The next day she awoke well before dawn. Unable to sleep, she donned her riding breeches, two thick sweaters and a canvas coat. Might as well act as if yesterday’s disagreement had never occurred. She packed a lunch and walked to the barn. The skies were clear, the wind light. Perfect.
The barn stood dark, as did Terchie’s. No sign of Jack. Had he given up, or was he suffering after a night of drink? She flexed her fingers in the chill air. Her pulse pounded as she rehearsed what she would say to him. Something about the good weather. After that, she wasn’t sure.
She retrieved the key from the nook in the tree where Jack kept it and unlocked the barn door. Near as she could tell, the plane was still there. She located a coal oil lamp and lit it. Yes. Still there.
Darcy began the preflight check. She stowed her vacuum bottle of coffee and sandwiches in the forward cockpit, and lit the lanterns and gasoline heater to warm the engines. She then began the tedious process of checking every screw and wire.
She had almost finished the left wing when Jack arrived. He didn’t smile or greet her, but he did carry a lunch and vacuum bottle. He walked directly to the worktable.
“A-are we on?” Her shaking voice betrayed her nerves.
He set down the bottle and removed his gloves. Still no recognition she was there.
“The sky’s clear, the wind’s light,” she said hopefully.
He rummaged in the toolbox. The clanking made her nervous. Is this the way it would be? Perform the task at hand without even a word? She couldn’t work that way.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, though she had no idea why she should apologize.
“No need,” he said stiffly, not angrily as she expected, more like he was afraid of what he might say. “How far are you?”
Darcy had never been so glad to hear his voice. “Almost done with the left wing.”
“I’ll start on the right one.” He climbed onto the wing.
“You don’t want to check my work?”
“I’m sure it’s fine.” He moved closer to the fuselage, working quickly.
“But I thought…” She was confused. “You said…”
“That a pilot should always check the plane himself?” He finally glanced at her, but she couldn’t read his expression.
“You did say that.” If he didn’t smile, she was going to be sick.
“Yes, I did. But after five months, I know you’re thorough. You’re also going to be on this flight, so if you miss something, it’s your life on the line, too.”
The mixed praise and caution made her stomach flip-flop. All Jack’s warnings rushed back: icy cold water, no place to land, risky. It had seemed overprotective when she wouldn’t be making the flight, but now she understood.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Her hand shook so badly she had to set down the screwdriver. She held onto the edge of the rear cockpit, trying to regain control.
He looked up from the other side of the fuselage. They crouched opposite each other, with the cockpit between.
“Don’t be. Those are your beliefs, and I respect them.”
He did? She was a little relieved. “That’s not what I meant, though. You were right. I could use more experience before attempting a transatlantic crossing.”
His eyes met hers. “You said I was being overprotective.”
“I—I might have been wrong.”
A corner of his mouth eased up. “Darcy Shea wrong? Impossible.”
Tears welled. Goodness, she was a mess if she couldn’t take a little teasing. She’d always enjoyed it before.
He lifted a strand of hair from her brow. “You weren’t wrong. I was.”
Oh, no. Now she really was going to cry. She blinked rapidly. “No, you were right.”
He laughed. “Are we going to argue over who was more wrong?” He slipped the strand of hair behind her ear.
She could only shake her head no. Her throat was too constricted. She’d expected anger and received mercy. She’d feared reprisal and received understanding.
“You aren’t going to cry on me, are you?” he asked.
Again she shook her head, but this time he cupped her chin and drew her eyes upward until she looked into his. There she saw tenderness. And love.
He drew closer, leaning over the cockpit, still holding her face in his hand. She felt his breath on her forehead then her cheek.
Her knees turned to oatmeal. “I—I…”
“Shh.” He pressed a fingertip to her lips. “Don’t talk.”
She caught her breath, which suddenly seemed like a terribly difficult thing to do. The icy cold barn roasted. The light grew fuzzy and the air became thick as pudding. He was going to kiss her. Not maybe or almost but really kiss her. She closed her eyes.
His lips were soft, barely more than the feather-light caress of a handkerchief, but oh so much more alive. He tasted a little salty. She breathed in the scent that was only Jack—soap and leather and gasoline. He paused, lips still close, but she wanted more.
“Is something wrong?”
“No.” He brushed a hair from her cheek. “You’re perfect in every way.”