His vague reply raised the old alarm. The last time he refused to fly in perfect weather, he’d gone to the hospital. Though she knew his reasons for that, she still scanned his face for signs of fatigue or illness. He looked the same as always, though perhaps a bit more worried.
“Is everything all right?” She recalled the wire he’d sent and wondered if this had anything to do with that. “You can confide in me. I won’t tell a soul.”
“I’m fine.” The gruff answer was all she’d get. Jack Hunter kept the deepest part of himself quite private.
Darcy progressed through the lessons with remarkable speed. Jack had to admit she exhibited the same ability as his better students, except for her landings. She still came in too fast and too steep. If he had time, he’d spend hours with her in practice, but he had to get started on the load and fuel tests.
The tests. Jack groaned and fingered the cable in his pocket. He’d been wondering when Pohlman would show, but he hadn’t expected this. What was the man thinking? Time was short, and the competition was further along. Jack had to come up with a new plan soon.
By the time he arrived at the barn, Darcy and the kid were already at work. While Simmons checked the engines, Jack spread out the Chicago newspaper on the worktable.
Darcy looked over his shoulder. “Where did you get a Chicago paper?”
“Reporters,” he said without looking up.
“Chicago reporters here? Whatever for?”
“Why do you think? Uh-oh.” A small headline grabbed his attention.
“What is it?”
“Hawker’s bringing the Atlantic.”
“You knew there’d be competition,” she said in a sympathetic tone.
Jack was in no mood for female empathy. He had a flight to prepare and a huge problem to overcome. “That makes a solid handful. St. John’s will be crowded.”
“St. John’s is the departure point?”
He nodded.
“Why Newfoundland and not New York?”
Hadn’t she heard a thing he’d been saying the past two months? “Everyone leaves from Newfoundland.” He pointed to the map he’d tacked to the wall. “Here’s Newfoundland and here’s England. See how much less distance it is than flying from New York? Of course the North Atlantic course brings its own hazards. Fog, icing, storms. And there’s nothing in between except ice-cold water. Ditching means almost certain death.”
“From the cold?”
“And the fact you’re flying outside the shipping lanes.” Jack emphasized the dangers. Maybe he could frighten Darcy out of her crazy ideas. “Go down, and no one will find you until you’re frozen stiff.”
Darcy paled. “Like the Titanic.”
“Trust me, the Titanic had a hundred-fold better chance of making it safely across.”
“But the plane won’t go down.”
She sounded a little worried, so he piled on the risks. “It very well could. This flight has a less-than-ten-percent chance of success. Odds are I’ll have to ditch before reaching land.”
She gasped. “But why would so many try it if it’s that dangerous?”
“Fame. Money. Aside from the prize, the winner will make tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, on speaking engagements.”
“Is that why you’re doing it?”
Jack hadn’t anticipated that question. It cut too personal for him to answer. “You want to do it. What’s your reason?”
“To prove a woman can do anything a man can do.” She jutted that cute little chin out again, and he was tempted to tweak it.
Instead he asked, “Is that worth dying for?”
“Of course.” Bold, confident and without hesitation. That was Darcy.
Such conviction and drive came from deep within, from a cause even she might not recognize, something so important she’d give up the best of life to gain it. “Don’t you want more? A family, a home?”
She hesitated just long enough for Jack to know he’d struck truth. “That can come later.”
“Unless there is no later.”
She pressed her lips into a tight little smile. After two months working together, he knew that look. She thought she held the upper hand. “I don’t plan to die.”
He laughed, glad of her answer. It would make telling her she wasn’t going much easier. “Good, because neither do I. If you haven’t put a raft and flares on the requisition list, do so.” Of course he might not be able to take them due to the already burgeoning weight.
“I’ll order them tomorrow.”
“Good girl.” He chucked her under her chin. “I can always count on you.”
Pop! The bright flash made him blink. Three reporters circled round, notepads in hand.
“Jack Hunter?” said the reporter in the gray wool duster, flipping open his pad. “This the plane you’re taking on the transatlantic crossing? Kind of small, isn’t it?”
Jack bristled. “The Kensington Express has twin motors, two hundred horsepower each, one more than Hawker’s Atlantic.”
They all scratched away on their pads. The mustached reporter asked, “Does Hawker have an insurmountable jump on you?”
“No such thing as insurmountable.” Jack chuckled. He was beginning to sound like Darcy.