons poked at the ground with his boot. “He’s not the only one. I—I would…you know.”

The words ripped through her. Poor Hendrick. How much had it cost him to tell her how he felt? She should have seen it. She should have listened to Beattie and set things straight months ago. She had been unfair to him. “I’m sorry, Hendrick.”

“Don’t say it,” he said. “Some things a man don’t want to hear, even if he already knows. Just, well, if things ever change, I’m not going nowhere.”

Darcy couldn’t look at him. She’d known Hendrick Simmons all her life. They’d played together as kids, gone to school together. She never meant to hurt him. “I’m sorry.”

He cleared his throat. “Yep, well, I should get back to the garage.” Without another word, he got on his motorbike and left.

Darcy walked to the plane, her feelings a jumble. Poor Hendrick had seen her hug Jack. He probably hoped for a split, but she couldn’t help how she felt. She loved Jack.

Concentrate. She had to forget her feelings and operate
objectively. Flying was serious stuff, especially test flights. She couldn’t risk a mistake.

The motors sounded smooth, and she didn’t smell the heavy, burnt-oil exhaust anymore. The skies stretched wide above, painted with wispy high clouds that cut down the glare. The field was still a bit sloppy, but Darcy had seen Jack bring the plane down in worse. Everything lined up for a perfect flight, if she could keep her head.

“We’re flying empty so we can measure fuel consumption at light load,” Jack said as he helped her into the forward cockpit. “I want you to note any unexpected weather conditions and track the altitude and speed every sixty seconds. Got your watch?”

She nodded and belted in before attaching her watch to the clipboard. Every minute. “Including the ascent and descent?” she asked as Jack settled in behind her.

But the motors were too loud for him to hear. She’d take the readings. More couldn’t hurt.

Within moments, the plane leapt ahead and they bounced down the field. The takeoff went as smoothly as was possible from the muddy field. Darcy watched the instruments and the time, making sixty-second notations on the log sheet. Once the plane gained an altitude of three thousand feet, Jack flew straight and level for ten minutes, turned and flew back.

The flight had gone so quickly.

Darcy watched as they circled round and lined up for the landing. Funny, the pine boughs were waving. A breeze must have come up. She made a note on the log.

She watched the wheel move and tried to anticipate what Jack would do next. He hadn’t been pleased with her landings, and now she saw why. He eased into them at a lower altitude and much slower speed. She had come in too fast.

They neared the treetops then dropped a bit lower, just clearing the branches. She wouldn’t have cut the descent that
close. Suppose they clipped a limb? Julia Clark, “the Daring Bird Girl,” had died when her plane hit a tree. First American woman to die in a plane crash. Darcy held her breath until they’d safely passed the trees.

They skimmed the field, passing a few snow patches and last year’s tangled weeds. Soon they’d touch down and bounce through the ruts to the barn. If she had her way, they’d grade the field come spring.

Suddenly the plane shot up and rolled wildly to the right.

Her stomach jumped into her throat. She grabbed the wheel. Her feet hit the rudder bar. The trees. The plane was heading straight for a stand of aspen.

She braced against the wheel.

Jack turned sharply left.

Her feet flew off the rudder bar.

The right wing slanted forty degrees up. The left wing dipped. He wasn’t going to pull out in time. The barn. The silos. The trees. Everything was coming at them too quickly.

Thud. The left wing hit the ground. With a horrible rending sound, the wing’s bracing crumpled and the fabric tore. In seconds the machine came to a crashing halt and twisted forward, throwing Darcy against the seat belt and whipping her head toward the leading edge of the cockpit.

J
ack sat stunned for a full minute as the plane shuddered in its upended position and then dropped back to its wheels. The remnants of the left wing hung to the fuselage by wires. The left motor, still in its nacelle, had broken off the wing and lay on the ground.

He must be all right. Nothing hurt. No sharp pains. No blood anywhere.

“Darcy?”

What had happened? An updraft—but he’d handled those before. This time the wheel had jammed. He’d barely been able to move it, then it broke loose and he overcorrected.

“Darcy?” She was still slumped forward. Still hadn’t moved. A cry tore out of him as he jumped forward, only to be yanked back by the seat belt. He fumbled, desperate to get it off. “Darcy, can you hear me?”

She didn’t move.

He threw off the belt and scrambled forward. “Darcy?” He shook her by the shoulder.

“Jack.” She sounded groggy.

The sharp tang of gasoline hit his nostrils. No time. He had to get her out now.

He pushed aside the splintered frame of the upper wing
and stood on the precariously slanted lower wing. He brushed the hair from her forehead. Still warm, thank God.

“Can you move? I need to get you out of here.”

She mumbled something incoherent.

No time to think. He had to act. He undid her safety belt and her head lolled to the side. Blood ran down her forehead. He pressed his handkerchief against it to slow the flow. “Can you move your legs?”

“Yes.”

Thank God.
“Can you lift yourself up?”

“Mmm-hmm.” But she didn’t move.

Gasoline dripped just outside the cockpit. The fumes could ignite at any moment. No time to waste. He had to get her out now.

Jack wiggled forward to get the best leverage, and lifted. She was surprisingly light, a sprig of a girl for all her toughness. He held her close, inhaled the violet scent. Her head curled against his shoulder.

“Jack, Jack,” she murmured, eyes closed.

“I’m here. I have you. You’re safe.”

He skidded down the wing to the ground, holding her tightly.

“I can walk,” she protested.

“No.” No time. He ran. Had to get help. Had to find a doctor.

“Jack,” she said a little more clearly. “Stop running.”

People streamed across the field, on foot and in motorcars. One car halted beside him, the doors flew open and three people hopped out.

Jack kept running.

Someone blocked him to a halt. Blake. “Hold on, sport.”

“Doctor,” Jack gasped, winded.

“We’ve got one right here.”

“Let me look at her,” said a panting, doughy-faced man.
Jack recognized him as the man who’d danced with Darcy at her friend’s wedding.

“I need a doctor.” Jack pushed past the man. Darcy’s head banged against his chest, and she gripped his shirt tightly. She clung to him, yet he was the one who’d done this to her. He should never have let her fly. He should never have taken her up in the plane. He should have forced her to stay on the ground.

“Jack.” A woman’s voice. “We’re here to help.”

“Beattie,” said Darcy.

Jack spun, the people’s faces unfamiliar masks.

“Doctor,” he muttered. “Need a doctor.”

“We have a doctor.” Blake Kensington routed him to the rear door of his motorcar. “Set her on the seat.”

“No here, on the ground,” commanded the doughy man with surprising authority. “The light’s better. I’m a doctor. Please let me help.”

Jack dropped to his knees and set Darcy on the coat someone spread on the damp earth.

She hung onto him. “Don’t go.”

“It’s all right. I won’t leave.” He removed her arms from around his neck but held tight to her hand.

Beatrice covered her with a blanket. The doctor knelt on the other side.

“I’m all right,” said Darcy, but she didn’t sound all right.

“I need some cloth to stanch the blood,” the doctor said.

Somewhere, he’d lost the handkerchief. Jack dropped Darcy’s hand to rip off his shirt.

“Jack.” She reached for him.

“I’m right here.”

“Clean cloth, if possible,” added the doctor when he saw Jack peeling off his shirt.

Someone shoved a wad of white cloth into the doctor’s hand.

“Beatrice, will you hold this firmly to her head? We’ll want to slow the bleeding and then get her home.”

Home. Not to any place he could take her, but to her parents’ house. Though Jack held her hand, he could not heal her. He couldn’t even give her a piece of clean cloth to stop the bleeding.

They lifted her into the motorcar, and he had to let go.

She called to him, but there was no room in the car. “I’ll follow.”

“Meet you at the Sheas’ house,” said Blake, hopping into the driver’s seat. “Know where that is?”

Before Jack could answer, the car drove away, leaving him standing in the field. Darcy had to be all right. She had to be. He looked to the cold, infinite heavens, and for a moment considered praying, but only for a moment. God hadn’t heard him then; He wouldn’t now. Jack shivered and began the long walk to her father’s house.

Jack. Where had he gone? One moment he held her hand. The next he’d vanished. Events muddled in Darcy’s head, which throbbed. She tried to open her eyes, but the pain made her close them at once.

“Don’t move, dear.” Mum. Soft and comforting.

“You’re going to be fine.” That was Beatrice.

“Where is he?” She smelled and felt the familiar sheets and quilt of home, but how did she get in her bed? The last thing she remembered was letting go of Jack’s hand.

“Just rest,” Beatrice said. “You’ve had a bad spill.”

Why wouldn’t they answer her? “Is he hurt?”

Darcy felt her hand being squeezed.

“You took a nasty blow to the head,” Mum said, “but Dr. Carrman says you’ll be fine.”

“George is here?” Why? She forced her eyes open despite the pain and tried to sit up.

“No, no, dear, lie still.” Mum gently pressed her back against the pillows.

“Do you want something to drink?” Beatrice asked.

Darcy’s mouth did feel dry, but what she’d really like was something to stop the pain. “A powder,” she croaked.

“I’ll ask George.” Beattie glided out of the room.

Since when did she have to ask George’s permission? And why did Mum look so worried?

“Is he…dead?” The word stuck to her tongue.

Mum dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m just so grateful you weren’t killed by that horrible machine.”

The plane. She relived each moment in seconds: soaring high in the sky, swooping down on the field, and then the lurch. The wild turn right and then left. The trees. She’d held on tight. To the wheel. Oh no, just what Jack told her not to do. What if? Impossible. She’d let go.

“How bad is it?” she asked tentatively.

“You’ll recover,” said Mum.

That wasn’t what she wanted to know. “The plane.”

Mum placed a cool cloth on her forehead. “Mr. Hunter got you out of the wreck.”

Then he must be all right.
Relief brought tears. Jack was alive. But the plane. And the transatlantic attempt. “Can it be fixed?”

“I wouldn’t know, but I must say Mr. Hunter was quite the hero the way he rescued you.” A little smile danced across Mum’s face. “Blake said the plane might have caught fire.”

Darcy gasped. “It burned?”

“No, no dear, but it might have. Mr. Hunter disregarded his life to save yours. Perhaps I misjudged him.”

Mum’s turnabout didn’t make Darcy feel any better. If the plane was badly wrecked, the transatlantic flight might be over.

“Where is he?” Darcy asked. Best to get this over now,
when the pain in her head might drown out the pain in her heart.

“Mr. Hunter? Downstairs, I believe. Did you wish to see him?”

Darcy nodded and closed her eyes. Perhaps he wouldn’t condemn an injured woman.

“I’ll try to drag him away from those pesky reporters.”

Darcy groaned. They’d not only failed, they’d done so in front of the Chicago press. It would be all over the newspapers. Jack would never let her fly again.

“How are you feeling?” said a masculine voice. George Carrman, not Jack.

Darcy swallowed her disappointment. “My head hurts. I’d like a powder.”

George held some fingers in front of her face. “How many do you see?”

“Four.”

“And who is President of the United States?”

“Stop this,” she snapped. “I’m fine, other than a headache.”

“Then you can answer the question.”

“Woodrow Wilson, though if women had the vote it might have turned out differently.”

George chuckled and turned to Mum. “She needs to rest, but otherwise sounds fine. You may give her aspirin, but I’d avoid laudanum.”

Mum handed Darcy the powder she’d requested. She poured the bitter grains into her parched mouth and reached for the glass of water.

“Darcy?” Jack stood in the doorway, cap in hand. His hair stuck out at odd angles, and his trousers were covered in mud. He looked nothing like the dashing hero who’d captured her heart the first time she saw him, but somehow she loved this Jack even more.

Darcy let the aspirin melt on her tongue.

So many times she’d wished to see him in her house, but not this way, not after a catastrophe.

“We can fix it,” she croaked, tears forming. “There’s still time. Don’t lose hope.”

His jaw tensed. “Just get well. Rest. That’s more important.” He replaced his cap. “Good night, Darcy.”

Why did it sound more like goodbye?

Jack followed Carrman downstairs. The doctor had stood guard at Darcy’s bedside, preventing Jack from telling her that he was sorry and would never hurt her again.

Darcy’s father waited in the parlor. He glared at Jack before addressing Carrman. “How is she?”

“It will take time.”

Jack needed his news straight up, not in couched language meant to soothe. “She’ll recover fully?”

“Most likely.” Carrman spoke to Darcy’s father, not Jack.

Apparently everyone blamed him. Rightly.

“She appears to have suffered no serious effects,” Carrman continued, “but a blow to the head is tricky. In rare instances there’s a hemorrhage in the brain that cannot be detected. The next few days will tell. To be safe, keep her in bed and alert as much as possible. I’ve already given your wife instructions for her care.” He shook Mr. Shea’s hand. “I’m optimistic she will be herself within the week.”

Darcy’s father heaved a relieved sigh. “Thank God. May I see her?”

“Yes, of course.” Carrman packed his medical bag.

Mr. Shea leveled his attention on Jack. “Mr. Hunter, tell me why my daughter was in your plane.”

Jack stared. She hadn’t told him? But she said her father had given her permission. “She said—” He couldn’t betray her. “That is, I asked her to take readings. It was a short
flight, and the weather was good. There shouldn’t have been a problem, but a sudden updraft caught the wings too close to the ground.”

Shea’s stony expression didn’t ease.

“It’s my fault, sir.”

Shea nodded curtly. “It won’t happen again.”

No, it wouldn’t, but not because of anything her father might say. Darcy had nearly died. Never again. Jack Hunter would never again teach a woman to fly.

After two days of doctor-ordered bed rest, Darcy welcomed company. She didn’t welcome Beattie’s news.

“He’s gone?” Darcy stared at her friend, mouth agape. “Are you sure?”

Beattie nodded. “I’m afraid so. Blake said he went home to arrange shipment of the plane. They towed it into the barn, and then he left.”

Darcy threw off the quilt. “But why? He could have waited. He could have seen me, talked to me. Why did he sneak off? It’s only March. We have time. We can fix the plane and still make the attempt.” Beatrice tried to pull the covers back over Darcy, but she was having none of it. “Has anyone surveyed the plane? We need to order supplies.”

“Didn’t you hear me? Jack called off the flight. He’s going to have the plane shipped to Buffalo.”

“Did Blake agree to this?” The project was funded with Kensington money, after all.

“With no pilot, he didn’t have much choice. Jack said he’d repay our investment.”

“How?” As far as she knew, Jack lacked money.

Beattie’s brow puckered. “He said something about exhibiting.”

“Flying exhibitions?” That meant Jack would go south, perhaps to Texas. Darcy hopped out of bed and threw on her
robe. “Then we need to hurry. We’ll fix the plane before Jack comes back. First, we need to order the materials. There’s not much time.” She rummaged in her desk for paper and a pencil. “We’ll need wood, preferably spruce, enough good, strong linen cloth to cover the wings. Doping compound, paint, wire, screws, of course. Do you know if the metal nacelle mount was damaged?”

Beattie stared. “Darcy?”

“Never mind. I’ll check. We need to place the order right away.” She pressed the flat end of the pencil against her chin. “It could take a week to get everything.”

“Darcy.” Beattie scolded, hands folded atop her lilac satin bag like she was sitting in church. “Slow down. You don’t know if Jack will come back.”

Darcy locked eyes with her friend. “Of course he will, if I have to go to Buffalo and drag him back by the ears.”

“Darcy! You can’t force a man to do something he doesn’t want to do.”

“I’m not forcing him. This is his dream. He told me so.”

Beattie slowly shook her head. “If you’re right, then something made him walk away. Something upset him enough to give up his dream. Maybe the crash?”

Darcy almost countered that Jack couldn’t be upset by a little accident, but then she recalled his boast that he’d never crashed a plane before. Was that enough to shake him? If so, she had to bring that confidence back.

“It doesn’t matter,” Darcy said. “Now is the time to support him. Now is the time to press forward. Obstacles are mere detours on the path to success. No great explorer has ever succeeded without overcoming setbacks. When Jack comes back to fetch his plane, he’ll find it good as new. He’ll find us ready, and he’ll know that we stand behind him.”

Beattie threw up her hands in surrender. “You
are
a dreamer.”