Chapter 6
“So I hear you’ve been spending a lot of time with that war widow you met at the Belmont party,” said Pritchard, toweling his blond hair dry in the locker room after a shower. “Is she as luscious as she looked?”
Normally, this was Bill’s cue to rhapsodize at length about her body and drop lewd suggestions about what they might have been up to, but with Ann, he couldn’t do it.
“She’s a beautiful woman, but I’ll have you know I’ve been nothing but respectful.
And I’ll thank you not to make comments about her. ”
Pritchard burst out laughing. “Who are you, and what did you do with Bill O’Donnell?”
“Very funny, Pritchard. Mrs. Prince is special. I need to woo her slowly and carefully. She’s still grieving, for heaven’s sake.
” Bill suited up in leather despite the summer heat.
The bulky suit smelled of sweat and engine oil, and he wished he could leave it behind.
But he knew all too well that he couldn’t.
At altitude the temperatures dropped below freezing, so he would just have to button up and suffer through it.
“Oh, I see,” said Pritchard lightly. “Has someone finally captured the errant heart and wandering eye of Bill O’Donnell?”
She might have, he couldn’t help thinking.
But it was far too soon to give voice to his thoughts, especially to his pilot friends.
He’d be mocked mercilessly if he got maudlin during one of their usual bull sessions.
But still, he had to say something. “I wouldn’t go that far.
I just happen to like the woman, and she deserves some respect. ”
Pritchard shrugged. “I wish you luck. Sounds like you’re going to need it if you’re ever going to get anywhere with her.”
Bill clenched his fists to hold back a sharp retort. “It isn’t about getting anywhere. She needs a friend, and I want to do right by her.”
Pritchard chuckled and shook his head. “If you say so. I’m heading out.” He fastened the last of his shirt buttons. “Try not to run out of gas before Philly. It’s windy out there today.”
Thank God he changed the subject.
“So I’ve heard.” Bill donned his leather cap and flying goggles, sweat dripping down his neck. His shirt was already damp beneath his suit.
“Death or glory, you crazy flying bastard.” Pritchard gave Bill a mocking salute.
“Death or glory, you rambunctious buzzard.”
Together, they sauntered out to the hangar where their airplanes awaited.
Bill said a silent prayer as he started his checks of the finicky flying machine he used every day.
The biplane looked almost like a marionette with its delicate wooden wings held together with wires.
While he had suggested to Ann that flying the mail was safe as houses, the truth was quite the opposite.
Unlike his comrades in the war, he was expected to fly regardless of weather.
Worse yet, the routes connecting New York, Philadelphia, and Washington DC pushed the maximum range of the Army surplus Curtiss Jennies they flew, which were far from reliable.
They were built for training new pilots, not hauling cargo over long distances.
Examining the delicate wings, he tried not to think about how many emergency landings he’d been forced to make in his brief career flying the mail.
He fell short of his destination almost as often as he reached it.
The fuel tank barely held enough gasoline for the distances they had to travel on the best of days.
And far too often, he ran out and was forced to land without engines.
There was a reason people called the Air Mail operation “Uncle Sam’s Suicide Club. ”
This morning’s flight plan had him flying into strong headwinds and facing turbulence as he flew to Philadelphia.
That significantly increased the chances that he would run out of fuel.
If he wanted any hope of reaching his destination, he needed to hold his course as tightly as possible and avoid any deviation.
He would just have to pray that the wings would hold in the choppy skies.
But he loved flying. Even with all the dangers, he couldn’t resist the sensation of soaring through the clouds like a bird.
As far as he was concerned, he had the best job anyone could ever have.
While most people toiled away at factories or behind desks, he got to glide through the heavens and get paid for it.
No, sir. He would not change his job for anything.
Climbing up into the cockpit, he signaled to the mechanic to start the propeller. The mechanic called out, “Contact,” as he gave it a whirl. Bill turned the ignition, and the engine sputtered to life. The mechanic backed away quickly before Bill opened the throttle and prepared for takeoff.
Joy buoyed him up as the air lifted his wings off the ground, and he pulled up on the stick.
The first jolts of wind shook the frame of the Jenny.
He glanced at the whiskey bottle affixed to the dash panel to gauge his rate of ascent.
It made sense that they chose alcohol, given the lower freezing point, but he always thought there was another reason.
It offered the promise of liquid courage when all else failed—a comfort of last resort as they faced down death.
The oilcloth covering the mail sacks in the front cockpit flapped in the wind. When was the Postal Service going to buy airplanes designed for carrying cargo? It was ridiculous that they were still flying secondhand training Jennies from the war.
Not that he didn’t love his Jenny. He nudged the stick forward, and the engine roared beneath him. The wind whipped his face as he accelerated. He was going seventy-five miles an hour. Could he push it further?
Up and up, he flew, seeking to get above the turbulence.
The temperature and humidity dropped, giving him some relief in the suit, but the sun was relentless.
He was grateful that nearly every inch of him was covered or else his pale Irish skin would burn to a crisp.
Nonetheless, he was sweating through his clothes, even as his hands chilled on the stick.
I wonder what Ann is doing right now. Now where did that thought come from?
He should have been concentrating on his flying, but instead, visions of Ann eating strawberry cake crowded out every other thought.
The way her lips curved around the fork, the sensual smile as she swallowed, the little noise she made that she thought he couldn’t hear…
Good Lord, she was lovely! Not to mention strong and fierce.
She had every reason to fall apart after losing her husband and her mother, but there she was, fixing her own faucets and keeping Bill in his place.
He wanted to ride to her rescue like a fairytale hero, but she was so determined to save herself that he wondered if he was imposing.
Still, it was heart-wrenching when he saw her the other day, making the best of her tiny bungalow. Even she, strong and stubborn as she was, couldn’t fix a roof by herself while caring for an infant.
He could just picture her as she opened the door to him and Mary, hesitation plainly written on her face, despite her welcoming smile.
He’d taken in every detail from her glorious hair in a practical, low bun, to her cotton gown that obviously used to be another color and had been dyed black.
There were tiny flowers here and there where the dye hadn’t fully obliterated them.
Those little flowers made his heart ache with something that he hardly dared name.
He wanted to reach out, fold her in his arms, and never let go. She needed someone to look out for her, whether she wanted it or not. And he was determined to be the rock she could depend on in the midst of a storm. He wanted to be her haven, her refuge.
If he was being completely honest with himself, he wanted other things too, in time.
He was dying to touch her, to trace each curve beneath his hand, soft and delicate.
Her lips called to him, a deep rosy pink, moist and plump.
He wanted to taste her, bury himself in her scent of apples and soap and breathe deep, as he explored her lovely figure and made her moan with delight.
But that would have to wait, if it ever happened at all. Her grief was too deep. It would take time and patience to win her trust, and she might never be ready to give her heart again. What would he do then? The thought made his stomach clench.
As if on cue, a cloud bank loomed before him. He took a deep breath to calm the sudden pounding of his heart. He couldn’t afford the fuel to go around it, so his only option was to fly into it, using the whiskey bottle and compass to ensure he kept a straight path towards his destination.
He gritted his teeth as droplets of moisture formed on his goggles, reducing his visibility as he flew into the clouds, and the plane bucked beneath him as he hit pockets of low air pressure. Damn it all! He hated being blind while he was in the air. Anything could happen.
Maybe he should have landed in a field instead of risking this. Tilting the stick down, he descended. The clouds thinned, and he could almost make out what was beneath him.
Then there was a jolt, and he was in free fall.
He stopped breathing as the invisible cushion that held him aloft disappeared.
How far he dropped, he had no idea. He pulled on the stick to no avail.
Then wham! The wings hit the bottom of the pocket, and the wooden frame of his airplane groaned.
Did anything break? Please, God, let the plane be all right!
Craning his neck, he checked the plane for signs of damage—snapped wires, smoke, any parts at odd angles. But the moisture on his goggles made it hard to see. He had to get out of these clouds. It was too dangerous to keep flying like this.