Baroness

by Susan May Warren

  Next time. She nodded, too aware of how the breeze brought his scent to her, too aware that yes, she wanted to throw her arms around him, to thank him for keeping his promise.

  Too aware that she would have to work hard—very hard—not to fall in love with Truman Hawk.

  They set up camp beside the hangar and waited for the truck to arrive. Sometimes, it took a day or two for Rango to find the right roads to their destination. But he pulled in shortly after twilight with their gear and supper.

  “The town’s already buzzing about the show,” Marvel said as he drove them in for dinner. A real dinner. And a real hotel. With a real bed. Pre-ticket purchases must have been lucrative. “They can’t wait to see Lola, the Flying Angel.”

  Lilly smiled, her gaze shifting to Truman. He wore that strange expression again, the one she longed to untangle.

  They dined at the Chestnut Hill Supper Club on roast chicken and potatoes. Grand windows overlooked the Chippewa River, and a fire crackled in the magnificent river-stone hearth. For a moment, Lilly’s life in New York returned to her in the white-gloved waiters, the gold chandeliers, the fancy flappers with their sequins and feathers striding in on the arms of dapper men in tuxedos. She saw herself in the dress Rosie had purchased in France, the one with the embroidered poppies, saw pin curls in her hair, perhaps captured by a feather headband.

  From this vantage point, she could admit to liking the look.

  She should write to Rosie. Tell her where she was, that she had learned to fly. But her cousin might betray her to Oliver, and the last thing she needed was Mr. Stewart showing up to drag her home like a child.

  Only, she wasn’t a child, not anymore. She sat at the table with her fellow performers, a part of the show. She’d helped pay for this meal, and not because of Oliver’s help.

  “A toast,” Marvel said, and picked up his glass. “To the Flying Stars and their newest angel.”

  She picked up her glass, and Truman added, “To a safe show tomorrow.” He met her eyes, a shine in his.

  Marvel had secured them all rooms at the Fairmont Hotel downtown, and he himself escorted Lilly to her room. “We’re all retiring early, darlin’,” he said as she made a face. “You can dance tomorrow night.” He winked, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it.

  The dance. She sank down on the edge of the eyelet coverlet of the bed and stared in the mirror. She looked scraggly, thanks to her helmet, and had raccoon eyes—pockets of white around them, the rest of her face a dark tan. She’d lost weight, it seemed, but in her trousers she couldn’t tell. Her nails were dirty, grease dug into the pores of her hands.

  She looked like a man.

  Marvel answered on the second knock. He was already in his T-shirt. “I told you, we’re staying in.”

  “I need my pay. At least for the last few weeks. I know you have it, Marvel, and I need it.”

  He pulled up his suspenders, leaned on the door. Once upon a time, he’d been a daredevil flyer like Truman, but promoting the show had added a paunch to his gut, a sag in his face. “Why?”

  “I don’t have to tell you why. It’s my money.”

  “Sure it is, doll, but we need enough for gas and these fancy digs—”

  “These fancy digs are your choice, not mine. But if you must know, I need a dress.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “You don’t want Lola the Flying Angel to show up in a flour sack tomorrow night, do you?”

  He disappeared into his room while she waited at the door. He returned with a handful of dollars. “That’s last week’s take. I’m going to have to owe you the rest.”

  “Yes,” she said. “You will.”

  She took a bath and scrubbed everything, picking the oil out of her fingernails.

  What she needed was a hairdresser. Or Rosie. She knew how to make perfect pin curls. Sneaking out of her room right after breakfast the next morning, she left a note for Marvel, telling him she’d meet him at the field. The hotel clerk helped her place the call, allowing her access to the back office. She gave the number to the operator and heard it ringing on the other side of the country.

  Amelia, her aunt’s housekeeper, answered. “Worth residence.”

  “Amelia? It’s—it’s Lilly.”

  She heard an intake of breath. “Miss Lillian. We’ve all been so worried, your stepfather is here—”

  “I’m calling to talk to Rosie. Is she in?”

  Silence, then Amelia said, “Perhaps it is best if you discuss this with your aunt Jinx.”

  His tone tightened her chest. “Why? What’s happened to Rosie?”

  “Nothing, ma’am. She’s well. Only…Miss Worth is currently unavailable, but I expect her back within the hour. Perhaps I could get a number?”

  “Amelia, where is Rosie?”

  Silence.

  “I’ll hang up and never call again.”

  “She’s no longer in touch with us. I believe she’s a showgirl in the city somewhere.”

  A showgirl?

  “Thank you, Amelia.”

  “Where can we reach you, ma’am, if I may ask.”

  “Tell Aunt Jinx I’m well.” She hung up before the desire to pour out her adventures to someone—even Amelia—might prove too tempting.

  The barbershop had a line of men but posted a sign: HAIR BOBBING, OUR SPECIALTY.

  She waited, poring through a magazine, then pointed to the picture on the front cover when they called her name.

  Fischer’s dress shop had a number of styles, nothing Rosie might fawn over, but Lilly found something she could wear—a black dress with silver beading along the bodice and a drop waist, with a skirt made of long ribbons of flowing fabric.

  If only she still had her pearls. Instead, she purchased a long silver scarf.

  And gloves. Her mother had taught her that much.

  Her fancy New York shoes would have to do. She had already scrubbed them in the sink, turning them a silvery gray.

  She hid the trousseau in her hotel room, tucked her new hairdo into her helmet, and danced on the wings of Truman’s airplane to thunderous applause.

  She didn’t remove her helmet all afternoon.

  She couldn’t bear to ride in Marvel’s truck to the dance, so she hired a cab with the last of her allowance. The stars overhead glittered like diamonds cast before her, and the classical music of an orchestra drifted out onto the lawn as she exited the cab.

  She’d forgotten the allure of looking like a woman, of wearing silk stockings, even if she had rolled them down below her knee, and smelling of a freshly picked bouquet. She would have to start demanding better digs, perhaps her own tent.

  Although she could admit to loving the romance of sleeping under the wing of her airplane, counting the shooting stars.

  A gloved footman opened the door for her. Inside the dining hall where she’d eaten last night, women and men dressed in their Sunday best danced, others sat at tables, hopefully discussing the day’s show. She spotted Marvel seated with two men, probably the local Lions Club members.

  She smoothed her dress, more nervous, suddenly, than when she’d climbed out onto the wing of Truman’s plane, and stepped into the ballroom.

  Right then, for a moment, she became Lillian Joy Hoyt Stewart again, daughter of an heiress. The music twined around her, and her finishing school lessons returned to her, useful for the first time. She recognized the waltz as an Irving Berlin tune. Her mother loved to play it on the piano. From the stage, a crooner pealed out the sad words. “The birds ceased their song, right turned to wrong, Sweetheart, when I lost you.”

  “Jeepers, Lilly, you sure do clean up.” Rango, freshly bathed and in a clean white shirt and pair of wool pants, his dark hair brilliantined back to a shiny cap, came sauntering up to her from the open porch on the side. “I barely recognize you.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  He smiled, something like chagrin on his face. “Yep.” He glanced at the dance floor, back to her. “I’m useless, e
xcept for the spiked punch. I can’t dance a lick.”

  “That’s okay, Rango. I don’t need to dance.”

  “Yes, actually, you do.”

  She knew Truman’s voice so well, it seemed impossible that it might have such an effect on her. A deep, calm voice, the kind that could reel her back to the cockpit or make her laugh with stories of flying. This voice could curl deep inside her and turn her body weak.

  Lilly turned. “Hello, Truman.” She smiled, something she dug out of her finishing school years also, because it felt unnatural and too bright.

  He made it difficult to breathe. Truman had turned into a New York banker, bathed, his hair combed back except for that dangerous, annoying lock that tickled his blue eyes. And where did he get that suit, not to mention the tie, the silver vest, the fedora?

  He looked…dapper.

  And the look he gave her matched the mischief in his smile. He ran his eyes down her, back up, pursing his lips. “Wowsa, doll, you are from New York, aren’t you?”

  Oh. “I…”

  He leaned close, his lips right next to her ear. “You take my breath away.” Then he held out his arm. “I, unlike Rango, know how to dance. If your card isn’t filled up…?”

  “I can sneak you in,” she said, and let him sweep her to the dance floor.

  He indeed knew how to waltz. Then, the band changed tempo. “Do you know how to foxtrot?”

  “Of course,” she said, and thanked Oliver for the first time for tormenting her with dance lessons.

  A soft breeze finally lured them out on the verandah and Truman fetched her a glass of punch. “Spiked?”

  “You’re safe,” he said. They walked out, down to the river, and watched it sparkle under the moonlight.

  “It was a good day, a good crowd,” Lilly said.

  “They loved you,” he said.

  She searched for a falling star.

  “Do you suppose you ever might…” He sighed and looked away. “Ever might consider opening up your own show?”

  She couldn’t help the laugh. “With what? My own wings?”

  He gave her a wry smile. “No, with—with me.”

  “You have a plane I don’t know about?”

  “Not yet.” He seemed suddenly so…so not Truman, it rattled her. Question, even fear in his eyes.

  No, he couldn’t be serious. Start their own show? “I—I like flying, but I’m headed to Montana. I have to get back there.”

  He nodded, stared away from her. Finally, “Why? Why is it so important to get back to some ranch you haven’t seen in seven years?”

  She turned to look at the club, saw others drifting out into the night. Beck was on the verandah with a blond, leaning in, one hand perched on the railing behind her.

  “Have you ever seen a buffalo, Truman?”

  He glanced at her, frowning.

  “They’re really large cows that roamed the prairies, once upon a time. They’re huge, about two thousand pounds, and they look like large, docile animals. They graze peacefully in their pasture for years. Every once in a while, however, they get a wild hair and have to roam, and when they get it in their blood, they can push down any fence, or traverse almost any obstacle. They’re bullheaded. And yet, sometimes, when the pioneers crossed the country, they traveled for miles with them, tame as cats. ”

  “And you know this how?”

  “I’m one-fourth Crow Indian.”

  “What?”

  “Crow. My father was half-blood, and my grandmother, full Crow. My mother was a socialite from New York who ran away from a forced marriage. She fell in love with my father and married him. He died before I was born.”

  “I’m sorry, Lilly.”

  “It was a long time ago. But the point is, my grandmother knew the buffalo were being killed to the point of extinction, so she started a private herd. They live to be about thirty-five years old, so some of the calves who were born under her hand, and my father’s hand, were the same ones I tended.”

  “You herded buffalo?”

  “I love buffalo. They’re majestic animals. But the important thing is that they were being hunted, and they needed a safe place. We gave them that, and if my stepfather sells the ranch, they’ll have nowhere to go. That’s another reason why I have to return. My grandmother intended to protect the herd, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “You’d give up flying to protect a herd of buffalo?”

  “I’d give up flying to be a part of my family’s legacy.”

  He stared into the night. “I came from a family of farmers. I think they wanted the same for me. But I wanted something bigger for my life.” A muscle pulled in his jaw when he turned to her. “You made me see, for the first time, what that might be.”

  He touched her face, running his thumb down the side of it. “You really are breathtaking, Lilly,” he said softly. “I can’t keep up with you. You’re brave and smart and…we’re a good team, right? We put together a spectacular show, you and me.”

  “I—I don’t know.” She pressed her hand to her forehead, moved away from him, but he caught her, turned her.

  “We could save our money—I already have a stash put away— and I could buy Eddie’s plane from Marvel. I know he needs the cash. And then…then one day we fly away. We start our own gig. We’d make a name for ourselves.”

  “Hawk and Lola?” She tried to make light of it, to temper the earnestness in his expression.

  “Truman and Lilly,” he said softly. And then he kissed her. Nothing like Rennie’s kisses, Truman’s had a sweet desperation in his touch, a sort of hunger that she understood. He tasted tangy, sweet from the punch, and he cradled her face in his strong hands, his smell cascading over her, his touch perfect as he deepened his kiss.

  And right then, she became a fool and kissed him back. She dropped her punch cup and wound her arms around his waist, holding on. He was so much taller than she was, she had to rise on her tiptoes, but he bent for her, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her tighter.

  She’d never been kissed like this. Yes, Rennie had been…urgent. But Truman kissed her like he’d lost her. As if she’d gone tumbling off the side of his plane, only to be recovered.

  He kissed her like they belonged together.

  Maybe she could fly with him. Maybe this was her future.

  As the music waltzed out into the night, and as his lips whispered against her neck, she molded herself to him, feeling a new kind of flying. “How about Lilly and Truman?”

  Chapter 11

  “You got married?”

  Lilly sank down on the metal lawn chair beside Moseby’s wheelchair, where Moseby sat basking in the sun, a bottle of lemonade sweating in her hand, her eyes closed, her dark hair pulled back in a rag headband. Overhead shone a glorious blue sky, one of the precious few before summer vanished into the sharp winds of autumn. Indeed on the August Minnesota wind, Lilly smelled the hubris of autumn, and a few of the early crimson maple leaves splotched the grass like droplets of blood.

  “Eddie asked, and I said yes. I figured, he felt so guilty about the accident that this might be the only time, so I took my chance.” She opened her eyes and glanced at Lilly. Held out her hand. “Go figure, he already had a ring.” A plain silver band encircled her left ring finger.

  “But what about your career, wing walking, the Flying Stars?”

  She leaned back. “The fact is, Lilly, once I said ‘I do,’ it felt right to give it up. I want to stay here with Eddie and make a life, have babies. I never thought I’d end up in Minnesota, but these are good people, and this is where I am, so I’m going to hold on for the ride, with Eddie. Besides”—she looked over and winked at Lilly—“they have Lola, the Flying Angel. They don’t need me.” Nothing of rancor hued her words. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  Eddie and Moseby rented a tiny one-bedroom saggy blue house on the edge of town, but across the weedy road, the lake glistened, beckoning, waves combing the shore. Beck stood
in the sand, his feet tunneled deep, the water sloshing at his ankles, looking as if he might be contemplating stripping off his pants and diving in. Rango, Dan, and Truman had gone to town to help Marvel put up bulletins in a desperate attempt to resurrect their show.

  “So, how did you convince him to let you wing walk?”

  She looked at Moseby. “Convince who? Marvel?”

  “You know who.” Moseby gave her a look. “I can’t imagine that after my accident Truman was thrilled to let you climb out on that wing.”

  Lilly drew in a breath. “I’m not sure, actually. I found him wet to the gills down at some bar, dragged him home, and the next morning, he took me up. Gratitude, maybe.”

  “Or maybe he thought you’d get it out of your system.”

  “I nearly did. It’s terrifying.”

  “And exhilarating.” Moseby smiled.

  Lilly smiled back. “That too.”

  Moseby shook her head. “I remember the first time I got on the wing. I thought I was crazy. I held the wires so tightly they ripped into my hands. But I told myself that I wanted this, and I kept hanging on, one flight at a time, until I became the Flying Angel. Still, I can’t believe he let you take over the act. I thought for sure my accident would drag up demons.”

  “He hasn’t had a drink since then either.”

  Moseby raised an eyebrow. “He’s up to something.”

  We put together a spectacular show, you and me.

  Truman’s words niggled at her. He’d said nothing more about his offer since that night, almost a week ago, as if he’d forgotten. Instead, he found times to steal her away behind the tent to kiss her, moments when he swept her up into his strong arms and took her flying.

  “Lilly?”

  Oh. She shook away the memory of his kiss and smiled at Moseby. “What?”

  Moseby considered her for a long moment, her green eyes running over her face, before she pursed her lips and looked away. “That scoundrel.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, Lilly, this is a bad idea.” Moseby reached out, took her hand. “Please tell me he hasn’t gotten you into his…well, cockpit might be the right word.”