Soaring Home (19 page)

Fifteen minutes passed. A half hour. According to the compass, they were on course, but the fog hadn’t cleared yet. They should be over land. In the absence of wind, there could be little drift, and with the prevailing westerlies, they’d have drifted toward land, not away from it. Either Darcy’s sightings had been wrong, putting them out over Superior’s open waters, or the fog extended far inland.

He was about to take the plane east when the left engine coughed. Like with the scout plane, it cranked back up to speed a moment later. Jack glanced over, worried. He’d dumped another can of fuel into the tank before the fogbank. They shouldn’t be running low.

Then a droplet hit his cheek. And another.

Rain?

He checked the wings. The slowly winding rope that had been knotting in his stomach balled tight.

Condensation covered the wings, and it wasn’t running off. It was freezing.

With the dimming daylight, the air temperatures must be dropping. The
Kensington Express
would soon be coated in ice. Too much, and they’d drop like a stone. He figured he had less than fifteen minutes. He headed the plane to a lower altitude, hoping the temperatures were warmer.

Darcy’s head whipped around and then back. She scribbled on the slate and showed him. “Altitude?”

He pointed to the wings and then down. He didn’t know if she understood. He’d never explained the problem with freezing temperatures.

Then the left engine choked. It raced to life again for a moment and then died. That knot in his stomach jumped to his throat. Keeping the plane under control with one engine took all his skill. He tried to restart the engine. Nothing. Again. It cranked but wouldn’t start.

He slammed a fist against the fuselage. Fog. Dead engine. No visibility. Ice. He needed to land, but how? He struggled to control the yawing.

Then the right motor died.

The silence was terrifying. Darcy gripped the sides of the cockpit, even after Jack leveled the plane. She wanted to take the controls. Everything told her to take the controls, but Jack was at the wheel, and he’d done this before. On the very first ride he’d brought the engine back to life.

But this time he had two engines to resuscitate, and somehow, in the pit of her stomach, she knew he wouldn’t be able to do it.

“Take the controls,” he said.

It was strange to suddenly hear him after hours of ceaseless droning. She grabbed hold of the wheel.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Keep as much altitude as you can,” he said, the worry not at all hidden.

“How?”

“Not up,” he shouted. “Keep the nose level. Hold her steady. I’m going to check the fuel lines.”

The fuel lines. Darcy’s head raced with her heart. They’d strained all the fuel the day before. Like always, they ran it through a triple layer of cheesecloth to catch the sediment. Mentally, she checked off each of the cans. Yes, they’d done them all. They’d been very careful.

Jack crawled out on the wing and checked the fuel line to the right motor. She held so tightly to the wheel that her hands ached. Keep it level. No turns. Don’t make any sudden moves.

She squinted against the onrushing air, her eyes painfully dry.

Come back Jack. Come back.
What was taking so long?

An eternity later, he inched into the rear cockpit, and she breathed again.

“That’s not the problem,” he said once he was seated. “Plenty of fuel in the line.”

“Tell me you’re not going out on the right wing.”

“Not enough time. I’ll take the controls now.”

Darcy’s mouth went dry. She remembered how it felt when they’d crashed on Baker’s field, the sound of fabric ripping, of wood snapping and wire twanging. The propeller digging into the ground, spraying dirt and grass and weeds everywhere.

“Your seat belt on?” Jack asked.

That meant they were going down.

“It might be a bit of a rough landing,” he said. He’d begun to glide noiselessly, taking the machine down gradually without
engines. He made large, swooping turns. “Hopefully, we’ll spot a clearing when we come out of the fog.”

Hopefully, they were over land.

Darcy didn’t know if Jack realized just how cold Lake Superior was. They’d freeze to death in minutes.

She heard him try to start an engine. One, then the other. Neither worked.

“If it’s not the fuel, then what?” he growled.

The oil. Darcy knew it in an instant, and dread flooded over her in waves. She’d forgotten. She’d been so flustered after the kiss that she forgot to strain the oil. She could see the filter right where she left it on the table. Sediments in the oil had clogged the oil screens, just like the scout plane.

She was to blame. If they died, it was her fault.

Darcy turned to tell him, but he yelled, “Put your head down. You don’t want it snapped off.”

She turned around and peered into the foggy gloom.

He was trying to find a clearing, hoping the fog had lifted enough that they could get below it, but the gray mist continued unbroken. It must go clear to the ground.

She ducked her head, praying to God, who’d surely forsaken them. “Forgive me,” she prayed silently. “Take me, but not Jack. It’s not his fault. It’s my fault. All mine.”

“Aha,” Jack suddenly cried, and she raised her head.

They’d come out of the fog barely above the treetops.

Then she saw it. A clearing. Small and far away. Could they make it that far?

“Head down,” he yelled.

She ducked. Almost at once the branches ripped through the fabric. The plane elevated for a moment, and then collapsed around her. She shrieked and covered her head as she was flung forward.

T
he plane splintered around Jack in an oddly arrested sequence, like a film shown at too-slow a speed. The wings collapsed first, buckled by the trees. Branches scraped past, tearing cloth and skin alike. The lower right wing catapulted over the upper. The motor whirled past their heads. He instinctively shielded Darcy, though if the engine had fallen, they would both have been crushed.

The fuselage shot forward like a missile, and he yelled for her to get her head down.

She turned at the sound of his voice. A branch clipped his cheekbone, opening a gash, but he could think only of Darcy.

“Head down.” His words sent her into a crouch, just as the cockpit framing crumpled and the whole thing smashed to a stop.

Jack’s pulse still raced after the noise died away and the plane settled. He was alive. Aches and a sore shoulder, but he was still alive.

He surveyed the damage. The forward cockpit took the brunt of the impact, imploding to a third its size. Snapped wood. Ripped fabric. Tangled branches.

Darcy. She was somewhere in that mess. He couldn’t see her.

He pawed wildly at the debris. He couldn’t find her.

Thwang
. A bracing wire snapped.

He dug faster, searching in the semidarkness for her canvas coat or the soft wool of her sweater.

Zzzt
. Linen tore, and the plane lurched. They hadn’t reached the ground. He saw only framing and branches, not the forest floor.

Then he smelled gasoline. Just like the crash in Pearlman. Only this time he carried ten times the fuel. At any second the whole plane could explode.

He needed to get Darcy out.

He called for her.

No response.

He hoisted himself up, gingerly balancing on the front edge of his cockpit, and pulled aside branch after branch until he got to her. She lay curled in a ball to the left side of the cockpit. What remained of it. A gaping hole breached the right side. The front amounted to a mangled pile of broken wood and canvas.

The wreck shifted, and he grabbed onto a branch to steady himself. They could crash to the ground at any moment. He had to get her out.

“Darcy?” He shook her gently.

She muttered something unintelligible.

Relief rushed in, then abruptly out. Was that a spark? He held his breath while they teetered precariously. Another blue flash. Definitely a spark. No time. No time.

He pushed on the branches above her. A four-inch-diameter limb crossed the cockpit, pinning her beneath it. He yanked. He pulled. The plane shifted with an eerie creak. He had no idea how far up they were. A twenty-foot freefall could flip the wreck, crushing them. If they miraculously fell free, the
impact could knock them out, and the ensuing fire would incinerate them.

He stood dead still, wondering how on earth he was going to get Darcy out without unbalancing the wreck.

Another spark. No time to be delicate. He climbed onto a hefty branch that had speared through the fuselage. Balancing like a tightrope artist, he pushed up on the limb pinning Darcy, while reaching under her with the other arm. The plane shifted a couple of inches. He dropped the limb and hung on until, with an ominous groan, the wreckage settled.

He held his breath and began again. This time, when he pulled, the wreck stayed in place. So did Darcy. No matter what he did, she wouldn’t budge.

“Darcy, wake up,” he barked, lightly slapping her cheeks.

She murmured unintelligibly.

“Wake up,” he demanded, hoping the tone would rouse her.

“Where?” Her voice was thick, groggy.

“Can you move?”

Her hands flailed, finding only air. “Belt.”

He had no idea what she meant. “I need you to move toward me. Let me know if any part of you is stuck.”

“Belt,” she repeated with greater agitation. “Can’t.”

Jack snapped with frustration. “You need to help me.” The gasoline smell had increased. One spark, one flash of metal on stone, would send the plane up in a fireball.

“Be-elt,” she wailed, and he finally understood.

What an idiot he’d been. The seat belt.

He leaned as far as he could, searching through the rubble for the belt. At last. He undid it and then lifted her.

“Ow!” she yelped. “My leg.”

“Is it stuck?” He hoped she’d say no.

“I—I don’t know.”

“Listen carefully. We need to get you out of here before the plane catches fire.”

“I can do it,” she said, though with a groggy edge. “I should have done it.”

He heard a sob. No, not tears. They didn’t have time for tears.

He put her arm around his neck. “Hold on. I’m going to lift.”

She held on only a moment. He’d have to do this himself. He lifted, and this time when she screamed he ignored her pain and pulled with all his strength.

“Stop, stop,” she yelled much more lucidly. “Let me go. You’ll kill me.”

“Better me than a fire.” He yanked. He tugged. He pulled.

Between her screams and the hum in his ears, he didn’t hear her come free of the wreckage, but he felt it. The sudden release sent him backwards.

He caught his balance, crashing awkwardly against the fuselage. His lower back hit the edge of the cockpit, sending a jolt of pain up his spine. But he didn’t let go of Darcy. He choked back the pain and got to his knees.
Do this. Get her to safety.
Mustering his remaining strength, he rose to his feet, Darcy in his arms.

The whole wreck began to tilt. It was going down. He didn’t think. He skittered downward through the tangle of limbs and branches. The twigs scratched and clawed at them. He seemed to step on air half the time. Then with a crack, the plane pitched forward a few feet, and Jack slammed into the ground with Darcy beneath him. Pain shivered up his arms to the elbows. A twinge shot through his shoulder. Darcy stifled a yelp.

“You all right?” But he couldn’t wait for an answer. The
plane had only shifted. He had to get her away from the wreck before it fell the rest of the way.

He picked her up and carried her through gloom and trees and snow and mud until, far enough from the plane for safety, they reached a patch of open ground. Gasping, shaking and exhausted, he dropped to his knees, Darcy still cradled in his arms. The damp earth soaked through to the bone. Icy mist prickled his skin.

No. Not rain. They did not need rain. Darcy would take a chill and get feverish. He had to get her to shelter.

He spied a thick evergreen with dense branches that drooped to the ground. She’d be safe under there. Once again he lifted.

“Stop,” she said. “What are you doing?”

“Getting you to cover.”

“I can walk.”

He ignored her protests and carried her to the tree, where he set her on the carpet of soft needles. The ground felt dry and would likely stay that way unless the rain picked up intensity. He pulled off his jacket and laid it over her.

“Forgot,” she slurred.

“Stay here,” he commanded, hoping for once she’d obey. “I’m going to retrieve some supplies from the plane.” He needed to find at least one of the vacuum bottles and something to keep Darcy warm.

“I’ll help.” Her voice sounded clear. Odd how the lucidity went in and out.

“No. It’s too dangerous. Leave this to me.”

“Too dangerous for you.”

“I’ll be careful,” he said, touched that she thought of him.

“You’d better be.”

Jack kissed her forehead and sprinted a few steps toward the plane. If he could find the radio transmitter he could get
help. Then he remembered where it was, safely tucked in his watertight trunk in the barn.

“No,” he yelled to the silent forest. They were stranded in the wilderness without food, shelter or communications. How could he have been so stupid?

He stumbled toward the wreck. It had grown so dark that he could barely see five feet ahead. He spun in a circle, realizing he didn’t know where the plane was located. He looked to the sky and got an eyeful of rain.

“Don’t leave me,” Darcy said, sounding groggy again.

The words tugged him back. In the darkness of the forest, he saw again the dark streets of Pearlman and Darcy in her family’s parlor, children all around. Everything he ever wanted. Right there. So why was he here?

He knelt and touched Darcy’s forehead. Cool, thank God. “I’m here,” he whispered.

She sighed softly, a sound that warmed Jack to the depths of his soul. It reminded him of childhood, of how he felt when his mother tucked him into bed and listened to him say his prayers. It reminded him of the last time he’d really trusted anyone.

He fought back a rush of emotion. Darcy trusted him with her life. Somehow—he didn’t know how—he had to save her. He could not let her down.

Pain. It pulsed through Darcy’s dreams and summoned her back to the living. She couldn’t tell exactly what hurt. It felt more like everything had been pulled apart and then sewn back the wrong way.

Mixed with the throbbing came the sharp smell of pine. Was it Christmas? But then why did she ache? And why was she lying on the parlor floor? She cracked her eyelids. Odd lights flickered in and out. Christmas.

She tried to turn her head.
Ouch.
It hurt. Her arms hurt. Her legs hurt. Everything hurt. She gave up the effort.

A branch snapped. That sound she remembered. The crackle of branches snapping around her, the rush of air, the solidity of ground. She’d crashed. They’d crashed. The plane. Jack.

With a groan, she forced open her eyes, and the sudden light knifed through her head. She squinted against the pain, tried to make out the scene. Smoke. Fire.

Fire.

She gasped. Jack had warned about fire. If the gasoline caught fire, the woods would burn. They’d burn.

“Fire,” she rasped, not loud enough to alert a baby, least of all Jack. But nothing in her body seemed to work right. “Fire,” she tried again with all her might. Not much better.

She rolled to her side, though it took enormous energy. From that position, she saw that the fire wasn’t a raging inferno but a simple campfire, not six feet away. Jack must have built it. A twig popped. That was the snapping sound.

What a relief. She rolled back with a sigh, but a terrible memory wormed into her mind.

She’d caused the crash.

She’d forgotten to strain the oil. The sediment had clogged the screens and made the motors stall.
No!

No, no, no.

She’d forgotten because she’d been swept out of her mind by their kiss. Jack loved her. But he hadn’t said it, had he? She tried to remember but couldn’t. She started shivering.

Jack. Where was he? In a panic, she called his name.

“Darcy, thank God.” His worried face appeared in the firelight. “You’re all right.”

She wasn’t so certain. “You?”

“Just bumps and bruises.”

At least she hadn’t killed him. A tiny bit of the guilt ebbed away. “How long have I been asleep?” she rasped.

“A couple of hours. Here, drink this.” He shoved a cup into her hand.

She managed to dribble half the coffee down her chin. “Where are we?”

“I was hoping you’d know.”

“That’s not funny.”

“You had the map,” he pointed out.

She groaned and tried to remember. In the plane. Cold. Fog. Couldn’t see. The sound of branches scraping, splintering. The map. She’d marked it as best she could, but navigating in the fog had been difficult. “Canada?”

Jack drew in his breath sharply.

Oh, no.
She’d guessed wrong.

“Yes, Canada, but where exactly?” he said. “We’re probably going to have to hike out. It would sure help to know approximately where we are.”

Darcy searched her memory, but her thoughts kept getting muddled. “I’m sorry.” She started to cry.

“Don’t worry.” He pulled the blanket under her chin. “We’ll search for the map and compass in the morning. It’s too dark to look now.” He backed from under the tree and added a branch to the fire.

His words comforted her, taking the worry away. The heat of the fire was making her sleepy. Her lids drooped.

“Here.” Jack shoved a lump of something into her hand.

She struggled to wake. “What is it?” Only the words came out murky.

Somehow Jack understood. “Chocolate. Sorry, it’s a little bit melted from being in my pocket all day.”

She couldn’t take his food. “We’ll share.”

“I already ate my half. Go ahead.”

She let the rich confection melt on her tongue. It reminded
her of home just a little. Mum. Papa. How much they loved her. How Papa had agreed to let her pursue her dream, and Mum had accepted Jack. How deep their love must be. How much she loved Jack.

“I’m sorry, Darcy.” His ragged voice cut through the pleasant memories. “I should never have brought you on this flight. It was too dangerous. Please forgive me.”

She had to tell him it wasn’t his fault. “No.”

His head bowed, dejected.

Oh, dear.
He thought she wouldn’t forgive him. “No, not what I meant.” Her tongue had thickened, and the words came with greater difficulty, but she had to tell him. She couldn’t let him take the blame. “Jack?” Her voice sounded far away. Like she was walking down a dark tunnel of pines, their boughs heavy with snow.

“Stay with me, Darcy. Hold on.”

She moaned. The pain was overcoming her thoughts. She had to say it now before she forgot.

“I have to tell you,” she mumbled.

“That can wait. First, I’m going to check you for injuries. Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere.” She could barely say the word, but that wasn’t what she needed to tell him. She had to let him know she’d caused the crash.

His hand ran over her head. “Bit of a bump here, but it’s not bleeding. I’m going to check your arms now.”

She felt him run a hand down each arm.

“Your right leg,” he said. “Can you move it?”

She tried, but the pain brought tears to her eyes.

“May I check to see if any bones are broken? I promise not to touch above your knee.”

She nodded, and he proceeded to check her shin and the movement of her limb.

“Twisted knee, if we’re lucky.” He replaced the blanket. “Get some rest.”