Page 16 of Landing Love

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.

He guided the plane beneath the cloud cover, and the landscape stretched before him at last. Now he just had to figure out where he was. Where were those rail lines he usually followed? Ah, there they were.

Hell and damnation! Despite his efforts, he’d gone off course. He almost certainly wouldn’t make it to Philadelphia, but he had to try. If only the wind would cooperate, he might stand a chance. But it kept blowing straight at him in tremendous gusts and slowing his progress.

Veering toward the distant glint of steel tracks, he said a prayer to St. Joseph that somehow, miraculously, he’d make it to his destination.

Minutes passed. And then an hour. Then, just as Philadelphia came into sight in the distance, the roar of his engine sputtered to nothing. Damn it! He was out of fuel. He had to find a field or a road where he could put down immediately.

Coasting with no sound but the wind whistling through the wires of the airplane, he made for a patch of green below that looked to be a farmer’s field. He gripped the stick with desperate strength as he carefully maneuvered toward his destination.

The world grew closer and closer. The moment of truth—death or life—approached with the inevitability of the cold hard ground. He pulled up at the last second, slamming down in the bumpy wheat field, skidding to a halt.

He was down and safe. Letting out his breath slowly, he tried to tame the pounding of his heart.

The danger was past, so why wouldn’t his muscles unclench? He shook himself to shuffle off the last of the tension. This was nothing, just a routine, off-site landing. It had happened before, and it would happen again. It was all part of a day’s work, right?

Now to find a telephone and some fuel.

He walked to the farmhouse and caught a family eating dinner. When he explained who he was and why he was there, all three children leapt up and went running to the field to see the airplane, their mother chasing after. The farmer kindly gave him a lift to a gas station where he called in his status and filled a canister with fuel.

Less than half an hour later, he was up in the air again, approaching Philadelphia at dusk. Once again, visibility was against him, and he was forced to guess at his location in the gathering gloom. At long last, he saw the lights of the airstrip ahead of him and made his way down. As his wheels touched down, he heaved a huge sigh of relief. Thank you, Lord Jesus.

This wasn’t the worst flight he’d had, but it was close. He looked forward to the peace and quiet of his hotel room for the night.

Thompson was waiting for him when he landed, already dressed in his civilian clothes, his short-cropped black hair immobile despite the wind. “I’m glad you made it, O’Donnell. It was rough out there today.”

Bill pretended a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “You think a little wind could do me in? You know by now I always turn up like a bad penny. Don’t think you can be rid of me that easily.”

“Of course not, you crazy coot. You think Saint Peter wants to put up with your malarkey?”

Bill laughed. “Too true. Say, how is that fiancée of yours? Has she come to her senses yet?”

“Myrtle is doing just fine, thank you, and for your information she still very much wants to marry me.” Thompson threw an arm around Bill’s shoulder. “Let me buy you a drink. You look like you need it.”

With some reluctance, Bill agreed. He wasn’t really in the mood, but he had a reputation to uphold. Little did his friends know that he usually tapered off the drinks these days as soon as they got sozzled enough to stop noticing. He could not, in fact, outdrink them despite their conviction to the contrary. But perhaps a little whiskey didn’t sound so bad after a flight like that.

They settled in at the bar of their usual Irish pub. Bill had no idea what the place looked like because they kept the lights so low. All he could see was the dull gleam of the bar and the looming figure of the bartender. Sipping the golden liquid and letting its warmth trickle down his throat, Bill waited for Thompson’s onslaught.