Baroness (16 page)

She could see them now, charging across the field toward the planes, the woman in the jumpsuit and a man in a leather flight jacket, his dark hair tangled from the wind. Tall and lean, he had wide shoulders and reminded her of someone, although she couldn't place who.

The woman rounded on him, stabbing him hard with her finger. “Then get Bertie to do it. Or…pay me more.”

“You're already getting ten dollars a show—”

“And every week you come up with another cockamamie trick that's liable to get me killed.” She leaned close to him, and Lilly held her breath to hear. “Maybe I will go fly with Eddie. At least he's nice enough to take me out for dinner once in a while.”

“Is that what you want—a steak dinner? Flowers? For the love of Pete, Mose, it's not like you have to actually
fly
the plane. Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep the plane level with you climbing all over the wings? All you have to do is hang on—how much talent does that take?”

Oh, he deserved a slap, and Lilly braced herself for the sting of it in the air. But just a breath sucked in, something sharp and then—

“You know what, Truman? If you think it's so easy, why don't you find someone else to walk across your precious Travel Air?”

Footsteps crunched through the grass, and Lilly began to back away from the plane.

“And who would I get to take your place?”

“How about her?”

Lilly froze, the voice too close to be ignored. She glanced over her shoulder.

The Flying Angel had her hands on her hips, staring at her, a dangerous smirk on her face. In the dusky night, she looked even more ethereal, a lean, shapely body, dark hair curling out of her leather cap. “Yes, you. What are you doing here?”

“I—I wanted to see the airplanes.” Oh, she sounded like a child.

“Did you now?” This from the pilot, who came up behind Moseby the Flying Angel, and ran his hand along the tail of the airplane. She put his face with the name—Truman, the Baron of the Air. The showman. The daredevil. And he looked it, with that rakish, smug smile. “Ever been up in one of these?” He raised an eyebrow, almost like a dare.

She'd had enough of arrogant flyboys. “Thanks, but I'm not getting tangled in your quarrel—”

She turned, but Moseby's voice reached her. “See, Truman. You scared her off. It shows you that you can't get just anyone to wing walk. They have to have courage.”

Lilly stopped, and for a second called herself a fool, but Moseby's word itched her, and she rounded on her, her voice cool. “Yes, actually. I have been up in an airplane. Over Paris, in fact.” She stared hard at Moseby. “Certainly wing walking can't be as difficult as riding a horse at full gallop, bareback. Like he said, all you have to do is hold on.”

“You don't look like a cowgirl.” Moseby walked up to her.

“I grew up in Montana—”

“With those shoes, you look like you grew up in Minneapolis,” Truman said. “Nice and proper.”

She met his eyes. Grayish-blue, like the sky at storm, except they held a trace of humor, proof that he was laughing at her. A long curl of dark hair hung over his eyes, and for a moment she thanked her fancy-now-dust-slathered heeled suede shoes, because she might have otherwise been intimidated by his height. He had the raccoon eyes of a flyer, a dark shadow of whiskers upon his chin, and a husky smell of leather and sky that blew off him.

Lilly folded her arms across her chest. “I grew up in Montana. And New York. And I could run a race across that wing.” The last part she said for Moseby because she reminded her of Presley, just a little. Then she smiled. “But, like I said, I'm not getting into your quarrel.”

She turned and set out across the grass.

“Wait—”

This from Truman, and she didn't slow as he jogged up behind her. He stepped in front of her and blocked her path.

She nearly plowed into him. “What?”

“You really think you can wing walk?”

It was the way he said it, half challenge, half admiration, that nudged her. As if, in his eyes, she might not be a child, someone to care for, but…

“I'd rather learn to fly.”

He stared at her a long moment, one she felt to her bones, then suddenly he gave a laugh. “Fly. Really?”

“Why not?”

“Women can't fly.”

“I'd slap him for that,” Moseby said from behind her. “But it wouldn't matter. He's so arrogant he wouldn't feel it.”

She hadn't released his gaze, however. “I could fly, if someone taught me.”

“I could teach you to fly.” He breathed in, cut his voice low, and something about it sent a trickle of heat through her. “If you really wanted.” He raised an eyebrow, cocked his head. For a moment, his gaze roamed her face, settled on her mouth, then finally found her eyes again, a new spark in his.

Her mouth dried.

“Truman, leave her alone.” Moseby nudged up next to him. “Don't mind him, he's just trying to scare you.”

Truman's gaze broke away, and he glanced at Moseby. The grin he gave her looked distant, even angry. “She's too young anyway. I have a feeling we'd have the law on us as soon as we left town.”

“I'm nineteen.”

“See, a child,” he said, his smile gone. “Go home. This adventure isn't for you.”

Moseby looped her arm through Truman's. Smiled at her. “But if you change your mind, we're headed west in the morning.” She winked then drew Truman away.

“What did you say that for?” Truman said into the night.

“Because you're a fool,” Moseby replied.

They headed back toward the tent while Lilly stood there and felt his words.

Go home.

Her feet screamed in agony by the time she managed her way back to Mrs. Garrett's boardinghouse. She removed her shoes at the bottom of the stairs then sighed relief.

“There's a plate with roasted chicken and cabbage for you in the oven,” the woman said as Lilly climbed to her room.

“Thanks,” she called over her shoulder, but she just wanted to put a pillow over her head, bury herself in it.

Flicking on the bedside lamp, she walked over to the bureau, pulled out the top drawer, found the velvet box.

She hadn't tried them on since that day, when she turned eighteen. Now she took out the pearls, looped them around her neck, then again, and finally a third time, pulling them tight like a choker, letting the rest dangle.

Stared at herself in the mirror.
Don't forget your name and where you belong.

She sat on the bed, taking off the pearls, letting the strand run through her fingers.
Mother, I miss you.
Tucking the pearls under her pillow, she lay back on the bed and closed her eyes, wishing away the burn.

Maybe she
should
return to New York City. Perhaps she could hitch a ride with the next supply train that came in, apologize to Oliver…

Then what? Become a reporter, a newspaper baroness like her mother hoped? Or, more likely, Oliver would arrange for her to marry a banker, and she'd be trapped in a life she loathed.

The door creaked open.

“Thanks, Mrs. Garrett, but I'm not hungry.”

“That's no problem, you can eat on the train.”

Her eyes opened, and she sat up. “Mr. Stewart, what are you doing here?”

Oliver's father bore his same dark looks, although her mother's former butler wore his hair close cropped, an almost regal bearing to him. “My son sent me to find you. I'm sorry it took me so long.” His eyes betrayed a benevolence that made her want to trust him. “Oliver is very worried.”

She stood up. “He needn't be—I'm fine.”

“I see that.” He came in and closed the door. “But I suspect you are running low on your allowance and, according to the railroad, there will be no train for two more weeks.”

“I'll manage.”

“And then what, miss? A trip to Montana, if you make it, to run a ranch you haven't seen in years? A ranch that doesn't belong to you?”

“It should belong to me—Oliver stole it from me.”

Mr. Stewart gave no sign of flinching. “You may want to hear his side of the—”

“No. He stole the ranch, just like he stole Rennie from my life. I have no intention of going home with you, and you can tell him—”

“Miss Lillian, I will not tell him anything. You will return home. You are out of money, and your father will not give you one more penny if you should continue this behavior.”

“I don't want his money and he's not my father.”

“Very well then.” Mr. Stewart moved over to where she'd stashed her valise and picked it up. He opened her wardrobe.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking what belongs to Oliver.” He pulled her skirt off a hanger, shoved it unceremoniously into the satchel. Then he reached for her only other shirtwaist.

“Those don't belong to him….”

The butler turned to her. “Indeed, they do. He's given you everything you have. And unless you intend to travel to Montana in just your skin, you may want to rethink your position.”

“Oliver would be furious if he knew how you were treating me.”

Mr. Stewart raised an eyebrow. “You'll be free to tell him in a few days.”

“Get out!”

“I'll be back in the morning to help you finish packing.” Then he tucked the valise under his arm and stood at the door. “I'll keep this with me in case you contemplate sneaking out into the night.” He stood at the door, then, and sighed. “It's time to stop running and come home where you belong, miss.”

She put her hand on the first thing she could find—the Bible Mrs. Garrett had set beside her bed—and flung it with everything she had at the door. It hit the frame and fell with a thud, the binding cracking.

Mr. Stewart shook his head and shut the door.

She sat there, listening to his steps in the hallway, her heart thudding.

“I'm not going!” she yelled at the closed door. Oh, how she hated Oliver. His belief that he belonged in her life, that she couldn't live without him. When would he understand? He
wasn't
her father.

The lamp cast a dingy glow on the throw rug, upon her bare feet, her grimy, now nearly black, white travel shoes. She looked up, stared at herself in the mirror. Her hair had grown a little after the shearing of her braids, and she looked bedraggled and misbehaved.

Like a child.

A petulant child who had thrown a tantrum after her mother died. She'd fled on a train, taking Oliver's money, hoping it might prove that she'd grown up, could live her own life, make her own way.

Moseby's words pinged inside her.
If you change your mind, we're headed west in the morning.

She snaked her hand under her pillow, closed her fist around the pearls.

Don't mind him, he's just trying to scare you.

She wasn't that easily scared. Not anymore.

He's given you everything you have.

Pulling out the pearls, she found the velvet case in the top drawer of the bureau and tucked them inside. She set it in plain sight. She'd just have to find another way to pay for the ranch.

Certainly he'd let her keep her shirtwaist, her skirt, her shoes, a jacket. She wrapped up her necessaries in her pillowcase—she'd just have to owe Mrs. Garrett—and scooped up her shoes, carrying them as she tiptoed down the stairs. For a second, she stopped on the landing, listening.

Her mistakes echoed inside, tugged at her. But this wasn't a mistake. She just wanted to return to the world where she belonged.

Don't forget your name
, her mother had said. Indeed. She was a Hoyt, a girl of the West of adventure and courage, and she didn't need Oliver Stewart—or any man—interfering with that.

She stepped out into the darkness and hiked barefoot out of town.

The new moon cradled the old one, a crescent thumbnail as she walked out to the airfield. It shone upon the white tent, a beacon amidst a sea of night. The planes lined up like sentries with stout arms. Her feet crunched in the grass as she moved toward the planes, rehearsing her words, settling on the most plain.
Please, take me with you—

“Well, if it isn't Miss New York. What are you doing here?”

She stopped, searching for the voice, needing no identifier. “I'm…I came to take you up on your offer, Mr. Hawk.”

He nearly startled her out of her skin as he rolled out from under a wing, found his feet. He wore a dark canvas shirt, rolled up at the arms and open, flapping in the wind, his hair askew, as if he'd already been asleep. “What offer?” he said, too much darkness in his voice.

She hitched the pillow onto her other hip. “You're not going to make this easy, are you?”

He smiled, and she felt it behind her breastbone. “Nope.”

“Fine. Take me with you. Please.”

He leaned back against the plane, crossing his ankles. His shirt blew open in the wind, and she looked away. “Why should I?”

“Because—because you need me. You need another wing walker—I can learn.”

She glanced at him. He raised an eyebrow.

“And I—I need you. I need to leave, head west, to Montana.”

“Running from the law, are we?”

She drew in a breath. “No.” But her voice emerged shaky enough to elicit a drawn breath.

“Really. You're not on the lam, are ya?” he said, softer now.

“No. Nothing like that.”

He narrowed his eyes. She looked away, hating suddenly how he had her whole world in his fist.

“Fine. And we'll see about the wing walking. For now, you run concessions. I'll talk to Marvel in the morning.” He came over, reached for her pillowcase.

“What are you doing?”

“Tucking you in. We sleep under the planes when it's nice out. Don't we, Mose?”

“C'mere, doll.” A voice chirruped behind her. “You can sleep next to me. That way Truman won't forget and leave without you.”