Soaring Home. Christine Johnson

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 dismissal of Darcy rubbed Jack wrong. “Ambition goes a long way toward success.”

      Devlin’s head popped up. “What’s your interest in the inimitable Darcy Shea?”

      “No interest.” He couldn’t let Devlin see how the woman affected him, so he sauntered across the room and peered into the print shop, where, near as he could tell, no one was working. “Just wondered how many reporters you have on staff.”

      “Enough to do the job. Aha.” Devlin held up a fat cigar and then ran it under his nose. “Sure you don’t want it? Next best thing to Cubans, at half the price.”

      Again Jack waved it off. Accept a cigar; accept the interview. He had to keep this story out of the newspapers. His bosses at Curtiss weren’t going to be happy when they heard about the locked engine. A sensational news story would put an end to long-distance test flights and tie him to the airfield.

      “So the plane’s a prototype.” Devlin puffed to light the cigar. “Military use, eh?”

      Jack preferred Darcy’s questions. She just wanted a ride in the plane. Impossible, of course, but he admired her tenacity.

      “What’s it going to be used for?” Devlin propped his feet on the desk, sending papers tumbling to the floor. “Bombing? Scouting? Reconnaissance?” A cloud of smoke followed each word.

      Such questions from Darcy would be called persistent. From Devlin they were just annoying.

      “I can’t tell you any more than I could tell Miss Shea.” When Devlin frowned at the mention of her name, Jack realized he’d struck proverbial gold. He could turn the conversation away from the plane and toward her. “Speaking of Miss Shea, is she from here?”

      “Born and raised.” Devlin pulled down his feet and leaned forward. “Is the army going to use the plane in the war? Advantage in the air is advantage on the ground, I say.”

      Jack ignored Devlin’s question. “I expect everyone was born here. This is the kind of place a person would hate to leave. She married?” He could not believe he’d just asked that.

      “Definitely not.” Devlin chuckled before returning to his questions. “Is the plane destined for European or North African duty?”

      “Can’t say.” He wished Devlin had explained that little laugh. What was so funny about Miss Shea not marrying? Most women did. “Her friend is engaged?”

      “To the richest bachelor in town.”

      “You don’t say.” Jack didn’t care about the pretty blonde. His thoughts clung to the bundle of fire who insisted he give her a plane ride. Spirited. Determined. Fearless. All the qualities of a top-notch aviator. If she was a man.

      “For which company do you fly?” Devlin asked.

      Jack, still contemplating Darcy’s attributes, answered without thinking. “Curtiss Engineering.”

      “That the same as Curtiss Aeroplane?”

      Jack choked. He shouldn’t have said that. No one was supposed to know about the scout plane. “This model is just in testing. There’s a long way to go before it’s ready for production—if it’s ever produced.” He was digging himself out of a job. If the powers at Curtiss discovered he’d talked to the press, СКАЧАТЬ