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“Jack.” She had to tell him. She couldn’t let him go to sleep thinking he was at fault.

“It can wait until morning. You need to rest.”

“No.” She grabbed his shirtsleeve, the urgency giving her clarity.

He removed her hand. “Sleep.”

“My fault,” she blurted out. “I forgot. I forgot.” She couldn’t get the words out in any order. “The oil. I forgot.” A sob seized her entire body, but with it came the pain, wracking her so hard she could only gasp. “I forgot…to strain…it.”

He sat back on his heels with an
oomph
.

He hated her. She’d ruined his dream with one silly error, and this time it couldn’t be fixed. No transatlantic attempt. No prize. No record. Everything he wanted was gone because of her. All the money. All the effort. All the hope. Gone. She’d been so focused on what she wanted that she neglected his dream. If she truly loved him, she would have put him first. And that conviction hurt worst of all.

His jaw worked as he stared past her into the darkness.

She closed her eyes, unable to watch his pain, fighting the darkness that threatened to engulf her. The last thing she heard before dropping off was his footsteps.

He’d left her.

T
he next time Darcy awoke, a dim, gray light filtered through the trees. Morning. The stillness of the forest was broken by the twitter of an occasional bird and the faint rustle of squirrels and chipmunks in the undergrowth. At home, those would be comforting sounds, but here they reinforced the cruel fact that she and Jack were stranded far from civilization.

Her knee still hurt, but her head had cleared enough to remember it all: the crash, telling Jack her error and his walking away. That ached worse than the knee.

Had he left her to fend for herself? He wasn’t under the hemlock. She pushed to a sitting position, and Jack’s leather jacket slid off. That’s what he’d laid over her, not a blanket. He’d given up his jacket for her. The ache grew worse.

“Jack?” She crawled from under the branches into a small clearing circled by pines.

He lay curled beside the smoldering fire with only a sweater to keep him warm. He would have been warmer under the hemlock, but he’d endured the elements to give her privacy and respect. Tears rose to her eyes. She thought he’d walked off in anger, but instead he’d offered love. Undeserved love.

She crawled on three limbs, dragging the useless right leg, and laid his jacket over him. Then she added her canvas coat.

“Sleep,” she whispered.

He murmured but didn’t wake.

“I’ll find help.” It would be tough, but she could do it.

First she needed a crutch. A nearby stick proved solid enough and the right length. Next she needed the map and compass. Through the trees, she saw the extent of the crash. The wings had folded back, one stuck high in a tree, the other smashed to bits on the ground. The front of the fuselage had caved in. Amazing she’d survived. One of the motors lay in pieces on the ground. Bits of wreckage and supplies were scattered over the area: fuel cans, oil cans, wood framing, half a sandwich, a vacuum bottle, the match canister.

The map had shown a mining settlement on the Lake Superior coast. She recalled thinking they’d passed over it in the fog. That meant they should be due north. Not that far. No more than a few miles. The map would tell her. She redoubled her search and finally located her clipboard, including the map, wedged under the teetering remnants of the left wing.

She couldn’t pull the clipboard free, but by gently tugging and working at it, she got the map out, mostly in one piece. Next she needed the compass, but she couldn’t find that anywhere.

Darcy’s head ached, and her riding breeches were soaked through. Though winter’s snow had melted in most places, the ground was still damp and terribly cold. She shivered, and her stomach growled.

She picked up the sandwich, which had come out of its paper wrapping and was covered with dirt and needles. No matter how unappetizing, it was food. She brushed off as much debris as she could and took a bite. Gritty and soggy, and it tasted like fuel.

She spat it out and looked for something to drink. The vacuum bottle’s contents swished when she shook it, but the stopper was jammed. She resorted to snow. The spring melt
had turned winter’s flakes to granular ice, loose and easy to scoop up. She shoved a handful in her mouth and let it melt down her parched throat.

Her last mark on the map showed them just past the shoreline. When had she taken that reading? How much time between that and the engines dying? Fifteen minutes? It couldn’t have been more. The way Jack took the plane down in s-turns, they might be within a mile of the mine. Even with a gimpy leg, she could walk that far.

“I’m bringing help, Jack,” she whispered. “By the time you wake, we’ll be safe.”

The daylight seemed dimmer than it ought to be. The pines and hemlocks blocked a lot of light, but the sky also looked thick with clouds.

If she could find the sun, no matter how weak, she could fix her direction. She scanned the sky until she saw a faintly lighter spot through the trees. That was east. Now she needed to determine north from south. The trees would tell her. She checked for moss and lichens, which grew more thickly on the north side.

Now certain of her direction, she set off due south. A wall of white pines blocked the way. She went around them and resumed course on the other side. She limped forward on her crutch, picking her way over the uneven terrain. Every step hurt, but knowing she would earn Jack’s respect eased the pain.

Soon she reached a narrow creek. On any other day, she’d merely hop across, but her knee couldn’t stand the impact. The map proved useless. Its scale didn’t show minor features like creeks. To the left, the creek burbled over small rock steps. To the right, an ancient pine shaded the stream. One thick limb had split off and lay across the stream, forming a bridge. She tested it. Solid. But less than a foot’s length wide. If she fell, her injury would get worse, and she’d be soaked in icy water.
But she had to get across. She edged over sideways, bit by bit, until she reached the other side.

Her triumph was short-lived. Something cold and damp hit her face. Then another and another and another. Rain. No, snow. The fat white flakes came quicker and quicker until the air filled with them.

She’d have to hurry. The mining settlement must be close. She’d been walking for ages. A wooded hill ranged before her as far as she could see in both directions. No way around it. She had to go over. Maybe from the top she could see the mine.

She struggled up the hill, panting and wincing with pain. It turned out to be a narrow ridge, as deeply forested on the far side as the near. Beyond stood yet another hill. Disappointed, she started down the other side, but on the third step her crutch snapped. She fell, sliding at first and then tumbling as she gathered speed. The map flew from her hand. Saplings whipped her. She caromed off a slender birch. Cold, wet, sharp, scraping. Over and over she rolled, sliding and crashing through the underbrush.

Oomph
. She came to a stop at the bottom. The pain knocked her flat. She lay prone for the longest time. Courage. If Amelia could endure twenty-two hours of hard labor, she could manage a few twists and bruises.

She sat. Her injured knee had lodged between two young trees. She tried to remove it, and the pain shot bright spots across her vision. She clenched her teeth and tried again, only to repeat the mind-numbing agony. It was no use. She was stuck, helpless.

Panic struck with deadly aim. Jack had no idea where she’d gone. He didn’t even know she’d left. The snow fell thickly now, covering any tracks. He’d never find her. She would die.

The thudding in her ears drowned out the sound of the
forest. Was this death? Was this what Robert Scott had felt in the Antarctic, what the
Titanic
’s passengers had endured? Did Papa worry about her? Did he stand at Baker’s field, watching for their plane? Dear Mum, who only wanted her happiness. Darcy had never quite listened.

And Jack. Wonderful, forgiving Jack. She could smell the warm leather, see him in Devlin’s Model T, assisting Beatrice but watching her. She should have known then that he was the one. She shouldn’t have wasted so much time and effort on foolishness, for what good was a great flight with no one to share the excitement? So many times God had shown her the path to Jack’s heart, but she’d been oblivious, too busy concentrating on her own plans.

Accolades were hollow. What really mattered were the people around her, those God had entrusted her to love.

Tears coursed down her temples into the snow.
Jack, Jack. I love you, Jack.
Too late. Why hadn’t she told him like Beattie suggested? How much could it have hurt?

She brushed the heavy, wet flakes from her face and hair, but others soon replaced them. She would die here without the chance to tell Mum and Papa and Amelia and Beatrice and Freddie and Helen and Lizzie and Jack that she loved them.

Trust in the Lord.
The words seemed to come from nowhere.
Trust in the Lord and He will guide your steps.
Mum had told her that, the morning she chose worship over flying.

She was right. Trust the Lord. That’s what Darcy should have done all along. That’s where she’d erred. God had answered her dream a hundred times over, and she’d never realized it. It didn’t take a grand gesture to impact others’ lives. It took love.

Humbly, she opened her heart to God.
Please, Lord, forgive my stubborn willfulness. Instead of relying on You, I thought I could solve everything myself. I was wrong. I’m helpless and need You so. Take my will, my body, even my desire to fly.
None of it means anything without You.
She rested a moment, eyes closed, then added,
Please spare Jack.

Incredible peace came over her. Somehow—and she couldn’t say how—she knew all would be well.

Even if she perished.

Jack awoke with a start. Something cold and wet had hit his face, and for a moment he thought he was back at school and his bunkmate had thrown water at him. His aching bones told him otherwise.

With a groan, he rolled over. The dim light revealed the same bone-chilling scenario he’d faced earlier: endless forest, cold dampness and a wrecked plane. Moreover, the fire had gone out, meaning he’d slept longer than intended.

“Darcy?” he called, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. They’d need to find the map and make plans before dark. By his estimation, it was afternoon, late afternoon. He glanced at his watch. Broken. He knew that. In disgust, he tossed it away.

His stomach growled, reminding him they lacked food. Darcy needed to eat if they were going to hike out of there—provided she could hike. The gnawing in his stomach intensified. She might not be able to walk that far. In that case, they’d need the food for survival. And they’d have to hope someone came looking for them. If only he’d put the transmitter back into the plane.

Another drop of rain hit him. No time for self-recrimination. He had work to do before nightfall.

“Darcy?”

He checked under the hemlock. She wasn’t there. She’d probably gotten some fool idea to go out on her own to relieve herself. She must have taken his jacket with her. His jacket. He whipped around to be certain he wasn’t mistaken. It lay by
the dead fire. It had been draped over him. And so had hers. That meant she was walking around without any protection.

He called her name repeatedly, but the thick hemlocks, cedars and spruce muffled his words.

He clapped his arms for warmth and put on the old leather jacket. It cut the wind but didn’t do much against bitter cold. He kept calling out Darcy’s name, but he might as well have yelled into an empty well. There was no response.

A light snow began to dust the deathly still forest.

“Hey, Dar—” He broke off when he saw the partially eaten sandwich.

He hadn’t touched it. A wolf or fox or bear would have taken the whole thing. Wolves. Bears. Darcy couldn’t fight off an attack. He looked more closely at the sandwich. The shape of the bite looked human. She must have eaten it.

Then where had she gone?

He tromped through the woods to the wreck site. Not there.

He returned to their camp, easily following his footsteps. She must have left before the snow, because only his tracks were visible. He had to act quickly, or any evidence of her path would be covered under a blanket of white.

Again he called her name, his hands to his lips like a megaphone.

Nothing but the twitter of sparrows.

“Where in creation did you go, Shea?” he grumbled.
And why?

The latter didn’t take very long to surmise. Once he determined she wasn’t near their camp, he knew the answer. She’d gone on and on last night about forgetting to strain the oil. That wasn’t what had stalled the engines, but she’d been asleep by the time he figured it out.

A sick feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. Darcy Shea wasn’t the typical woman. She didn’t fuss or pout. She took
things into her own hands, the way she’d bulled her way into flying lessons. She went after the goal, no matter the cost. She was just stubborn enough to think she could get help on her own.

Fool woman. When he found her he’d strangle her.

If
he found her.

That thought twisted his stomach. As irritating as she could be at times, he couldn’t imagine Darcy dying. She was too stubborn.

But this land could swallow a man whole. A woman? He shuddered. The land didn’t care that she had grand plans and the talent to make them real. It didn’t understand her boundless optimism. This land would leave her blue and cold beneath a drift of snow.

He should never have let her come on such a dangerous flight. He shouldn’t have taught her to fly. If he admitted the truth, he hadn’t done it because Pohlman took her money. He taught her to fly because he wanted to be with her. He knew better than to mix romance with flying. It was selfish and stupid. Never again.

If he found her.

Daylight was slipping away. Jack hunted for one of the portable flashlights they’d stowed in the plane. Their provisions had been scattered over the ground for a hundred yards. He picked through the rubble but couldn’t find the map, the compass, or the flashlights.

He rummaged in her shattered cockpit. Luck—or maybe providence, or even God—was on his side. One of the flashlights had jammed between the side of the seat and the fuselage. With a little tugging and pushing, Jack was able to pry it free. He put it in his jacket pocket.

Then he saw the compass and sextant. For a second he rejoiced, until he realized that meant Darcy had set off without any navigational aids. She could have gone in any direction.

“Stupid, impulsive,” he muttered as he climbed off the plane.
Too wonderful to die.

What had she been thinking?

Jack tried to focus. To find Darcy, he’d have to determine her frame of mind. Which direction would she take? If she’d had the compass, she would have headed to the closest habitation, a mining camp located, by his reckoning, some twelve to fifteen miles south.

Since she lacked navigational instruments, finding her would take a little detective work. Jack surveyed the area. The hatchet—Darcy’s hatchet—lay on the ground. Impulsively, he picked it up. Maybe it would be of some use.