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.
Chapter Eleven
Jack 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.”