A Flying Affair (8 page)

Her heart thundered in her chest. “Give me five minutes and I'll grab my things.”

Mittie flew with Ames to a field west of town where Buster, the stuntman who'd worn the tuxedo, gave her basic directions while they were on the ground. He showed her how to climb from the forward seat of the Oriole when the plane was aloft and how to use the wires for balance when walking toward a strut.

“Balance and making no sudden moves will keep you from getting killed.”

“Not getting killed would be nice.”

He shrugged. “It happens. Keep your legs slightly bent in a crouch like you're going to jump.” He demonstrated. “Stay loose and use the wires to steady you. Once you're comfortable with that, we'll have Ames take you out for a ground run.”

Buster was graceful and limber, something Mittie was short on, but her legs were strong, and as a child, she'd been scolded for walking along the top rails of the fences. She'd never fallen, although she'd been yanked down by her daddy plenty of times. When she stepped out onto the wing, she faced forward as instructed and shuffled sideways to the strut nearest the cockpit. Easy. Buster met her there and showed her where to grasp the upper wing, using the strut as a leg up.

“The better aerialists roll up using their arm muscles, but I usually just shimmy up by the strut.”

Mittie practiced a few times and found the leg up and over, like mounting a horse, worked best for her. Once she was on top, though, there weren't any struts to hang on to. She swallowed the hunk of fear in her throat, held her arms out, and looked down. She'd jumped off barn roofs that were farther off the ground, but the wide, smooth surface of the wing felt amazingly different. And she knew that when the Oriole was two hundred feet in the air, it would be even more thrilling.

Buster, hanging on to the upper wings with his elbows, grinned. “Good work. Ready?”

She clambered down and told Ames to start the engine. Ames told her he would signal when to climb onto the wing. Buster would watch from the ground and take notes.

Mittie climbed into the training seat and gave Ames the thumbs-up that she was ready. He taxied across the field and lifted off. At the signal, Mittie unfastened her belt and pushed herself up from the seat and onto the wing. The wind slammed against her, stronger than she expected, but she leaned into it and took a deep breath, a prayer on her lips. When she had her bearings, she nodded at Ames. He nosed down gradually. She couldn't risk looking at him for directions again, but when she felt they were at a safe altitude, she inched her way across the wing to the strut and did the ascent onto the upper wing. She crawled on all fours to the center of the wing and waited. Ames couldn't see her now, so she had to make her own best judgment for when to stand.

On the count of three, she stood up, legs quivering but a current sparking through her limbs. Like a tightrope walker, she used her arms for balance as she strolled from one wingtip to the other, then raised her hands in victory at the precise moment that Ames nosed the plane up. She lost her footing, and just as she'd always heard, her life flashed before her, and she envisioned her body being hurled into space where it would plummet to eternity.

It wasn't eternity that met her, but the painted canvas of the wing and a bracket that held one of the struts. She grabbed hold, and with no grace whatsoever, lowered herself from the upper wing and to safety.

When they'd rolled to a stop, Buster hollered up at her, “Nice recovery.”

Mittie hopped off the wing, trembling. She leaned over, hands on knees, to catch her breath, and when she came up, she tossed her head and shouted up at Ames, “I'm ready. Let's give it another try.”

They practiced until Mittie was sure she had grown feathers and wings and said she needed to get back and check on the horses. What she really wanted was a long soak in the tub, but Ames had another suggestion.

“How about we celebrate Mittie's maiden voyage as a wing walker with a night on the town—say, over at the Hen's Nest?”

Mittie said, “The dance club over on Bardstown?”

“Unless you have another suggestion.”

“None that I can think of. But I can't go like this. I need to change into something more suitable.”

“That's the trouble with women. Always thinking they have to get dolled up.”

She punched him on the arm. “And just who do you think we get dolled up for?”

“When you go out on the barnstorming circuit, you're going to have to mend your pampered ways, sweetheart.”

“Pampered? Hardly.”

He draped his arm over her shoulder. “You run on then, pretty yourself up, and we'll meet you there.”

Live Music Tuesday, Friday, and Saturday.

The sign filled the window of the Hen's Nest, and the advertising had drawn a lively crowd. Mittie's quick bath and putting on a silky green dress with a handkerchief hem had rejuvenated her—and brought a raised brow from her mother when Mittie found her in the parlor and told her she was meeting Ames in town.

Her mother blew out a puff of smoke. “In my day, it was considered good manners for a young man to call on his date and pick her up.”

“Ames would be the first to agree with you…if he had an automobile. He flies everywhere he goes, and it would be impractical, if not impossible, to have a vehicle ready in every town where the Patriots stop.”

“He managed to find one to come to lunch today.”

“Yes. One of the mechanics at the airfield loaned him a car for a few hours.”

“Oh, very well. It is nice to see you dressed in something other than jodhpurs. Have a good time.”

Ames was already seated with the Patriots in the Hen's Nest. A smoky haze blanketed the room as she sat with them and ate and laughed and sang along with the music, talking about the day's practice. And they danced. The band played lively jazz tunes, and when they returned to their seats to catch their breath, Lester pulled a flask from his pocket and offered to jazz up their drinks.

Mittie shook her head. She didn't want the effects of Lester's bathtub gin, or whatever it was, to ruin what had been a perfect day.

She raised her root beer. “To good friends.”

Ames, who had taken Lester up on his offer twice already, swayed a bit in his chair and held up his glass. “To you, sweet Mittie, and you, Lester, and you, Shorty, and to my pup back home. May we all enjoy posterity…prosp…plus…oh blast it—may we all get rich!”

Buster snorted and held up his glass. “I believe this dear boy may be a bit pickled.”

Ames widened his eyes. “A gentleman knows when he's been insulted, but to prove my sobriety…” He held out his hand to Mittie. “I'd like to have the next dance, if you please.”

“Such gallantry.” Buster held the back of his hand to his forehead.

“What a bunch of cutups. I accept your offer.” But Ames was already on his feet, arm outstretched. She took the hand he offered and let him lead her to the dance floor. He tucked his thumbs in his armpits and moved his elbows up and down to the beat of the “Darktown Strutters' Ball.” Mittie matched him move for move, their arms and legs akimbo with the tricky Charleston steps. Ames' hair fell across his forehead as he gave Mittie a twirl then bumped hips and changed steps, his joints loose, feet light. Other dancers parted to give them room, then stopped altogether and ringed the dance area, watching. Mittie threw back her head and laughed. She and Ames kicked their heels up for a few measures, then leaned over, hands on knees, and crossed their hands back and forth. Long after the song should have ended, the band played on as Ames and Mittie tapped and reeled and whirled.

Bravos and cheers filled the Hen's Nest when at last the music stopped and they returned to the table breathless, their clothes drenched.

Ames mopped his brow with a handkerchief and laughed. “We make a good team. Agree?” He grabbed his drink and drained the glass.

Lester held up the flask, but Ames waved it away. “You ask me, you don't have hooch in there but some kind of evil potion.”

A waiter appeared with two glasses of water and told Ames and Mittie they'd be welcome anytime. Ames thanked him and said, “Sure, boss.”

Strains of a slow waltz drifted through the air, the saxophone notes mellow and sweet. Ames led Mittie once again to the dance floor, his arm firm around her waist, the heat of his body melting into hers. He leaned in and nuzzled her neck, sending a tingle through her. She missed a step from his lead, and for a moment, they teetered awkwardly, trying to get back into rhythm. Instead Ames stepped on her foot, sending a fiery jolt up her ankle.

When he apologized, she leaned back and looked into his dark eyes. “We've had a long day. Why don't we call it a night?”

“The night is still young.” He tilted her chin with one finger and brushed her lips with his.

Although her insides ached to return his kiss, she didn't. “That may be, but I have early morning duties at the farm.”

“You're not sore because I had a shot of Lester's whiskey, are you?”

She wasn't sure. He'd refused her daddy's sherry, but a drink or two wasn't unheard of. Heaven knows, she'd seen a lot worse among her rowdy friends from high school, but other than the occasional sip of wine, alcohol had never really appealed to her. She shrugged, her answer noncommittal. “It's not like I have any right to say what you do or don't do. Now if we were an item, and last time I checked, we weren't…”

“We're not?” His dark eyes searched hers. “I was hoping…well, guess I'm the fool then.”

“You've just given me one of the best days of my entire life, so I wouldn't say the possibilities aren't there.”

By way of reply, he drew her close, their feet having somehow found their groove as they now moved smoothly to the one-two-three beat of the music.

She relaxed in the glow of tavern lights and strong arms, the warm mix of body odor and aftershave, cheap cigars, and forbidden whiskey.

“Gracious sakes, Mittie, would you stop fidgeting? You're making me a basket of nerves.”

“Sorry, Grandmother.” She uncrossed her legs and rose from the ringside seat at the West Virginia horse show. Not a whisper of air stirred in the sweltering July heat. Mittie was beginning to regret wearing the trouser suit, wishing she'd opted for a day dress with sheer sleeves. “I don't remember it taking so long between events. I'm going for a lemonade. You want one?”

“A lemonade would be nice, dear.” Her grandmother waved a silk fan, looking every bit the grand matron of horse owners and breeders. “And if you see the Fords, you might invite them to join us.”

In the show ring, attendants scrambled with a shovel and bucket, clearing the ring of horse dung and raking it for the next event. Toby would be riding Jake Ford's chestnut, April Showers, in the five-gait championship, having taken first in the four-year-old class the day before. Gingersnap had faltered in the three-gait class and not placed, but Mr. Ford had taken it well. Mittie was glad she'd brought her grandmother over, and bless her, she was right. Mittie was fidgety.

The week had flown by as she'd practiced twice more with Ames while still giving attention to April Showers' and Gingersnap's training, but Mittie had an itch she couldn't explain. Now that the world of flying was opening up before her, it consumed her every thought. Wing walking. Flight lessons with Bobby. Even her own plane someday so she could compete. She didn't want to get ahead of herself, but she was having a tough time reining in the excitement that skated along her bones.

She scanned the crowd for the Fords to no avail. They were most likely in the holding area with April Showers or already on their way to their seats in her grandmother's box. Mittie nodded at several people she knew and strode toward the refreshment area. A familiar figure at the end of the counter stopped her. Buck Lamberson was having a heated discussion with someone.

Drat. What's he doing here?
She paused, mentally going over the list of contenders at the horse show. She would have remembered if the Lambersons had an entry. An uneasy feeling settled in her stomach, and she thought of returning to her seat, though she was still as parched as if her mouth were filled with soda crackers. Then, before she'd decided what to do, Parker Ogilvie spun around and stormed away from Lamberson. His head jerked up when he saw her.

“For pity's sake, Mittie, what are you doing following me around? Checking to see if I'm doing my job?” He glared, his look as bristly as the whiskers of his sideburns.

“Not at all, although I'm surprised that you're not in the holding paddock with April Showers getting ready for the final event.”

Mr. Lamberson strode up beside Ogilvie. “Well, well. If it's not the farmer's daughter. Had to take a second look, though, since you're wearing those trousers. Wearing the britches in the family now that your dad's all crippled up, eh?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lamberson. And Daddy's doing much better, thank you.”

He tipped his hat. “So you say.”

“Is Dobbs here with you?”

He scowled. “Guess you hadn't heard. He's in Cincinnati with his mama, seeing a doctor about a new operation.”

Mittie's gut clenched.
The operation Daddy's paying for.
“Yes, Daddy mentioned it. Give him my best, will you?”

Lamberson snorted as Ogilvie gave him a sidelong look and an almost imperceptible shake of his head, warning him off, it seemed. A voice over the loudspeaker announced that the next event was about to commence.

Mittie ran her tongue over bone-dry teeth. “I'm sorry I can't visit. I was just coming after a lemonade.” She turned to Ogilvie. “You're welcome to join Grandmother and me with the Fords in our box.”

“I wouldn't want to impose.”

Mittie ignored the sarcastic edge in his tone, aware that he hadn't given a reason why he wasn't at his post with Toby. She wished them both a good day and went to the refreshment table.

The first entrant was already in the ring when she handed Grandmother the frosty drink, but the Fords were still absent. She settled into the wooden folding chair to watch the show. April Showers entered the arena fifth, head erect, mane and tail in their full glory. The horses were judged on animation of movement as well as showmanship, both of which April Showers excelled in. The horse pawed the dirt, resisting Toby's reining as he took her through the walk and park trot, never quite getting the rhythm or the crowd's enthusiasm.

Her grandmother whispered, “Looks like the old girl has lead in her feet. The judge will dock points for lack of spirit.” And neither were surprised when the six horses were brought before the judge for a final look and April Showers was dead last.

As the cup was presented to the winner, Jake Ford appeared in their box, his face florid, his lips set in a line of disgust.

Mittie offered her hand. “My condolences. She had a fine showing yesterday.”

“Not when it counts, though. I was a fool to throw away good money on a trainer who didn't bother to show up.”

“Daddy is grieved by that, I assure you. He hoped having Grandmother and me here to represent MG Farms would make up for that.”

“I was counting on a win today.”

“I'll talk with Toby, see if he noticed something amiss. It could have just been the stress of travel and sleeping in an unfamiliar stall. You have my word that we will continue to do our best to help April Showers perform well in future events.”

“Tell your old man I'll be in on Monday.” He strode off, not even bothering to stop at the rail and have a word with Toby.

“You handled that well, dear. No one likes to think their horse was the ugly baby in the lineup.” Her grandmother patted her hand.

Mittie did understand Mr. Ford's disappointment. Mittie had been the
ugly baby
, the one people overlooked when they went on about how cute Iris looked in her latest frock or what a smart little cookie Iris was. Their mother's mantra that Mittie would outgrow it was a laugh. She'd outgrown it all right, standing almost eye to eye with her father and shoulders broad enough to pass for a dockworker. Thankfully, her long, slender legs managed to get her enough wolf whistles to make up for it.

Mittie scowled. “She didn't deserve last place. She's a better horse than that. And I will check into it…for Daddy's sake and the reputation of MG Farms.”

“Sometimes you just have to take the hits. And I'm sure the farm's reputation's not too badly damaged. Your grandfather and I had many disappointments in the ring, but character is built by what is done in spite of it.”

“Sounds like Daddy's version of ‘Get back in the saddle and try again.'”

“I suppose. Jake Ford reacted the way many owners do when the wounds are fresh. He'll come to his senses before Monday.”

“Let's hope so.” Mittie told her grandmother she would meet her in the car. It was Ogilvie's job to check that the horses were loaded, but in her gut, Mittie knew the ultimate responsibility was hers. And Ogilvie was a loose cannon—“yes, ma'am” one minute, then sneering the next. The respect she thought she'd gained from him was as thin as her sister's wedding veil.

Mittie found Toby brushing down April Showers, talking gently to her, telling her she'd have her place in the winner's circle another day. He looked up and sighed when he saw Mittie.

“Tough day, Toby?”

“Beats all I ever seen, Miz Mittie. April Showers was fine this morning. I would've sworn she'd be in the top three, if not the winner.”

“Did you change her feed or give her too much water? That could have thrown her off.” Mittie wished for a ready explanation, trying to quell the growing knot in her gut that the conversation she'd observed between Ogilvie and Lamberson played a part.

He shook his head and offered April Showers a treat from his pocket.

“Were you with her all day?”

“Right here in the paddock with her or feeding Gingersnap.” He thumbed to the adjacent enclosure. “The groom's already loaded her, and Mr. Ogilvie just left, told me to take April Showers to the horse trailer soon as she's cooled down.”

“She seems all right now.”

“Not as chipper as usual, but I've gone over every inch of her and didn't find a nick or a hair out of place.”

“We'll sort it out. Thanks for doing your best.”

His hangdog look mirrored that of the horse. And for the present, all Mittie could do was brush it off and hope her suspicions were unfounded.

While Mittie and her grandmother dined on ham steak with red-eye gravy, Mittie asked if she knew why Buck Lamberson was at the West Virginia show.

“Like a bad penny, he just keeps turning up. He's a mean old cuss if you ask me.”

Mittie smiled at her grandmother's crudeness, but it was one of the things she loved about her—her ability to cut to the heart of the situation.

“I saw him with Ogilvie—arguing, it seemed. Ogilvie seems a little slippery to me.”

“He's just cut from a rougher cloth than you're used to. And I suspect he's not too keen on taking orders from you, but things will smooth out with your dad being more involved.”

They ate in silence while Mittie stewed about the day's events.

Her grandmother finished eating and folded her napkin. “You've not been yourself the last few weeks, and I know you only came to the show to placate me. For that I'm grateful, but I think your daddy is right. It's time for you to spread your wings. If your heart's desire is to jump in an airplane or out of one, then you need to pursue it. Heaven knows, I'll wear out my knees praying with you up in the air, but you'll never be happy if you don't give it your full attention.”

“I'm working on it. I'm just afraid I'll disappoint Mother and Daddy.”

“The least of your worries. My parents thought I'd lost my mind when I married your grandfather and moved from Boston to be with a man who had a wild idea about raising horses—show animals at that. Best decision I ever made.”

“And your parents? Did they forgive you?”

“I gave them your darling father. How could they not?” Her laugh was throaty and warm.

Mittie squeezed the age-spotted hand of her grandmother and let her grandmother's unspoken blessing pour over her.