“Down, you idiot,” he yelled. “Set her down while you still have some time!”

The plane began to drop in an attempt to land as if her fool pilot had actually heard him. Michael ran in an effort to clear himself from the Jenny’s path.

With a slight dip of her wings, the crippled plane banked, avoided Michael and his own open-cockpit, two-seater Jenny already set down in that field. The plane landed, bumped over the uneven ground and came to a halt. Michael blew out a disgusted sigh. He hadn’t come so close to a crash like that since the Great War had ended. The pilot, he deemed, ought to be strapped to a rock.

Michael strode to the plane, his features knotted with anger, jaw set, dark-blond hair tousled. The single propeller slowed. The pilot looked down with a sheepish grin planted on his freckled face.

“You should have never taken a plane up in that condition!” Michael reprimanded.

The pilot shrugged, that grin even bigger. “Sorry,” was all he could say.

Michael grumbled and shook his head. The pilot was an idiot. He turned heel and went to his small camp. His bedroll was unfurled near a modest fire, his pack nearby. That was his entire camp. Using a branch, Michael lifted the iron lid off the pot warming against the dancing flames. Well, at least the beans hadn’t burned.

The Jenny’s pilot stood beside him, taking a whiff of the homey aroma. Michael felt for the pistol hidden beneath his leather flight jacket. But the fellow didn’t make a move.

“Hungry?” Michael asked, an eyebrow raised.

The pilot eagerly nodded. He removed his leather cap and goggles, exposing a mass of curly red hair.

Michael stood very straight and narrowed his green eyes. “Then you better find something to eat.”

The man’s smile faded. “You’re not very friendly.”

Michael used the stick to clear the small iron pot off the campfire. “You’re damn right,” he confirmed with a grunt as he sat on the ground beside his dinner. “So, maybe you just better leave—on foot.”

The Jenny’s pilot sat right next to him, gaze level, blue eyes unflinching as he stared at Michael. “Have you noticed nobody’s amazed anymore?”

Michael pulled a spoon from his pack, dipped it into the pot of beans, shoved a full helping into his mouth and swallowed. Then his eyes again narrowed into an unfriendly look as he asked, “What the hell do you mean?”

The man stretched. He was a soft, lanky fellow, a contrast to Michael, who was toughened from a hard life. He was probably the same age, twenty-two, maybe twenty-three. The pilot leaned forward, the firelight glowing on his pale skin. “Well, here it is 1922. Just ninteen years since the Wrights flew at Kittyhawk. But it seems like these farmers think nothing of seeing a plane anymore. Where’s the amazement? Hats off, appropriately gawking, just like they’d witnessed a miracle. There are no ‘ohhs’ and ‘ahhs’ any longer. And worst, I can’t get anyone to pay a lousy dollar for a ride in my Jenny.”

“When it comes to your Jenny, I can see why they wouldn’t pay a dollar. Let alone get in.” Then Michael thought. He still saw the wonder, the upturned faces, the look of amazement, but there wasn’t as much, not nearly. He shrugged. “I suppose people are getting used to the airplane.”

The pilot agreed with a nod. “That’s why we should team up.”

“And do what?”

“Form a flying circus. A traveling air show.” The pilot swept his hand upward. “Now people would pay to see that. Community fairs. Public events. We’d be the main attraction.”

“Oh, we would?” Michael grumbled. “You and me?”

“Exactly!” The man smiled broadly, then adjusted himself as if to get comfortable. “Just think about it. A plane ride used to be five dollars and people were glad to pay it. Then it was three, two-fifty, spiraling down, until soon it won’t be worth a buffalo nickel. We can’t run our Jennies on spit. So we have to find another way to make money. A flying circus. Keep them amazed. A few tricks. Some razzle dazzle. Some hooey with a pinch of malarkey thrown in. After the show they’ll line up for those rides. Five dollars a piece, maybe more. You can count on it—they’ll want to climb into that airplane and catch a piece of the dream they just witnessed. Think it over. I’m offering you an opportunity.”

“An opportunity?” Michael looked at the man’s plane. It barely flew. “Nobody’s going to get into that coffin.”

“That’s why we’ll fix it up.”

“You and me?”

“Well, you, would be more correct.”

Now Michael was certain the man was an idiot. “I don’t fix anything without getting paid. And you’re looking at a lot of work. That’s an OX-5 engine, temperamental and water-cooled. And by the sound of it, you’ll probably have to replace the whole thing. And that wouldn’t be the end.” Michael tilted his head. “Judging by the way she handled, she’ll probably need rudders, maybe elevators, too. And the wings need mending, some regluing, for certain. You’re looking at a hundred dollars just in parts and materials, not counting my labor.” He pulled his lips taunt. “And my labor will cost you.”

“Not if we’re partners. And we will be partners. Because I can see you haven’t got anything better lined up.”

“Just a minute,” Michael started to protest. Then he closed his mouth and stared into the campfire. He hadn’t anything better. In truth, he had never had anything better, or easy, his whole miserable life. He looked once more at the man seated next to him. “If I fix your plane what will you do?”

“Promote us.” The pilot held up his hand, pledging, “I guarantee that by the time you finish working on my Jenny, I’ll have our first exhibition booked.” He pointed east. “Right there in that backwater town I just flew over before I came here and nearly ruined your dinner by falling on it.” Again, the man smiled.

Michael rubbed his stubbled chin. “I don’t know.”

“You do know because you want a chance. Everyone does. Even barnstorming gypsies.”

The pilot was right. Everybody wanted a chance, Michael more than most. He wanted a future, a home, a piece of ground on which to settle, permanence in a life that had never had a fixed, solid moment in which a soul could find rest. He ached for one chance in life. He could afford some time fixing a broken-down crate. Time was the one thing Michael had besides his prized Jenny.

“All right,” he finally conceded. “I’ll fix it. But you better have something lined up by the time I’m done or you’ll wish you never met me.”

“A threat.” The pilot hooted. “What a great way to start a friendship.” He stuck out his hand. “Jake Stimpson, Mr. Ryan.”

Michael didn’t move. “How did you know my name?”

“I’ve chased you across the state line. You got a reputation already, fixing equipment for these farmers. The best mechanic that ever flew through these parts.” Jake Stimpson chuckled. “Probably the only mechanic who ever flew through these parts.”

“You chased me across the state line?” Michael drew back. “Just to hoodwink me into fixing your plane for free. You smooth-talking bastard.”

“Don’t be so suspicious.” Jake pushed his hand closer. “Partner.”

Michael still refused the gesture. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“Jake Stimpson, an attorney, Harvard educated.”

“Damn. No wonder you’re a smooth-talking bastard.”

It took a moment before Michael wiped his hand on his knee, a thin smile curling on his mouth. “Partner.” They shook. Then Michael offered, “Help yourself. There’s plenty of beans.”

Then the day came, bright with spring light and the smell of fresh Kansas air. A good number of people were there in a flat, open meadow just outside of town. There were ladies dressed in their Sunday best, gentlemen, straw hats tipped at an angle. Jake climbed aboard his single engine aircraft.

Michael shouted, “Contact!”

Stimpson answered, “Contact!”

Michael spun the prop. The Jenny’s engine backfired, then started to hum. He got into his own plane as Jake took off. Stimpson had gone to the extra expense of adding a siren to his Jenny’s equipment. Michael had mounted it to the plane’s underbelly. At the appropriate moment, Jake hit a switch in his cockpit, causing that siren to wail. The crowd hushed, not a whisper. The local mechanic spun the prop for Michael. Soon, he, too, was airborne.

They had rehearsed a few tricks, ones Michael had seen at Texas’ Baron field. The planes circled together, then Jake flew away from the meadow. Michael’s hands grew sticky with sweat as his Jenny climbed. He pushed the control stick forward, bringing down her nose. She dove. The blood rushed to his head. Michael pulled back the stick, slow, steady, guiding the Jenny into a perfect loop. He circled the crowd before climbing again, almost reaching the plane’s ceiling, well over 10,000 feet. Again she dove, this time in a spin. Michael felt dizzy and sick and scared all at once until he brought her level. Another pass over the field, then Jake took his turn at entertaining; two loops, a spin and a barrel roll for a kicker. They flew together again. Buzzed the crowd. Men took off those hats; ladies put their hands to their bosoms. A genuine aeronautical spectacle had come to their small niche of the world. The planes landed, but the show wasn’t finished quite yet.

Jake took a wooden crate he kept in the passenger’s seat and tossed it out of the open cockpit. He stood up, sprang from his seat, coming down squarely on both feet. He flipped over the crate with the toe of his boot, turning it upside down on the Kansas soil. Then he leapt on top, arms spread, goggles pushed atop his leather cap.

“It’s heaven up there, ladies and gentlemen. God’s church. He made the earth and He made the sky. And here He put us.” Jake pointed to the ground. “To work and to yearn, our eyes always turned upward, hearts always aching. He made us want to climb up to heaven. Made us long to touch His very face and look down on His creation and wonder.

“For the first time in history, for the first time in all existence, we can attend church, my friends, right there in His heaven. Your chance, ladies and gentlemen, maybe your only chance, to touch heaven itself has come to your town today. For the small fee”—Jake looked at Michael and winked—“of seven dollars you can fly. You!” He pointed, sweeping his arm. “You can experience wonder and awe and heaven itself.”

They lined up, those men, their straw hats pushed back, those ladies in their Sunday best. They paid $7.00 a piece to two gypsy flyers, small-town folks eager for the privilege of touching heaven itself.

A few weeks passed. Michael sat across from Jake, a campfire sparkling against the deep, evening shadows. It was one of the few nights Jake Stimpson hadn’t chosen to seek company elsewhere. Michael set his jaw before he finally said, “I want my share off the top.”

“That’s not how it works. I have to see to expenses, then we divide whatever is left.”

“After whose expenses?”

“Our expenses.”

Michael shook his head, pointing. “You mean—yours. Entertaining ladies every chance you get. Dinners. Gifts. Using more than your share of the take.”

“So, I spend a little on women.” Jake shrugged and tried his winning smile. “Some of us have to use a bit of persuading when it comes to the fairer sex.”

“Then persuade them with your money, not mine.”

“Maybe you ought to spend a little yourself.” Jake had no use for his smile anymore. “You work on these planes. Find extra jobs fixing broken-down machinery wherever we are. And what do you do? Nothing, that’s what you do. Except, on occasion, complain about the cost of a can of beans.”

Michael stood. “I plan to do a lot with my money.”

Jake came to his feet. “What? Buy yourself a sharp looking coffin? Because, my friend, you’re not living much of a life.”

Michael stretched out his hand, palm up. “My share. Up front.”

The curly-haired man hesitated, irritating Michael. Then Jake reached into his pocket and pulled out a small roll of bills. He slapped it in Michael’s hand, then scooped up his pack and started off. “From now on, I’ll be billing you for expenses.”

“Where are you going?”

Jake looked at a small collection of sparkling lights nearby. Michael knew what the man wanted. There had to be someone with moonshine in that town, and if Jake were lucky, a willing lady to keep him company.

Stimpson finally answered, “To spend my share.” He flung the pack over his shoulder. “Up front.” He walked away.

Michael sat down to count his money, then tucked it safely away in his own pocket. He laid out his blanket and rolled it over himself, arm tucked beneath his head as he stared out at the darkened landscape.

He planned to do a lot with his share because somewhere there was perfection in the world. He had dreamed of it, heard Jean speak of it, a place where a body could forever hang their hat, an honest home. He wanted that home, a place of his own, a piece of land and a woman who smelled of spring—

Just like Jean.

Jean Abel was one of the few people who had ever shown Michael the least bit of kindness. She was part of his soul, her deep brown eyes warming his memory. He could still inhale the sweet scent of her hair as she hung her head while she read to him. Her soft voice would always whisper to him a promise of something decent and clean. He loved her like someone loves a perfect vision, with all the aching hope a body could hold. He would always love her, even now when she lay in her grave.

He had to believe Jean was still there, a thin vapor of hope trailing the dusty wind. He needed to believe in a home where he could, at last, be somebody.

He pulled the blanket about him even more, closing his eyes, not a sound stirring the still, empty night air.

Michael sat up, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps, his blanket falling away. He put a hand to his aching forehead. It was only the nightmare again. He wasn’t there anymore. But the laughter hadn’t stopped. The campfire was bright. Someone had brought its embers alive. He saw them, Jake and two women. One had her arm looped with his, the other leaned on his shoulder as she twirled a lock of his red hair round her finger. Michael stood, staring at them.

“You sure do chatter in your sleep, Mr. Ryan. Much more than when you’re awake.” Jake laughed, the women joining in. He was drunk, wavering slightly until he finally sat down. “Come on, girls, take a seat.” They did.

“What do you want, Jake?”

“Just the pleasure of your company. Really. So sit down.” Michael hesitated. “Come on, we won’t roll you. Will we, girls?”

They shook their heads, wisps of long hair spilling out from the grasp of a million pins.

“I’m the son of a judge. Grandson of a Supreme Court jurist. I’ll take the oath.” Jake held up his hand. “Why, my family is full of honorable bastards. So sit down, Michael, for the love of God.” He pulled out a flask and drank a helping. “Moonshine. Prohibition be damned.” He held the flask to his partner.

Michael refused the offer before he finally took a seat, eyes fixed on the trio. Both women were a little plump, their plain features lit by the firelight. One smiled at Michael, mischief playing in her small eyes. He felt so cold, cold like he had been that winter in Paris, cold like he had been on the Chicago streets, a stone chill running through him. She moved closer, her companion staying with Jake.

“You’re sure a fine looking man. Green eyes, dark-blond hair. So handsome,” the admiring woman said, a Mid-western set to her voice.

Michael acknowledged the compliment with an uncomfortable nod. She was next to him, face turned to the fire, a pretense of shyness. The woman smelled of hay and soured milk. He kept staring across the fire, Jake lying down with the other woman.

The night air filled with sounds Michael had heard so many times as a child. He could feel the lady next to him, her fingers tracing the back of his neck. She leaned on him, her breath coming against his face. He didn’t even know her name. But that didn’t matter to women like her who’d bed with a stranger.

Her lips brushed his cheek. A slight moan escaped her mouth. Revulsion swept through him. With an angry shove, Michael pushed her aside and stood once again. She looked up at him, hurt.

Jake sat up straight, eyes fixing on his business partner. “Michael?”

“You can have both of them.”

“Michael—”

“No, Jake!” He sucked in a deep breath. “Take them both. The three of you have a grand time.” He reached down and retrieved his blanket. “I know for a fact, it’s done all the time.” Michael set off by himself, away from the fire’s circle.

Jake Stimpson laughed. “The man’s right, honey. It’s done all the time.” Again, the night filled with laughter and sounds Michael had heard a thousand times before.