The Flyer

by Marjorie Jones

“So, you will go for a drive with me?”

  “No. That’s not what I meant.”

  “I’m not leaving until I see you safely home or you agree to spend the afternoon with me.”

  “You are persistent, aren’t you?”

  “The worst. I don’t know how people put up with me.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Clipping her words short, she turned a sharp left and dropped off the boardwalk and into the street.

  “Watch out!”

  The cry came from the opposite side of the roadway where three workmen were loading a stack of lumber into the back of a horse-drawn wagon. The boards twisted and fell with an enormous crack.

  The horses reared against their harnesses, stamping on the dry earth as they landed with a heavy thud. Billows of dust clouded around their pulsing bodies a second before both animals lunged forward. Out of control, the team ran into the center of the road, toppling their load into the path of an oncoming roadster. The driver of the roadster swore over the din, turning his wheels sharply and pointing his massive vehicle directly at Helen.

  Helen froze, her mouth opened as though she would scream.

  The driver obviously stomped on his brakes, but the loose dirt of the road wouldn’t allow the wheels any traction.

  Pushed by panic and fear, Paul jumped off the walkway and wrapped himself around Helen’s much smaller body. They landed in a crumpled heap of twisted arms and legs, but they were safe while the car shuddered to a stop nearby.

  Helen’s breath came short and fast, her eyes still wide. Her mouth was open, her lips in a full pout beneath bright red lipstick.

  “Are you two all right?” the driver’s panicked voice shouted.

  Paul couldn’t look away from Helen’s face if he tried. She was frightened, yes, but there was something more. Something hot and exciting that reached out to him as he lay atop her, his arms still holding her from harm.

  The danger had passed, he realized. He should release her, but he couldn’t seem to make his arms agree. She fit him. Even in the unceremonious position they must present, it felt more than comfortable. It felt right.

  He wasn’t expecting that.

  Helen couldn’t move. She couldn’t think, and most importantly, she couldn’t breathe. And she didn’t care. She knew the people on the street were gathering around, staring, wondering what had happened to bring two people into such a position on a public roadway. She didn’t care about them, either.

  Paul’s weight overpowered her. Worse, it overpowered her desire to do anything besides stare into the beautiful blue of his eyes and pretend nothing else in the world existed. Was that so wrong? Would it be so terrible to allow him past the careful shield she’d erected before she’d left her home?

  The voice of reason reared in the back of her mind.

  Of course, it was wrong! Tempted to argue, she forced herself to listen to the voice, and began pushing on Paul’s hard chest.

  “Ow!” he cried, wincing.

  “Oh!” How could she have forgotten about his wounds? The man had wrestled and killed a crocodile less than seventy-two hours ago, and she pushed on his chest as though…

  As though he hadn’t just saved her life.

  She closed her eyes, refraining from pushing any more. “Can you get up?”

  “Ask me nicely.”

  “People are beginning to stare,” she whispered through a forced smile. “They’re going to think something is wrong.”

  “Ask me nicely,” he repeated more slowly, deliberately.

  “Very well,” she huffed, annoyance growing like a weed in her belly. “Will you please get off me?”

  “If you insist.”

  Slowly, interminably so, he stood. Then, like a gentleman or some ancient knight, he offered his hand to help her rise. It might as well have been a snake. She’d touched him before. She’d nearly fallen into the darkness hidden behind the light of his eyes only moments ago. She couldn’t trust herself to feel the warmth of his flesh again so soon.

  “Are you going to sit there all afternoon, love? People are beginning to stare.”

  The echo of her earlier words, spoken in the drawn-out lilt that was uniquely his, sent a challenge up her spine. Instantly, she scrambled to her feet. Without his help.

  “Are you two all right?” the driver asked, again. “Nobody hurt, right?”

  “We’re fine,” Paul answered the frantic gentleman, but he never looked away from Helen’s face.

  There was something in the way he looked at her that promised intense pleasure. But along with pleasure came pain. If she’d learned anything from Reginald, she’d learned that.

  Satisfied that all was well, the driver left. The crowd that had stopped to see the excitement began to disburse. Helen spun away from a greater danger than a speeding motorcar and crossed the street as quickly as her boots would carry her.

  Paul still followed. He would, of course. He struck her as the kind of man who wouldn’t trust her to make it home alive without his expert help. At the same time, he made her want to feel safe. Protected.

  But the truth was anything but safe. Not if he continued to follow her home. What if he invited himself inside? She would have to think of some excuse why he couldn’t.

  She quickened her pace. Perhaps a part of her thought she could outrun him. But his stride easily kept pace with her. In fact, he wasn’t even trying. She’d never seen such long legs on a man, and yet they were in perfect proportion to his incredible height. He towered over her, even now, clipping along the boardwalk.

  She glanced at him, hoping he wouldn’t notice. He didn’t, apparently. Instead, he focused his attention straight ahead, his leisurely gait mocking the fact she took three steps to each of his. One would think she was trying to keep up with him, not the other way around.

  Finally, she reached her street. Doc’s office, with her apartment above it, stood in the center of a row of connected buildings. She pinned the bright-red front door and refused to look to her side again. Any moment, she’d reach it and she would be rid of Paul Campbell for the remainder of the day.

  “Would you like some ice cream?” he asked, breaking the silence of their walk so suddenly she jumped.

  “No.”

  “You don’t eat ice cream?”

  “Yes. I don’t want any at the moment.”

  “You don’t want to go for a drive. You don’t want any ice cream. What are you planning to do with the rest of your day?”

  “I told you. I have work to finish.”

  “Too right. You did say something about that. Of course, you have no patients today, have you?”

  “There is more to what I do than seeing patients. I have files to complete. And if I finish those, I am perfectly capable of entertaining myself.”

  “Ah, but wouldn’t it be more fun if you allowed me to entertain you? A nice dinner at Marie Claire’s, a bottle of wine…”

  He let the words linger, like bait on a hook. Her insides wrestled with the invitation. Dinner. Wine. Moonlight. A soft kiss.

  “No. Thank you.” She opened the door, rushed inside, and slammed it behind her.

  She’d told the truth. She did have work to do. She hadn’t finished her work on Friday because of an emergency she’d had to attend. She’d left the office before three and hadn’t returned until after dark. She needed to complete her reports and records. She didn’t have time for dinner. Or wine. Or moonlight.

  She certainly didn’t have time for kisses.

  Not that he’d suggested such a thing. At least, not aloud. But that look in his eyes … the way he wooed her, making it look as though he didn’t even try.

  When she pushed open the door of her small office, next to Doc’s and previously a file room, she froze. A basket of flowers sat on her desk. The array of wildflowers, slightly wilted, but still pretty, must have been delivered after she’d left for the day. She lifted the basket, pulling a small calling card from between two red blooms. Yours truly, Paul Campbell, s
he read silently.

  He hadn’t said anything about them. A sigh formed in her chest and she released it, knowing no one but herself would hear. Despite her determination to never again allow herself to be vulnerable, a smile formed on her trembling lips. She peeked around the wall of her office and saw his shadow still stood on the porch outside her door. In a casual pose, he leaned against the pillar.

  He was a nice man, really, if he was a little pushy. But it was a charming pushy, wasn’t it? Would there be that much harm in a simple dinner?

  Nonsense.

  Turning back into her office, she set the basket aside and picked up a stack of mail, the first she’d received since she’d arrived. There were dozens of envelopes, many from her school chums, mailed just as she’d left California. She sifted through them, her gaze consistently straying back to the flowers.

  It was just dinner, right? Would he still be waiting outside her door? If he was, she’d accept his invitation, she decided.

  She tossed the mail back on the desk and reached for the basket and card again. Her eyes fell to the top envelope. The blood rushed from her head and settled in her feet. Light-headed and lead-footed, she couldn’t move.

  Reginald.

  “You look like a true bushwoman,” Doc chuckled, his misty eyes sparkling in the slices of sunlight that bore through the front windows of the parlor.

  “I suppose I should take that as a compliment,” Helen replied. She should look like a bushwoman, after all. She wore a sturdy pair of strides, as Doc had called them when he’d gifted her with the trousers last night. Heavy black boots, the gift from her father, were laced to midcalf and weighted her legs like lead. Her blouse was thick muslin, a size too large, with sleeves that had covered her hands before she’d rolled them back. Everything she wore, except for the boots, was sand in color. She couldn’t help but feel much like she assumed Dr. Livingston did each time he ventured into the wilds. She needed only one of those funny little hats.

  Hanging over the back of Doc’s floral-print wing chair was a black leather jacket with worn elbows and cuffs. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to wear such a garment in the amazing heat, but Doc had insisted she take it along.

  She glanced at the brass clock on the mantle. Nearly eight thirty. Any moment now, Paul Campbell would saunter through the front doors with that all-too-sure-of-himself swagger. She hadn’t seen him since Sunday more than a week earlier, when she’d nearly forgotten everything she’d learned about men in the past year simply because he was good-looking and had a tendency to make her swoon. She’d been unable to keep herself from watching the front door until, after nearly an hour, he’d finally left. Then, of course, she’d made the ultimate mistake, and actually read Reginald’s letter.

  Reginald was sorry. In the crisp, fine handwriting of a man well educated and slightly pretentious, he’d apologized. Again. He begged her to return so they could be a family. As though he even knew what the word meant!

  A spark of fierce determination electrified her spine, bringing her shoulders back and her chin up. She didn’t need his apology. She didn’t need him. She didn’t need anyone.

  No sir!

  Today would mark her first foray into the wilds of Australia. It didn’t matter that she was only here because she’d made such a mess of things back home. Her heart beat a little faster anyway, and she dried her palms on her khaki-covered thighs. How exciting to fly off into the wilderness! What an opportunity it was to help people who could otherwise not help themselves. Not only the Aboriginal peoples, but the farmers and homesteaders who lived so far out of the way, their only contact with medical care came over the unreliable, pedal-powered radios they used to communicate. If they even had access to one.

  No, it was a good thing she’d come, regardless of the real reasons. The people here needed her, even if they didn’t know it yet. Besides, it wasn’t like she could go home if she failed. Despite Reginald’s pleas and empty promises, she could never go home.

  “I know you’re nervous, Helen, but you must command trust when you arrive at the gathering. The Aborigines are like children. If you gain their trust and assure them you mean them no harm, everything will be fine. They’ll appreciate you, eventually.”

  “They’ve managed to survive for thousands of years without our help, Doc. They’re hardly children. Personally, I’m not at all certain they will welcome me with open arms.”

  “You’ll have Paul with you. That will help.”

  The front door opened, then closed.

  “Paul will help with what, exactly?” Paul entered the room as though he owned it, his full mouth parted in a half grin. A small flutter tickled her belly. The same flutter that had plagued her for nine whole days. And nights.

  Thank heaven for Reginald’s rather timely letter, which had served as a blatant reminder of what she should be avoiding like the plague.

  Reminders, unfortunately, did her very little good when Paul’s bronzed complexion filled the parlor with warmth that reminded her of the sun. Or perhaps it had simply grown exceptionally hot in the tiny room.

  “Paul, good morning.” Doc pushed himself off the settee, tucking the folded newspaper beneath his arm. “I was just telling Helen that she has nothing to worry about in the bush with you along. You’ll take good care of her, won’t you?”

  “Of course, I will.” The half grin became a full-on smile, revealing a few lines around his eyes and mouth that spoke of many lustful hours outdoors.

  Helen swallowed when he turned his attention away from Doc and the bright blue of his eyes settled on her. She licked her suddenly dry lips.

  Paul’s lips were soft and full. The memory of his kiss had invaded her dreams almost nightly. After hours of imagined bodies entwined, pulsing with expectant passion, she would wake yearning to feel his kiss again. And again.

  She should be thankful for the nightly visits. They made her ever more determined to keep him at a distance when she was awake and fully aware of the danger he presented.

  Still, his kisses almost made her reconsider…

  Stop!

  She hadn’t come to Australia to moon over some man. She had work to do. Charitable and worthy work. Dread took root in the pit of her stomach. She had so much to make up for. How could she possibly do it in only one lifetime?

  “Are you all right, Helen?” Paul stood directly in front of her. How or when he’d moved there, she didn’t know, but he stood so close she could smell the heavy scent of soap and man.

  “Quite,” she managed through her dry throat. “I’m quite fine, thank you. Are you ready?”

  “Ready and waiting.”

  His smile was infectious, and Helen found herself smiling in return—even if it was an unsteady smile that made the sides of her mouth tremble ever so slightly. Paul seemed to make the world right, somehow. Even if it wasn’t.

  The street outside Doc’s office was far from empty, despite the early hour. A motorcar rumbled past and frightened several horses tied to a post in front of the shop next door. Across the street, a black truck with wooden slats wired to the bed held two automatic washing machines while two brawny men lowered a third machine to the dusty roadway. Their shouts blended with the creaking leather of saddles beneath those who preferred the more reliable and proven modes of transportation.

  “My motorcar is just around the corner.”

  Helen followed Paul around the side of the building. Parked in the shade of the building on the far side of the alley, Paul’s 1924 Rugby convertible waited. Beige with maroon-colored leather covering the two seats, it was a beautiful piece of modern machinery in a world where she believed nothing of such divine brilliance could exist. Her heart leapt into her throat, and her fingers itched to hold the steering wheel.

  “Have you ever ridden in a motorcar before?” Paul asked while he pulled open the left side door for her.

  She slid her hands over the buttery-soft leather and inhaled the rich aroma. “Many times. I’m from San Francisco. There are
almost more cars than horses there, these days.”

  “Oh, I can imagine. When we visit Perth, you’ll find the same.”

  Paul set her medical bag in the boot before leaping over the right-side door and slipping behind the wheel. When he shifted the impressive vehicle into gear, he glanced in her direction and smiled. “If you’re a good girl, I might teach you how to drive her later.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “And what if I told you I already know how to drive?”

  He mirrored her expression. “I’d be duly impressed.”

  As they drove through Port Hedland’s wide streets, Helen tried to focus her attention on the day’s coming tasks. Paul would fly her into the bush, where she would treat the natives for any ailments or injuries they might have. Later, they would visit one or two of the outlying settlements and perhaps drop in on a rancher, if they had time. It was important that she meet the people she’d be treating, and it was better to meet them before they needed her unique services.

  But it was hard to concentrate on anything except Paul, shifting through the gears and driving like a lunatic as he dodged wagons and pedestrians with expert precision. The wind caught in his sandy-blond, sun-streaked hair, blowing the long strands around his bronzed face.

  She forced her eyes to his hands—anything to keep from staring at his amazing features—and the image of his hands on her body invaded her thoughts. He had nice hands. Strong hands. His fingers were callused and hard, but his grip on the wheel was gentle, as though he coaxed cooperation from the machine instead of demanding it.

  She immediately forced the image away. She’d sworn off men, and their wicked, forked tongues, forever. Paul’s pretty face and inherently masculine presence be damned.

  Finally, after several harrowing turns and more than one near heart attack, Paul brought the motorcar to a stop in front of a long, low house with a covered porch. The white planks of the exterior were bright, and she squinted. “Where are we?”

  “My place,” Paul answered.

  Helen tried to swallow the sudden lump in her throat. “I thought we were going to your plane.”

  “The landing strip is in the back.” A frown marred the otherwise smooth lines of his face. “Is something wrong?”