Soaring Home. Christine Johnson

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СКАЧАТЬ looked back.

      Jack was frantically working on something in the cockpit. He wasn’t watching where they were going. He wasn’t even steering.

      She grabbed the wheel and tried to hold it in place.

      Then the engine died.

      It grew deathly quiet, with only the whistle of wind rushing past.

      The wheel yanked in her hands. She held on tighter.

      “Let go,” Jack yelled.

      She released it like a hot stove iron. The village, once so far away, was coming nearer and nearer in great swooping circles. They’d stalled and gone into a spin. Spins were fatal.

      “Do something!” she yelled.

      “I am.”

      But the buildings and trees kept coming closer. They were going to crash.

      “Brace yourself,” he yelled.

      She bent low. An exposed head could be snapped off if the plane tumbled end to end.

      In the eerie silence she heard Jack moving around behind her. Why wasn’t he bracing himself for impact?

      Then, as she offered a fervent prayer for undeserved forgiveness, the engine sprang to life. The plane shot upward, leaving her stomach on the ground.

      Her scream trailed across the dark-edged sky. Were they really going to live? She looked back. Jack stared at the controls. She checked below. Yes, the ground was where it belonged. She gulped in the sweet air, but she couldn’t stop shaking.

      Jack circled, lined up the field and brought the plane down. It bumped and hopped over the uneven earth, bouncing her brain against her skull. But after the plane came to a halt and the propeller turned slower and slower until it stopped, a fierce ache took hold.

      She’d flown, had faced the worst that could be endured and had lived.

      She swallowed as Jack tapped her on the shoulder.

      “Sorry about that. Little problem with the engine. You all right?” He’d already taken off his helmet and goggles, and his sandy hair gleamed gold in the rising sun.

      She nodded and pulled off her goggles and hood. The flight might be over, but her dream was not. It had only begun. This experience only confirmed that God had destined her to fly.

      She climbed out the far side of the cockpit and pulled down her skirt. By the time she rounded the plane, half the town was streaming toward them.

      “Thank you.” She threw her arms around Jack. “It was wonderful.”

      “Stop that.” He extricated himself. “Remember, you never got into the plane. You had nothing to do with that flight.”

      “I know, I know.” She shoved the motor hood into her pocket, but she couldn’t so easily wash away her disappointment. “I was just congratulating you on an excellent flight.”

      Jack glanced from Burrows, who was climbing down from the wing, to the gathering crowd, clearly worried.

      “Just a kink in the fuel line,” said Burrows. “I’ll check it over, fill her with gasoline and oil, and we can be on our way.”

      “I’ll get the oil.” Jack sprinted to the barn.

      Leaving? Right now? How could he fly off, after what had just happened? Jack Hunter held the key to her dream. He could teach her to fly. He couldn’t leave. She started after him.

      “Miss Shea?” The wiry mechanic caught her arm. “A word of warning. Jack Hunter is not the marrying type.”

      She pulled away. “Who said anything about marriage?”

      “I just thought…” he let his voice trail off as Jack reappeared with an oilcan.

      Burrows was wrong. Despite Jack’s admittedly attractive qualities, she had no intention of marrying. She had to fly first. Her interest in Jack Hunter was strictly professional.

      She caught Jack’s arm. The leather was cold and dead, but the man beneath it was not. “Take me with you.”

      He stared, a mixture of shock and wariness that sent her spirits tumbling.

      “I’ll earn my way,” she said, words spinning out faster and faster. “I’ll work. I won’t be a financial burden. I have to fly. I will do anything to fly. Anything. Please?”

      Jack looked disgusted, and for a second she saw herself through his eyes—a pathetic, pleading woman so consumed with her dream that she’d throw away propriety.

      “Darcy?” Papa’s gruff voice shivered down her spine. He’d heard. He’d heard everything. She looked for Jack, but he was climbing into the cockpit. Burrows pulled the propeller. No! The cry wailed deep inside, but she dared not let it out, not when she stood face-to-face with judgment.

      Excuse after excuse whirled through her mind in time with the propeller’s revolutions. The din spared her from answering her father immediately, but once the plane sped down the field and arced into the air, sun glinting gold off its wings, the reprieve ended.

      “What was that about?” he asked.

      She fought the horrible deflation. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” She swallowed, but the pain would not diminish. “It’s over. All over.”

      The aeroplane grew smaller and smaller until it vanished.

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