Soaring Home. Christine Johnson

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “Should have said so while I had Cora on the line. She sends the cables around here.”

      “The same person?”

      Devlin scowled. “Pearlman has every advantage of the largest cities.”

      “Good.” Jack glanced at his watch again. “I’d better hurry. Get there before she closes. Thank you for your hospitality.”

      He fled the office before Devlin resumed the interview. At the bottom of the steps he met a well-dressed man better suited to the streets of Manhattan than a country village. The young man doffed his hat, revealing dark hair that gleamed like engine oil. Jack instinctively mistrusted the type.

      “Blake Kensington.” The man extended his hand with a surprisingly open smile. “You the pilot that landed in Baker’s field?”

      Jack couldn’t hide his surprise that the news had already spread around town. Nonetheless, he grasped Kensington’s hand and completed the introduction.

      “Buy you a soda?” Kensington’s quick, almost imperceptible lift of one eyebrow told Jack the invitation involved more than a simple beverage.

      “I need to send a wire first.” One soda couldn’t hurt. He’d hear the man out, and if he proved a pompous fool, beg off.

      “The drugstore’s just across the street from the telegraph office. I’ll meet you after you’re done.” Kensington leaned close and whispered, “Back door. Knock twice, wait a second, and then knock three more times.” He clapped Jack on the shoulder and yanked open the door. “Devlin?”

      Jack’s flutter of unease blew into a gale when he overheard Kensington say, “I told you front page. Make it right or you’ll hear from my father.”

      Jack hurried down the sidewalk past Kensington Mercantile and Kensington Bank and Trust, trying to come up with an excuse to get out of that soda. He idly noted the emptied racks inside Kensington Bakery and the tidy desks inside Kensington Farmer’s Insurance Company. Did that family own the whole town?

      On the next corner stood a weathered storefront with a freshly painted sign proclaiming it the communications hub of Pearlman, as well as the town’s official United States Post Office.

      He pushed open the door, and a woman in her thirties popped up from behind the heavy oak counter. Her small eyes, snub nose and generous rump gave her an unfortunate resemblance to a sow. Cora, he presumed.

      “You must be Mr. Hunter.” She beamed. “Beatrice Fox was right.”

      “Miss Fox? About what?”

      “Never mind,” Cora giggled.

      Jack had lost patience with tittering single women. He had a problem to fix and little time to do so. “I’m here to—”

      “—place a wire. What did you want to say in it?”

      Small towns. Too nosy. Too personal. Better to live in the city, where a man could blend into the teeming sidewalks. But instead of snapping at Cora, he forced a smile.

      “Send it to the Palmer House hotel in Chicago, care of Dick Burrows.” He made out the cable, paid the fee and tucked his wallet inside his jacket.

      Cora didn’t budge. She also didn’t send the wire. She stood at the counter, twisting a dull brown curl around her index finger.

      “Did I give you the correct amount?”

      “Oh, yes,” she sighed without blinking.

      “I need it sent right away.”

      “Fine,” she huffed. “I’ll do it now.” But her glare made it perfectly clear that she would not send the wire while he waited.

      Jack stepped back. What sort of town was this? He couldn’t get out of here soon enough. He turned and found himself face-to-face with the last person he wanted to see. “Miss Shea.”

      Her hair was coming loose again, and her skirt sported dozens of burrs, but she was just about the prettiest woman he’d ever seen.

      “Mr. Hunter.” She jutted out that determined little chin.

      He stepped aside, but she moved in the same direction.

      “Excuse me,” he said, attempting to get around her. His mouth had gone dry and that soda sounded better every minute. “I’m meeting someone. At the drugstore.”

      Her eyes widened and her lips curved into a frown of disapproval.

      He wished he’d kept his mouth shut. “Just for a soda.” Why did he say that? She didn’t need to know every detail of his day.

      “What you drink is none of my business,” she said with far too much self-righteousness. She moved to her right just as he moved to his left, and they collided. “Excuse me. Oh.”

      Her embarrassed laugh warmed Jack right to his toes. A hint of pink tinged each cheek, making her unbelievably attractive. The heady scent of violet wafted past. He had a terrible urge to kiss her.

      “Excuse me.” Her curt tone destroyed the urge. “I need to check the post.”

      “Of course.” This time he stood still and let her make the move, which she negotiated without further difficulty. He tipped his cap. “Good afternoon.”

      Her delicate neck lifted, and her head turned until those deep brown eyes gazed at him again. “And to you, too.”

      My, she could take a man’s breath away. Strong yet vulnerable. Plus she had no idea how beautiful she was. Jack took a deep breath and eased out the door, somehow managing to get to the sidewalk without stumbling.

      The street was busy. Horns honked. Harnesses jingled. A dozen passersby could have witnessed that little scene. Cora certainly had. He walked as fast as he could toward the drugstore, dodging a slow-moving Packard and an even slower-moving horse and buggy. He jumped to avoid a fresh pile. Horses! Why didn’t this town join the twentieth century?

      “Mr. Hunter.” Miss Shea’s words pierced through him with the efficiency of bullets. She no doubt wanted to pester him about flying. He quickened his step.

      “Mr. Hunter.”

      Didn’t she know she was creating a spectacle? Didn’t she care? Maybe that’s why Devlin laughed when he asked about her. Maybe that’s why she still wasn’t married.

      He ducked his head and nearly barreled into a matron dressed in an outdated gown, oddly reminiscent of a ruler-wielding schoolmarm from the turn of the century.

      “Sorry, ma’am.” He dropped into a deep bow.

      She was not at all amused. “Watch your step, young man.”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      With a nod, the matron dismissed him and marched across the street. “Darcy Shea, where have you been?”

      Jack whipped around.

      “Mum.” СКАЧАТЬ