“Meet you at the Sheas’ house,” said Blake, hopping into the driver’s seat. “Know where that is?”
Before Jack could answer, the car drove away, leaving him standing in the field. Darcy had to be all right. She had to be. He looked to the cold, infinite heavens, and for a moment considered praying, but only for a moment. God hadn’t heard him then; He wouldn’t now. Jack shivered and began the long walk to her father’s house.
Jack. Where had he gone? One moment he held her hand. The next he’d vanished. Events muddled in Darcy’s head, which throbbed. She tried to open her eyes, but the pain made her close them at once.
“Don’t move, dear.” Mum. Soft and comforting.
“You’re going to be fine.” That was Beatrice.
“Where is he?” She smelled and felt the familiar sheets and quilt of home, but how did she get in her bed? The last thing she remembered was letting go of Jack’s hand.
“Just rest,” Beatrice said. “You’ve had a bad spill.”
Why wouldn’t they answer her? “Is he hurt?”
Darcy felt her hand being squeezed.
“You took a nasty blow to the head,” Mum said, “but Dr. Carrman says you’ll be fine.”
“George is here?” Why? She forced her eyes open despite the pain and tried to sit up.
“No, no, dear, lie still.” Mum gently pressed her back against the pillows.
“Do you want something to drink?” Beatrice asked.
Darcy’s mouth did feel dry, but what she’d really like was something to stop the pain. “A powder,” she croaked.
“I’ll ask George.” Beattie glided out of the room.
Since when did she have to ask George’s permission? And why did Mum look so worried?
“Is he…dead?” The word stuck to her tongue.
Mum dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m just so grateful you weren’t killed by that horrible machine.”
The plane. She relived each moment in seconds: soaring high in the sky, swooping down on the field, and then the lurch. The wild turn right and then left. The trees. She’d held on tight. To the wheel. Oh no, just what Jack told her not to do. What if? Impossible. She’d let go.
“How bad is it?” she asked tentatively.
“You’ll recover,” said Mum.
That wasn’t what she wanted to know. “The plane.”
Mum placed a cool cloth on her forehead. “Mr. Hunter got you out of the wreck.”
Then he must be all right. Relief brought tears. Jack was alive. But the plane. And the transatlantic attempt. “Can it be fixed?”
“I wouldn’t know, but I must say Mr. Hunter was quite the hero the way he rescued you.” A little smile danced across Mum’s face. “Blake said the plane might have caught fire.”
Darcy gasped. “It burned?”
“No, no dear, but it might have. Mr. Hunter disregarded his life to save yours. Perhaps I misjudged him.”
Mum’s turnabout didn’t make Darcy feel any better. If the plane was badly wrecked, the transatlantic flight might be over.
“Where is he?” Darcy asked. Best to get this over now, when the pain in her head might drown out the pain in her heart.
“Mr. Hunter? Downstairs, I believe. Did you wish to see him?”
Darcy nodded and closed her eyes. Perhaps he wouldn’t condemn an injured woman.
“I’ll try to drag him away from those pesky reporters.”
Darcy groaned. They’d not only failed, they’d done so in front of the Chicago press. It would be all over the newspapers. Jack would never let her fly again.
“How are you feeling?” said a masculine voice. George Carrman, not Jack.
Darcy swallowed her disappointment. “My head hurts. I’d like a powder.”
George held some fingers in front of her face. “How many do you see?”
“Four.”
“And who is President of the United States?”
“Stop this,” she snapped. “I’m fine, other than a headache.”
“Then you can answer the question.”
“Woodrow Wilson, though if women had the vote it might have turned out differently.”
George chuckled and turned to Mum. “She needs to rest, but otherwise sounds fine. You may give her aspirin, but I’d avoid laudanum.”
Mum handed Darcy the powder she’d requested. She poured the bitter grains into her parched mouth and reached for the glass of water.
“Darcy?” Jack stood in the doorway, cap in hand. His hair stuck out at odd angles, and his trousers were covered in mud. He looked nothing like the dashing hero who’d captured her heart the first time she saw him, but somehow she loved this Jack even more.
Darcy let the aspirin melt on her tongue.
So many times she’d wished to see him in her house, but not this way, not after a catastrophe.
“We can fix it,” she croaked, tears forming. “There’s still time. Don’t lose hope.”
His jaw tensed. “Just get well. Rest. That’s more important.” He replaced his cap. “Good night, Darcy.”
Why did it sound more like goodbye?