hair was coming loose again, and her skirt sported dozens of burrs, but she was just about the prettiest woman he’d ever seen.
“Mr. Hunter.” She jutted out that determined little chin.
He stepped aside, but she moved in the same direction.
“Excuse me,” he said, attempting to get around her. His mouth had gone dry and that soda sounded better every minute. “I’m meeting someone. At the drugstore.”
Her eyes widened and her lips curved into a frown of disapproval.
He wished he’d kept his mouth shut. “Just for a soda.” Why did he say that? She didn’t need to know every detail of his day.
“What you drink is none of my business,” she said with far too much self-righteousness. She moved to her right just as he moved to his left, and they collided. “Excuse me. Oh.”
Her embarrassed laugh warmed Jack right to his toes. A hint of pink tinged each cheek, making her unbelievably attractive. The heady scent of violet wafted past. He had a terrible urge to kiss her.
“Excuse me.” Her curt tone destroyed the urge. “I need to check the post.”
“Of course.” This time he stood still and let her make the move, which she negotiated without further difficulty. He tipped his cap. “Good afternoon.”
Her delicate neck lifted, and her head turned until those deep brown eyes gazed at him again. “And to you, too.”
My, she could take a man’s breath away. Strong yet vulnerable. Plus she had no idea how beautiful she was. Jack took a deep breath and eased out the door, somehow managing to get to the sidewalk without stumbling.
The street was busy. Horns honked. Harnesses jingled. A dozen passersby could have witnessed that little scene. Cora certainly had. He walked as fast as he could toward the drugstore, dodging a slow-moving Packard and an even slower-moving horse and buggy. He jumped to avoid a fresh pile. Horses! Why didn’t this town join the twentieth century?
“Mr. Hunter.” Miss Shea’s words pierced through him with the efficiency of bullets. She no doubt wanted to pester him about flying. He quickened his step.
“Mr. Hunter.”
Didn’t she know she was creating a spectacle? Didn’t she care? Maybe that’s why Devlin laughed when he asked about her. Maybe that’s why she still wasn’t married.
He ducked his head and nearly barreled into a matron dressed in an outdated gown, oddly reminiscent of a ruler-wielding schoolmarm from the turn of the century.
“Sorry, ma’am.” He dropped into a deep bow.
She was not at all amused. “Watch your step, young man.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
With a nod, the matron dismissed him and marched across the street. “Darcy Shea, where have you been?”
Jack whipped around.
“Mum.” Miss Shea’s disappointment hung in the air with the stench of manure.
Mum? The schoolmarm was Darcy Shea’s mother? For a second he felt sorry for her. He even wanted to stand up for her, but then common sense returned. Jack Hunter didn’t belong in decent society. With his family background, no self-respecting mother or father would welcome Jack’s attentions to their daughter.
He had to put an end to this fantasy now.
Once he knew Darcy was watching, he strode to the back door of the drugstore. He knocked as directed, and before entering caught Darcy’s shocked expression. Good. That’s the way it had to be. Women like her could have nothing to do with men like him.
Darcy’s stomach refused to unknot, even after she was back in the privacy of her bedroom. She plopped on the bed with the hand-stitched quilt, but couldn’t lie still. Jack had gone into Mrs. Lawrence’s blind pig, the illicit drinking house that everyone in town knew about, yet law enforcement completely ignored.
Thank heavens Mum hadn’t seen that. Her opinion of the man would have sunk even lower. And Papa? If he found out, she’d never get that plane ride.
She pressed a damp cloth to her cheeks to cool them. If she appeared at supper all flustered, her parents would think something had happened. But nothing had, other than that little encounter with Jack at the post office, and that meant nothing. No, she could hold her head high and maintain cool detachment when it came to Jack Hunter.
Her sole objective was to get a ride in his aeroplane. To do that, she needed to persuade him to her point of view. But how? What could she give Hunter that would make him grateful enough to offer her a ride? He’d already shot down her story idea. By tomorrow afternoon his mechanic would arrive. She needed to convince him tonight, but how?
She chewed on her fingernails and tapped her foot, waiting for inspiration to come. Her parents wouldn’t allow her to go out after dark unless accompanied by someone they trusted. Beatrice wouldn’t do. She was dining at the Kensingtons’ tonight. She needed someone else, but who? Oo-gah. A car horn sounded below. Darcy raced to the window. Of course. Hendrick Simmons. He would do anything for her, and even Papa couldn’t object. They’d been friends since childhood, climbing trees and riding bicycles and repairing motors.
Repairing motors. Of course. She and Simmons could fix Jack Hunter’s broken engine. He’d be so grateful that he’d give her a plane ride. It was the perfect plan, pure genius.
The clock struck the six o’clock hour. Darcy donned a clean white waist, brushed the dirt off her skirt, and twisted her hair into a tight knot before going down to supper.
A massive, claw-footed walnut table dominated the Shea dining room. Mum favored pressed Irish linen and delicate English porcelain, but Darcy thought it looked out of place, like a top hat on a miner.
Papa set aside the newspaper and downed his daily medicinal of Dr. Caldwell’s Syrup Pepsin, beet juice and vinegar. Mum glanced up as Darcy entered. Her grim expression told Darcy this wouldn’t be easy.
Darcy slipped into her chair. “Sorry I’m late.”
A platter of roast beef sat in the center of the table, surrounded by bowls of potatoes, green beans and carrots from the garden. None of it tempted her.
After Papa said grace, Mum served the beef.
“We missed you at the grange today,” Mum said.
“I’ll roll double tomorrow afternoon. I promise.”
“Tomorrow is too late. You know we ship the bandages out in the morning. Darcy Opal Shea, this wild behavior has to stop. You’re nearly twenty-four, too old to make a spectacle of yourself. Your hair. Your skirt. I was embarrassed. Dermott, did you know your daughter went running through Mr. Baker’s field?”
Papa looked up from the newspaper, clearly only having heard the part of Mum’s harangue that came after her utterance of his name. “Baker’s field? I hear a plane crash-landed there. Did you see it, Darcy? Dennis Allington said it was quite loud.”
“It didn’t crash,” Darcy said. “It had to land due to engine trouble.”
“Is that so?” Her father snapped the paper and folded it against the crease. “Perhaps I’ll go over there and have a look.”
Oh, no. She did not need Papa meddling. “It’ll probably be gone in the morning. I don’t know for certain, of course, but I could ask. Someone in town must know. Hendrick Simmons, for instance. If the plane needed fuel or had a problem, they’d have to go to the motor garage. I could ask him after supper.”
“But it will be dusk,” Mum pointed out.
“We’ll walk there together,” Papa suggested.
Worse and worse. “No reason to waste your time, when I can run over in moments and report back.” A twinge of guilt rushed past Darcy’s