The Third Day of Christmas (it's still the 3rd day? we made it?)
Title: Flight of the Phoenix: Chapter One
Authors: aussie and bugs
Genre: A/U, Romance
Word Count: 4200
Rating: T
A/N: Forgive us shippers, for we have sinned. Yes, with readers and Adamsverse characters patiently waiting, we're careening off on another tangent. We've had fun with an AU of an AU before, so we decided to do it again for about_time's 12 Days of Christmas. We WILL finish this during the celebration.
Major apologies for our lateness. Family and time zones and visitors, oh my!
Chapter 1:
"Children, see you tomorrow," the schoolteacher called after her students as they streamed out of the small schoolhouse.
"Goodbye, Miss Roslin," a few strangled cries replied. The boys tossed a ball among themselves as they skipped down the country road toward their homes. The girls gathered in chattering knots and followed behind. None of them gave any more attention to their middle-aged teacher as she lingered on the school steps.
She should wipe off the chalkboards and gather the books. Sweep the floor, clean the washroom... Instead, she snagged her book from her desk, wandered to a little creek which bordered the dusty playground, and sank down in the shade of an oak tree.
She loved teaching, loved her students, but needed these moments in her own secret world. Slipping off her sensible, low-heeled shoes and opaque stockings, she dropped her feet into the cooling waters of the stream. Then she opened her thick leather-bound book. With curious children's eyes gone, there was no one to notice that she kept a slim paperback with bright colors and a racy image on the cover between the pages of her serious tome.
A damp nose touched the back of Laura's neck under her sensible bun of thick hair, causing her to gasp. "Jake," she scolded her shephard.
When the dog settled down beside her, his bright eyes watching sparrows swooping along the water, Laura returned to her book, adjusting her glasses. She was transported worlds away from her own small town life of teaching classes, housekeeping and gardening on Saturday, church on Sunday. No dull days--no, these pages held rain-slicked streets, treacherous women, braver than Laura could ever be, and hard-eyed men who made her heart race.
There was not a single exciting man in Adair, Iowa--not even Richard Adair himself.
A deep roar filled the air; an airplane approached the schoolhouse and her adjourning family farm.
Changing her focus from the page to the sky, Laura squinted upward. The strong afternoon sun glowed on the silver belly of the plane, coming in too low and too fast.
Laura leapt up, her books falling forgotten by her feet.
Jumping the stream, she ran, waving her arms wildly in the air to gain the pilot’s attention. He was bearing down on her farm's barn. Beside her Jake barked and spun in circles.
The plane clipped the windvane off the barn, then banked, coming back toward the cornfield with its waving green stalks, and straight at Laura. She stopped, horrified, as the plane touched down, tearing up plants, bounced up again, then down with a sickening crunching sound, digging up dirt and corn stalks as it slowed.
"Jake!" Laura yelled, calling her dog back. Grabbing him close, she fell to the ground, hoping for some protection from the whirling propellers of the speeding plane. Her hair fell out of its bun and her glasses slid off her nose.
The plane finally came to rest a dozen yards from the teacher and her companion. She struggled to her feet. The propellers were still turning, catching her cotton dress's skirt, flipping it up high above her waist. Fighting to shove it down, Laura cursed in an unladylike fashion, even more angry with each indignity.
Bill Adams pushed back the canopy on his single-seat experimental airplane and wriggled out of the tight cockpit. He clamored onto the wing of the listing ship. Pushing up his goggles, he unfastened the chin strap on his flying helmet and looked around. He'd been concentrating on landing, but he swore he'd seen a woman running across the field after a dog, and the flash of a great set of gams--
"Excuse me!" yelled at him from below the wing.
He peered down. A barefoot woman stood among trampled corn, covered in mud, her face dirty, and red curls tangled around her angry face. Green eyes blazed at him. Her well-shaped chest heaved. A farm lass from the look of it--
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” she immediately demanded.
He slowly removed his helmet. “Landing,” he drawled, jumping down from the wing. Completely undaunted, the woman stepped closer. He saw she was older than he’d thought at first. Maybe she was the farmer’s wife; come to demand money.
A black and white dog slinked from behind her, growling menacingly, its lips curled back to bare sharp teeth. Bill crouched down, removing his gloves as he did, and offered the dog the back of his hand.
While he petted and scratched the dog, its mistress kept ranting: “Landing on my crops! Right next to a schoolhouse too. When there’s a road just over there.”
“It’s not wide enough,” he tried to explain. “I would have knocked out a couple of miles of telephone poles. Plus there was a vehicle on it already.”
“There was?” Temporarily distracted by the idea, the woman stood on tiptoes as if she could see the road from their current position. “Oh yes, that’ll have been Sam returning from the feed store. He can help you right this thing and get on your way.”
Bill squinted at the plane’s tires, bogged down in the field's soil. Her husband, Sam, had been in a pickup. Bill assumed they had a tractor, but would it damage his creation to be dragged from the cornfield?
“I’ll need more than a little help,” he said, running his hand along the fuselage next to its name painted on the aluminum; Phoenix. It didn’t feel like it had overheated, at least. “Have you got a telephone, ma’am? I need to put through a call to San Francisco and a local mechanic. I’ll pay--”
She placed her hands on her hips. “You betcha you’re going to pay, buster,” she growled.
With a sigh, he looked over her head, noting the ripped up trail of crops the plane had caused. “I’ll wire through some money to cover the damage and the rental of your barn.”
She swung her head toward the barn and then back to him. He kept his gaze respectfully on the ground near her feet. Although, her trim calves reminded him of the quick view of the full length of her legs.
“My barn?”
“If I could just keep the plane there while it’s repaired,” he said evenly. "I passed over storm clouds about ten miles back. Rain is coming."
“Look, Mr...”
“Adams. Bill Adams,” he introduced himself.
He saw her expression alter when his name and the dollar signs associated with it registered. He tensed, waiting for one of the usual acts which dames put on when thinking about fame and fortune.
“The Bill Adams?”
Who hadn't heard of Bill Adams? Hero of the Great War, son of a wealthy California ranching and now oil family, brave aviator, chased by every heiress and starlet now that he was widowed--his photograph was constantly in her Chicago newspapers.
She hadn't recognized him at first. In the flesh, he looked rougher and frankly, tougher than the gentleman in evening dress or standing by one of his airplanes with a silk flying scarf around his neck. His gaze was alive and mesmerizing, coming from vivid blue eyes. His dark hair was obviously curly when not held in place by hair oil. But his neatly trimmed mustache seemed out of place on his rugged face, as though he were trying to be Clark Gable.
Keeping all these thoughts to herself, she eyed him up and down a couple of times. “I’ve seen your picture in the paper. You look shorter in real life,” she added sarcastically.
He raised one eyebrow. “Don't worry, I can cut anyone down to size when necessary,” he shot back, but then took a deep breath. “Say, Mrs--”
“Miss. Miss Laura Roslin.”
Unmarried? Perhaps she’d lost a sweetheart in the Great War-- “I can’t appeal to your patriotism? Our boys will be flying this exact plane in the coming war,” he noted, unable to keep the pride out of his voice.
“America’s not in the war,” she reminded him.
“We will be soon,” he declared solemnly. “We’ll--”
Bill never got to finish his lecture. Instead, they both heard a tractor puttering across the field, following the plane’s path, a well-built young man bouncing on the seat.
“Looks like the cavalry’s arrived,” Bill murmured, turning back to his reluctant hostess.
As though her approaching field hand reminded her of propriety, she began twisting her hair up in its bun. “You may use the barn,” she agreed ungraciously. “And the telephone.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Laura stomped over to where her glasses had fallen in the mud. She tried to put them on, but the frames were twisted and the lenses smeared with mud.
"I'm sorry," he said, completely sincere.
"I just need them for reading," she said tightly.
"I can repair them." He held out his hand and after a moment's hesitation, she gave them to him. He slipped them in his jacket pocket.
Sam hopped off the tractor. "What's this, Miz Roslin?" he said in his slow, careful way.
"A particularly large crow has pulled up our crops, Sam."
"I'll pay for those as well," offered Bill.
Laura tossed her head and a curl came loose from her bun again. He smiled at her, a flash of strong white teeth under his narrow black mustache. Before she could think of a retort, he turned his attention to Sam, explaining carefully how to hook up the valuable airplane.
Seeing the men occupied, Laura remembered her books, and wandered as nonchalantly as she could manage back toward the stream.
"I'll meet you up at the barn," she called out. Bill raised his head and waved at her; Sam continued to work at the ropes he was attaching to the plane.
She was used to Sam's polite indifference. But this stranger's gaze was too familiar by a half. She'd have to keep her guard up with such a man as this, accustomed to ladies falling at his feet and giggling at his every word--he'd cut her down to size indeed!
Even Jake was proving to be smitten. He always enjoyed their visits to the shady area beside the stream but now, instead of skipping along behind her, sniffing curiously at every blade of grass, he sat at Bill Adams’ feet. She never knew her pet to be such a fickle beast.
Pulling on her hose and shoes, she gathered up her books and crossed the brook again at the small footbridge on the path to her farm. By now, Sam was hauling the downed plane across the field and the flier followed behind, his leather jacket, jodhpurs and high boots looking particularly ridiculous in an Iowa cornfield.
But by the time she entered the barn and was blinking at the darkness, Bill Adams had retrieved his small travel bag from the plane and changed into greasy coveralls.
He was speaking to Sam about a mechanic to contact. Jake met her at the door and nudged her hand. She huffed, but gave him a quick pat before he moved to near the barn door where he curled up to doze.
"Giles Tyrol's probably your best bet," Sam said. "He takes care of our tractors."
"This isn't a tractor," Bill said in horror.
"Why don't your run over to Mr. Tyrol's house and fetch him," suggested Laura. "He's not on the telephone," she explained to Bill.
He shook his head. "In these modern times, to not have a phone--"
"Not everyone trusts those wires coming into their house," Sam said, indignant. "God knows what those things might be doing."
Bill started to protest but Laura waved Sam away.
"I'll light a lantern," she said stiffly once they were alone. She set her books on the workbench, but they slipped and fell to the ground.
"Let me get those..." Bill said before she could stop him. His eyebrows raised at the racy cover of her potboiler. "Well, well, Miss Roslin."
She improvised quickly. "One of my students. I'd confiscated it."
She was a terrible liar; she could hear it in her voice. Also, she hated that she had to lie at all--worry about what people would think. Oh, to be one of this man's sort of women, who'd laugh this moment off and offer him a cocktail and a cigarette. Her only pack of cigarettes were hidden in an old shoebox under her bed, bought on her last trip to Des Moines so not to be seen by any local townfolk making such a scandalous purchase, and her only alcohol was to rub on cuts.
"Okay," he said with an easy smile, and set her books back on the workbench.
"How long do you expect to be here?" she asked, hoping to change the topic.
"At least overnight," he admitted. "I may have to tear this motor down even."
"Oh no," she gasped. "...You'll need a place to sleep."
"S'pose so," he said and there was that grin again.
"You can't sleep at the house," she whispered.
The first crack of lightning could be heard in the distance, and the air was suddenly humid.
"Of course not," he said.
She strode over to the ladder to the hayloft. "You're welcome to sleep up here. I'm sure it's nothing like what you're accustomed to."
"You'd be surprised at what I'm used to," he rejoined.
Just to show him that she was game, she started to climb the ladder. Halfway up, and feeling the breeze rising in her skirt, she realized this was a mistake.
"Just this way," she said briskly but not daring to look down for fear of seeing him taking a peek.
"Sure," he said, sounding amused. The ladder creaked at his added weight, and she scrambled up into the hayloft in a very undignified fashion.
"I'll bring some blankets from the house," she explained as she turned around to face him.
He climbed into the loft. "That would be nice. Thanks."
"I'm sure you're used to satin sheets," she said, a challenge in her voice.
"Silk."
"Not hay," she pointed out.
He fell back onto the mound of crisp hay, putting his hands behind his head. "Reminds me going to the family ranchero as a boy. My uncle had a place..."
"Yes, you're from an old California family."
"You know a lot about a man from far away."
She touched her hair again, checking for any stray strands. "You're a very famous man, Mr. Adams. I believe in keeping up on current events, for the sakes of my students. Just because they live in Adair, Iowa, doesn't mean they should be ignorant as to the ways of the world."
"Yes, the world is coming to them, whether they want it or not."
"This war you're convinced is going to happen?" she said sharply.
"In your reading of current events, you don't believe it'll happen?"
"President Roosevelt says--"
He chuckled, a deep, rich sound in the dark and she forgot what they were talking about for a moment.
"The President says what he knows Congress and certain other political forces want to hear. He'll do what is necessary for America's interests and those of our allies."
"Well, of course he's helping England and France--"
"And Norway--" His grin was bright in the dim light.
"I am concerned about profiteers pushing us into this war so they may make money," she said, her voice rising. She glanced into the barn below to his plane.
His smile disappeared. "You may be assured I am not such a person. I was in the last war to end all wars. I know that the best way to end wars is superior weaponry. And I'll do everything in my power to provide that when the time comes."
"I suppose you should call San Francisco," she said, overcome by the tension in the air.
"Yes, thank you," he said, equally put off.
Suddenly, the barn filled with the clattering of rain and hail.
"The storm broke," she said unnecessarily.
"Maybe we should stay up here a bit longer," he said, the warmth back in his tone.
From below, Sam called out, "Anyone here?" He lit a lantern, the warm light glowed in the evening's gloom.
Irrationally furious, Laura stuck her head through the hatch. "Yes, Sam, what is it?"
"What're you doin' up there, Miz Roslin?" he asked.
"I was showing Mr. Adams the accommodation," she tossed back.
Bill's laugh sounded wicked in the dark, a warm breath on her neck. He must be very close...
"I've got Giles," Sam replied, incurious. "He's here to help with this here airplane."
Of course, he wouldn't imagine the schoolmarm would be up to something in the hayloft, Laura thought angrily as she swung out onto the ladder.
But she responded with her cool, tempered voice as she descended: "Thank you, Sam and Giles."
Bill followed, and she glanced up to see his strong thighs taking the rungs one by one. She allowed herself to enjoy the view for a brief moment, then turned away.
"I'll get up to the house and start supper," she announced, "and leave you gentlemen to it."
Sam introduced Bill to the friendly-faced mechanic and the flier shook Tyrol's hand.
"Speaking of supper," said Bill, "could I borrow the truck to go to town for some grub?"
Sounding utterly ungracious, even to her, she said, "I'll be happy to provide you with a meal, Mr Adams. I cook for Sam as well."
Sam jerked his head to Tyrol with more animation than he'd shown yet to Bill "Actually, Miz Roslin, Giles offered me supper with him and Sharon. I'll be drivin' him back over there anyways."
"So just the two of us." Bill Adams' smile was back.
"Just the two of us," Laura said faintly, then backed away and hurried from the barn, the slashing rain not even registering on her suddenly heated limbs.
Once safely inside her bedroom, she hurried to change from her wet clothing. She slid the sodden blouse off her shoulders, instantly finding herself imagining it was Bill Adams’ hands dragging at the material so that he could touch her bare skin...
She threw the blouse across the room, and it landed with a satisfying plop. The rest of her clothing joined it until she formed a pile in the corner.
She quickly donned her plain white underwear and searched through her wardrobe for something to wear that would keep her inappropriate thoughts about Bill Adams at bay. Finally she settled on a long, loose brown skirt and a high collared white blouse, an outfit she wore when Reverend Cavill preached the Sunday services.
After a quick check in the mirror to assure that her hair was again tightly secured in a bun, she was heading to the kitchen. Once there she wondered about her foolish offer to make dinner. She was quite certain there could be nothing suitable for a man who was accustomed to dining as Bill Adams was sure to be. A man of his wealth would have a slew of servants waiting on him, including a chef. While her cooking hardly received glowing accolades. Her basket was always the last bid on at the church picnics.
A sharp knock made her jump.
“Miss Roslin?” Bill Adams called to her through the screen of the open back door.
She willed herself to keep her movements unhurried despite her pounding heart. This man would have enough eager women throwing themselves at his feet.
Still, when she opened the screen door, she found herself leaning against jamb, striking a pose like some femme fatale straight out of a movie.
“Oh, Mr Adams, you’re all wet,” she breathed. He'd shed his coveralls as a way to dress for dinner, but was drenched as he'd run from the barn to the house. His khaki shirt clung to his wide shoulders and she didn't dare let her gaze drop to his damp snug jodhpurs.
“Yeah,” he ran his hand through his hair, squeezing out some of the excess moisture, and drawing attention to the dark waves curling up of their own accord at his collar.
“Mr Adams--”
“Call me Bill,” he suggested.
“All right,” she agreed. She licked her lips and leaned more heavily against the jamb for support. “Laura,” she offered, longing to hear his husky tones repeat her name aloud.
Jake chose this moment to join them. Having followed Bill Adams through the rain back to the house, he took it upon himself to shake out his fur vigorously, sending spray in her direction.
“Jake. Bed,” she scolded, jumping out of the way.
As the dog slinked away with his tail between his legs and settled into a basket at the other end of the porch, Laura realized she was now standing very close to Bill Adams. He braced his hand above her hand on the jamb, as if sheltering her from the rain pouring off the porch roof behind him.
Standing straighter, she glanced over her shoulder. “Did you want to use the telephone?”
“Later," he said. "Brought you these." He drew out her spectacles from his shirt pocket where they'd remained safe and dry.
“You’ve fixed them already?”
He shrugged, nonchalant. “Mr Tyrol seems to be quite capable. I had less to explain about my plane's engine than I thought.”
“Yes,” she said, glancing past him to the lanterns burning in the barn. Giles and Sam seemed well occupied...
"So you'll be off at dawn?" she asked, her voice cracking.
He didn't answer her question. “Try them on.” He opened the stems and held the glasses to her face. “I might need to adjust them again,” he added.
“Don’t let me keep you.” She waved her arm toward the phone hanging on the wall. “I can get them adjusted in town tomorrow if they aren’t right.”
“No need to spend your time on something I can do in five minutes.”
Laura stepped back into the kitchen where the light was better. Bill followed, the screen door slapping shut behind him.
“Lean forward,” he commanded softly.
She obeyed and he gently slid the frames over her nose. His brow knotted with concentration as he hooked them around her ears. “There,” he murmured, his fingers skimming across the sensitive skin just below her lobe. “How do they feel?”
“Fine,” she replied, reaching up to pat the glasses into place.
“Only...” He reached out and cupped her cheek.
“What?” she asked guilelessly, looking up at him expectantly.
His only answer was to lower his mouth and brush his lips across hers, only the slightest of tickles from his mustache's bristles. She’d imagined such a man to kiss hard and straightforward, but instead this kiss was sweet and its gentleness was her undoing. She lost herself in the moment. Goose pimples broke out across her flesh, her head felt light, her hands crept up and clung to his broad shoulders. He smelled faintly of tobacco and leather--dangerous but familiar.
He kissed her again, still closed-mouth and undemanding. She squeezed her legs together tightly, determined to ignore the ache this mere kiss was eliciting.
Somewhere in her fog-induced brain she heard the sound of an automobile’s motor approaching. He also must have heard the vehicle; he slowly drew back.
She exhaled a sharp breath and forced herself to look in his direction. The corners of his mouth were twitching with a grin. Of course it was all a joke to him. Give the plain farmgirl a thrill.
"Why did you do that?" she snapped.
He pushed his hand into his pocket and brought out a gold cigarette case. "You looked like you wanted to be kissed."
"First, I didn't--” she started, shaking her head in the negative when he offered her a cigarette. “And second, I thought gentlemen don't kiss ladies who wear glasses,” she finished bitterly.
He tapped a cigarette against the case before placing it between his lips, her eyes following each movement greedily. As if controlled by puppeteer's strings, her hand reached out and took the cigarette from his mouth. Nice ladies didn't allow strangers to kiss them, or even smoke cigarettes, but with the thunder shaking the house, blocking out any rational thought, Laura could do nothing else.
Bill smiled slowly. "This gentleman does," he rasped.
At that moment, she realized he still had an arm around her waist, and the minister's wife was at the screen door, taking in the whole scene: Laura Roslin, Adair's school mistress, in the embrace of a strange man in grubby clothes, accepting his offer of a cigarette.
And sure enough, Ellen Cavil's shrill voice cut right through the stormy night. "Why, Laura! What a surprise!"
End of Chapter One
Authors: aussie and bugs
Genre: A/U, Romance
Word Count: 4200
Rating: T
A/N: Forgive us shippers, for we have sinned. Yes, with readers and Adamsverse characters patiently waiting, we're careening off on another tangent. We've had fun with an AU of an AU before, so we decided to do it again for about_time's 12 Days of Christmas. We WILL finish this during the celebration.
Major apologies for our lateness. Family and time zones and visitors, oh my!
Chapter 1:
"Children, see you tomorrow," the schoolteacher called after her students as they streamed out of the small schoolhouse.
"Goodbye, Miss Roslin," a few strangled cries replied. The boys tossed a ball among themselves as they skipped down the country road toward their homes. The girls gathered in chattering knots and followed behind. None of them gave any more attention to their middle-aged teacher as she lingered on the school steps.
She should wipe off the chalkboards and gather the books. Sweep the floor, clean the washroom... Instead, she snagged her book from her desk, wandered to a little creek which bordered the dusty playground, and sank down in the shade of an oak tree.
She loved teaching, loved her students, but needed these moments in her own secret world. Slipping off her sensible, low-heeled shoes and opaque stockings, she dropped her feet into the cooling waters of the stream. Then she opened her thick leather-bound book. With curious children's eyes gone, there was no one to notice that she kept a slim paperback with bright colors and a racy image on the cover between the pages of her serious tome.
A damp nose touched the back of Laura's neck under her sensible bun of thick hair, causing her to gasp. "Jake," she scolded her shephard.
When the dog settled down beside her, his bright eyes watching sparrows swooping along the water, Laura returned to her book, adjusting her glasses. She was transported worlds away from her own small town life of teaching classes, housekeeping and gardening on Saturday, church on Sunday. No dull days--no, these pages held rain-slicked streets, treacherous women, braver than Laura could ever be, and hard-eyed men who made her heart race.
There was not a single exciting man in Adair, Iowa--not even Richard Adair himself.
A deep roar filled the air; an airplane approached the schoolhouse and her adjourning family farm.
Changing her focus from the page to the sky, Laura squinted upward. The strong afternoon sun glowed on the silver belly of the plane, coming in too low and too fast.
Laura leapt up, her books falling forgotten by her feet.
Jumping the stream, she ran, waving her arms wildly in the air to gain the pilot’s attention. He was bearing down on her farm's barn. Beside her Jake barked and spun in circles.
The plane clipped the windvane off the barn, then banked, coming back toward the cornfield with its waving green stalks, and straight at Laura. She stopped, horrified, as the plane touched down, tearing up plants, bounced up again, then down with a sickening crunching sound, digging up dirt and corn stalks as it slowed.
"Jake!" Laura yelled, calling her dog back. Grabbing him close, she fell to the ground, hoping for some protection from the whirling propellers of the speeding plane. Her hair fell out of its bun and her glasses slid off her nose.
The plane finally came to rest a dozen yards from the teacher and her companion. She struggled to her feet. The propellers were still turning, catching her cotton dress's skirt, flipping it up high above her waist. Fighting to shove it down, Laura cursed in an unladylike fashion, even more angry with each indignity.
Bill Adams pushed back the canopy on his single-seat experimental airplane and wriggled out of the tight cockpit. He clamored onto the wing of the listing ship. Pushing up his goggles, he unfastened the chin strap on his flying helmet and looked around. He'd been concentrating on landing, but he swore he'd seen a woman running across the field after a dog, and the flash of a great set of gams--
"Excuse me!" yelled at him from below the wing.
He peered down. A barefoot woman stood among trampled corn, covered in mud, her face dirty, and red curls tangled around her angry face. Green eyes blazed at him. Her well-shaped chest heaved. A farm lass from the look of it--
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” she immediately demanded.
He slowly removed his helmet. “Landing,” he drawled, jumping down from the wing. Completely undaunted, the woman stepped closer. He saw she was older than he’d thought at first. Maybe she was the farmer’s wife; come to demand money.
A black and white dog slinked from behind her, growling menacingly, its lips curled back to bare sharp teeth. Bill crouched down, removing his gloves as he did, and offered the dog the back of his hand.
While he petted and scratched the dog, its mistress kept ranting: “Landing on my crops! Right next to a schoolhouse too. When there’s a road just over there.”
“It’s not wide enough,” he tried to explain. “I would have knocked out a couple of miles of telephone poles. Plus there was a vehicle on it already.”
“There was?” Temporarily distracted by the idea, the woman stood on tiptoes as if she could see the road from their current position. “Oh yes, that’ll have been Sam returning from the feed store. He can help you right this thing and get on your way.”
Bill squinted at the plane’s tires, bogged down in the field's soil. Her husband, Sam, had been in a pickup. Bill assumed they had a tractor, but would it damage his creation to be dragged from the cornfield?
“I’ll need more than a little help,” he said, running his hand along the fuselage next to its name painted on the aluminum; Phoenix. It didn’t feel like it had overheated, at least. “Have you got a telephone, ma’am? I need to put through a call to San Francisco and a local mechanic. I’ll pay--”
She placed her hands on her hips. “You betcha you’re going to pay, buster,” she growled.
With a sigh, he looked over her head, noting the ripped up trail of crops the plane had caused. “I’ll wire through some money to cover the damage and the rental of your barn.”
She swung her head toward the barn and then back to him. He kept his gaze respectfully on the ground near her feet. Although, her trim calves reminded him of the quick view of the full length of her legs.
“My barn?”
“If I could just keep the plane there while it’s repaired,” he said evenly. "I passed over storm clouds about ten miles back. Rain is coming."
“Look, Mr...”
“Adams. Bill Adams,” he introduced himself.
He saw her expression alter when his name and the dollar signs associated with it registered. He tensed, waiting for one of the usual acts which dames put on when thinking about fame and fortune.
“The Bill Adams?”
Who hadn't heard of Bill Adams? Hero of the Great War, son of a wealthy California ranching and now oil family, brave aviator, chased by every heiress and starlet now that he was widowed--his photograph was constantly in her Chicago newspapers.
She hadn't recognized him at first. In the flesh, he looked rougher and frankly, tougher than the gentleman in evening dress or standing by one of his airplanes with a silk flying scarf around his neck. His gaze was alive and mesmerizing, coming from vivid blue eyes. His dark hair was obviously curly when not held in place by hair oil. But his neatly trimmed mustache seemed out of place on his rugged face, as though he were trying to be Clark Gable.
Keeping all these thoughts to herself, she eyed him up and down a couple of times. “I’ve seen your picture in the paper. You look shorter in real life,” she added sarcastically.
He raised one eyebrow. “Don't worry, I can cut anyone down to size when necessary,” he shot back, but then took a deep breath. “Say, Mrs--”
“Miss. Miss Laura Roslin.”
Unmarried? Perhaps she’d lost a sweetheart in the Great War-- “I can’t appeal to your patriotism? Our boys will be flying this exact plane in the coming war,” he noted, unable to keep the pride out of his voice.
“America’s not in the war,” she reminded him.
“We will be soon,” he declared solemnly. “We’ll--”
Bill never got to finish his lecture. Instead, they both heard a tractor puttering across the field, following the plane’s path, a well-built young man bouncing on the seat.
“Looks like the cavalry’s arrived,” Bill murmured, turning back to his reluctant hostess.
As though her approaching field hand reminded her of propriety, she began twisting her hair up in its bun. “You may use the barn,” she agreed ungraciously. “And the telephone.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Laura stomped over to where her glasses had fallen in the mud. She tried to put them on, but the frames were twisted and the lenses smeared with mud.
"I'm sorry," he said, completely sincere.
"I just need them for reading," she said tightly.
"I can repair them." He held out his hand and after a moment's hesitation, she gave them to him. He slipped them in his jacket pocket.
Sam hopped off the tractor. "What's this, Miz Roslin?" he said in his slow, careful way.
"A particularly large crow has pulled up our crops, Sam."
"I'll pay for those as well," offered Bill.
Laura tossed her head and a curl came loose from her bun again. He smiled at her, a flash of strong white teeth under his narrow black mustache. Before she could think of a retort, he turned his attention to Sam, explaining carefully how to hook up the valuable airplane.
Seeing the men occupied, Laura remembered her books, and wandered as nonchalantly as she could manage back toward the stream.
"I'll meet you up at the barn," she called out. Bill raised his head and waved at her; Sam continued to work at the ropes he was attaching to the plane.
She was used to Sam's polite indifference. But this stranger's gaze was too familiar by a half. She'd have to keep her guard up with such a man as this, accustomed to ladies falling at his feet and giggling at his every word--he'd cut her down to size indeed!
Even Jake was proving to be smitten. He always enjoyed their visits to the shady area beside the stream but now, instead of skipping along behind her, sniffing curiously at every blade of grass, he sat at Bill Adams’ feet. She never knew her pet to be such a fickle beast.
Pulling on her hose and shoes, she gathered up her books and crossed the brook again at the small footbridge on the path to her farm. By now, Sam was hauling the downed plane across the field and the flier followed behind, his leather jacket, jodhpurs and high boots looking particularly ridiculous in an Iowa cornfield.
But by the time she entered the barn and was blinking at the darkness, Bill Adams had retrieved his small travel bag from the plane and changed into greasy coveralls.
He was speaking to Sam about a mechanic to contact. Jake met her at the door and nudged her hand. She huffed, but gave him a quick pat before he moved to near the barn door where he curled up to doze.
"Giles Tyrol's probably your best bet," Sam said. "He takes care of our tractors."
"This isn't a tractor," Bill said in horror.
"Why don't your run over to Mr. Tyrol's house and fetch him," suggested Laura. "He's not on the telephone," she explained to Bill.
He shook his head. "In these modern times, to not have a phone--"
"Not everyone trusts those wires coming into their house," Sam said, indignant. "God knows what those things might be doing."
Bill started to protest but Laura waved Sam away.
"I'll light a lantern," she said stiffly once they were alone. She set her books on the workbench, but they slipped and fell to the ground.
"Let me get those..." Bill said before she could stop him. His eyebrows raised at the racy cover of her potboiler. "Well, well, Miss Roslin."
She improvised quickly. "One of my students. I'd confiscated it."
She was a terrible liar; she could hear it in her voice. Also, she hated that she had to lie at all--worry about what people would think. Oh, to be one of this man's sort of women, who'd laugh this moment off and offer him a cocktail and a cigarette. Her only pack of cigarettes were hidden in an old shoebox under her bed, bought on her last trip to Des Moines so not to be seen by any local townfolk making such a scandalous purchase, and her only alcohol was to rub on cuts.
"Okay," he said with an easy smile, and set her books back on the workbench.
"How long do you expect to be here?" she asked, hoping to change the topic.
"At least overnight," he admitted. "I may have to tear this motor down even."
"Oh no," she gasped. "...You'll need a place to sleep."
"S'pose so," he said and there was that grin again.
"You can't sleep at the house," she whispered.
The first crack of lightning could be heard in the distance, and the air was suddenly humid.
"Of course not," he said.
She strode over to the ladder to the hayloft. "You're welcome to sleep up here. I'm sure it's nothing like what you're accustomed to."
"You'd be surprised at what I'm used to," he rejoined.
Just to show him that she was game, she started to climb the ladder. Halfway up, and feeling the breeze rising in her skirt, she realized this was a mistake.
"Just this way," she said briskly but not daring to look down for fear of seeing him taking a peek.
"Sure," he said, sounding amused. The ladder creaked at his added weight, and she scrambled up into the hayloft in a very undignified fashion.
"I'll bring some blankets from the house," she explained as she turned around to face him.
He climbed into the loft. "That would be nice. Thanks."
"I'm sure you're used to satin sheets," she said, a challenge in her voice.
"Silk."
"Not hay," she pointed out.
He fell back onto the mound of crisp hay, putting his hands behind his head. "Reminds me going to the family ranchero as a boy. My uncle had a place..."
"Yes, you're from an old California family."
"You know a lot about a man from far away."
She touched her hair again, checking for any stray strands. "You're a very famous man, Mr. Adams. I believe in keeping up on current events, for the sakes of my students. Just because they live in Adair, Iowa, doesn't mean they should be ignorant as to the ways of the world."
"Yes, the world is coming to them, whether they want it or not."
"This war you're convinced is going to happen?" she said sharply.
"In your reading of current events, you don't believe it'll happen?"
"President Roosevelt says--"
He chuckled, a deep, rich sound in the dark and she forgot what they were talking about for a moment.
"The President says what he knows Congress and certain other political forces want to hear. He'll do what is necessary for America's interests and those of our allies."
"Well, of course he's helping England and France--"
"And Norway--" His grin was bright in the dim light.
"I am concerned about profiteers pushing us into this war so they may make money," she said, her voice rising. She glanced into the barn below to his plane.
His smile disappeared. "You may be assured I am not such a person. I was in the last war to end all wars. I know that the best way to end wars is superior weaponry. And I'll do everything in my power to provide that when the time comes."
"I suppose you should call San Francisco," she said, overcome by the tension in the air.
"Yes, thank you," he said, equally put off.
Suddenly, the barn filled with the clattering of rain and hail.
"The storm broke," she said unnecessarily.
"Maybe we should stay up here a bit longer," he said, the warmth back in his tone.
From below, Sam called out, "Anyone here?" He lit a lantern, the warm light glowed in the evening's gloom.
Irrationally furious, Laura stuck her head through the hatch. "Yes, Sam, what is it?"
"What're you doin' up there, Miz Roslin?" he asked.
"I was showing Mr. Adams the accommodation," she tossed back.
Bill's laugh sounded wicked in the dark, a warm breath on her neck. He must be very close...
"I've got Giles," Sam replied, incurious. "He's here to help with this here airplane."
Of course, he wouldn't imagine the schoolmarm would be up to something in the hayloft, Laura thought angrily as she swung out onto the ladder.
But she responded with her cool, tempered voice as she descended: "Thank you, Sam and Giles."
Bill followed, and she glanced up to see his strong thighs taking the rungs one by one. She allowed herself to enjoy the view for a brief moment, then turned away.
"I'll get up to the house and start supper," she announced, "and leave you gentlemen to it."
Sam introduced Bill to the friendly-faced mechanic and the flier shook Tyrol's hand.
"Speaking of supper," said Bill, "could I borrow the truck to go to town for some grub?"
Sounding utterly ungracious, even to her, she said, "I'll be happy to provide you with a meal, Mr Adams. I cook for Sam as well."
Sam jerked his head to Tyrol with more animation than he'd shown yet to Bill "Actually, Miz Roslin, Giles offered me supper with him and Sharon. I'll be drivin' him back over there anyways."
"So just the two of us." Bill Adams' smile was back.
"Just the two of us," Laura said faintly, then backed away and hurried from the barn, the slashing rain not even registering on her suddenly heated limbs.
Once safely inside her bedroom, she hurried to change from her wet clothing. She slid the sodden blouse off her shoulders, instantly finding herself imagining it was Bill Adams’ hands dragging at the material so that he could touch her bare skin...
She threw the blouse across the room, and it landed with a satisfying plop. The rest of her clothing joined it until she formed a pile in the corner.
She quickly donned her plain white underwear and searched through her wardrobe for something to wear that would keep her inappropriate thoughts about Bill Adams at bay. Finally she settled on a long, loose brown skirt and a high collared white blouse, an outfit she wore when Reverend Cavill preached the Sunday services.
After a quick check in the mirror to assure that her hair was again tightly secured in a bun, she was heading to the kitchen. Once there she wondered about her foolish offer to make dinner. She was quite certain there could be nothing suitable for a man who was accustomed to dining as Bill Adams was sure to be. A man of his wealth would have a slew of servants waiting on him, including a chef. While her cooking hardly received glowing accolades. Her basket was always the last bid on at the church picnics.
A sharp knock made her jump.
“Miss Roslin?” Bill Adams called to her through the screen of the open back door.
She willed herself to keep her movements unhurried despite her pounding heart. This man would have enough eager women throwing themselves at his feet.
Still, when she opened the screen door, she found herself leaning against jamb, striking a pose like some femme fatale straight out of a movie.
“Oh, Mr Adams, you’re all wet,” she breathed. He'd shed his coveralls as a way to dress for dinner, but was drenched as he'd run from the barn to the house. His khaki shirt clung to his wide shoulders and she didn't dare let her gaze drop to his damp snug jodhpurs.
“Yeah,” he ran his hand through his hair, squeezing out some of the excess moisture, and drawing attention to the dark waves curling up of their own accord at his collar.
“Mr Adams--”
“Call me Bill,” he suggested.
“All right,” she agreed. She licked her lips and leaned more heavily against the jamb for support. “Laura,” she offered, longing to hear his husky tones repeat her name aloud.
Jake chose this moment to join them. Having followed Bill Adams through the rain back to the house, he took it upon himself to shake out his fur vigorously, sending spray in her direction.
“Jake. Bed,” she scolded, jumping out of the way.
As the dog slinked away with his tail between his legs and settled into a basket at the other end of the porch, Laura realized she was now standing very close to Bill Adams. He braced his hand above her hand on the jamb, as if sheltering her from the rain pouring off the porch roof behind him.
Standing straighter, she glanced over her shoulder. “Did you want to use the telephone?”
“Later," he said. "Brought you these." He drew out her spectacles from his shirt pocket where they'd remained safe and dry.
“You’ve fixed them already?”
He shrugged, nonchalant. “Mr Tyrol seems to be quite capable. I had less to explain about my plane's engine than I thought.”
“Yes,” she said, glancing past him to the lanterns burning in the barn. Giles and Sam seemed well occupied...
"So you'll be off at dawn?" she asked, her voice cracking.
He didn't answer her question. “Try them on.” He opened the stems and held the glasses to her face. “I might need to adjust them again,” he added.
“Don’t let me keep you.” She waved her arm toward the phone hanging on the wall. “I can get them adjusted in town tomorrow if they aren’t right.”
“No need to spend your time on something I can do in five minutes.”
Laura stepped back into the kitchen where the light was better. Bill followed, the screen door slapping shut behind him.
“Lean forward,” he commanded softly.
She obeyed and he gently slid the frames over her nose. His brow knotted with concentration as he hooked them around her ears. “There,” he murmured, his fingers skimming across the sensitive skin just below her lobe. “How do they feel?”
“Fine,” she replied, reaching up to pat the glasses into place.
“Only...” He reached out and cupped her cheek.
“What?” she asked guilelessly, looking up at him expectantly.
His only answer was to lower his mouth and brush his lips across hers, only the slightest of tickles from his mustache's bristles. She’d imagined such a man to kiss hard and straightforward, but instead this kiss was sweet and its gentleness was her undoing. She lost herself in the moment. Goose pimples broke out across her flesh, her head felt light, her hands crept up and clung to his broad shoulders. He smelled faintly of tobacco and leather--dangerous but familiar.
He kissed her again, still closed-mouth and undemanding. She squeezed her legs together tightly, determined to ignore the ache this mere kiss was eliciting.
Somewhere in her fog-induced brain she heard the sound of an automobile’s motor approaching. He also must have heard the vehicle; he slowly drew back.
She exhaled a sharp breath and forced herself to look in his direction. The corners of his mouth were twitching with a grin. Of course it was all a joke to him. Give the plain farmgirl a thrill.
"Why did you do that?" she snapped.
He pushed his hand into his pocket and brought out a gold cigarette case. "You looked like you wanted to be kissed."
"First, I didn't--” she started, shaking her head in the negative when he offered her a cigarette. “And second, I thought gentlemen don't kiss ladies who wear glasses,” she finished bitterly.
He tapped a cigarette against the case before placing it between his lips, her eyes following each movement greedily. As if controlled by puppeteer's strings, her hand reached out and took the cigarette from his mouth. Nice ladies didn't allow strangers to kiss them, or even smoke cigarettes, but with the thunder shaking the house, blocking out any rational thought, Laura could do nothing else.
Bill smiled slowly. "This gentleman does," he rasped.
At that moment, she realized he still had an arm around her waist, and the minister's wife was at the screen door, taking in the whole scene: Laura Roslin, Adair's school mistress, in the embrace of a strange man in grubby clothes, accepting his offer of a cigarette.
And sure enough, Ellen Cavil's shrill voice cut right through the stormy night. "Why, Laura! What a surprise!"
End of Chapter One