When she returned home from Europe, her father had been grateful she was unhurt but had shown little interest in her exploits. She had shown him a clipping from the London Times and had given him the carefully prepared cover story: she’d got as far as Germany; her plane had suffered mechanical failure at the Belgium border. She had been forced to withdraw. “Mechanical failure” – yeah, right, she thought. The borrowed plane had been deliberately set ablaze by that cold British gentlemen she’d had the displeasure of meeting. She’d never learned his name.
And here Arthur was again, and in a government car no less. This was official business. Aubrey ran over and hugged him as he climbed out. His embrace was strong, and he smelled of Jockey Club by Floris, a scent he and her father had taken a liking to in Europe. They’d brought a case of it back with them.
“And how are you, my dear?”
“I’m fine, Uncle Arthur.”
He held her back at arms’ length to take a good look. She was wearing a light-yellow riding jacket, jodhpurs and leather boots, and wore her brown curly locks in a tight bun. “This getup suits you,” he told her, “almost as much as a flying suit.”
She turned on one foot in a mock pose. Then on impulse, she hugged him again and kissed his ear. “Good to see you.”
Ferguson whinnied loudly and stomped the concrete floor of the barn with his hoof.
“How is Fergie?”
“His ears went back when you drove in.”
“He’s the smartest horse I’ve ever seen. If you hadn’t taken up flying, you could have been a world-famous trick rider on him and toured with Buffalo Bill Cody.”
“That’s a little before my time.”
She took his arm and guided him to the house. Arthur’s driver, an army corporal, leaned up against the car and lit a smoke.
“A government car and a uniformed driver,” Aubrey said.
“Yes. I’m here on official business, but I should say hello to your father first.”
“He’s in his study.”
They entered the house to the sound of one last annoyed whinny from Ferguson.
“I shouldn’t keep you from your ride.”
“Nonsense. Fergie has me every day.” She took Arthur’s hat and led him to her father.
Colonel Endeavours was in the study, stretched out in a cane-backed chair, his favourite. A blanket lay over his legs and a book had fallen open on his lap. The sound of his snoring filled the room as they entered.
“Dad… Father.”
She shook him. “Dad, I’ve got a big surprise. Please wake up.”
“Huh,” the colonel said, and his eyes slowly opened. He saw Aubrey first and then the guest.
“What the devil is he doing here? Aubrey, you let this scoundrel in our house?”
“I had no choice, Father. He had a gun on me.”
“Why, you,” he said, and rose from his chair. His face broke into a grin as Arthur Colins and he shook hands.
“Good to see you, Arthur. You get lost or something?”
“Yes. I took a left turn out of crazy town and wound up here. Paradise.”
“It used to be.”
The farm had been in the Endeavours family for generations. Aubrey’s grandfather had invested well in oil and built a magnificent farmhouse with a wraparound porch where the original, two-room homestead had been.
Then the grandfather had blown it all in the recession of 1903. He’d nearly lost the farm, then had nearly lost it again during the Depression when brown rust had destroyed the wheat and corn had hit rock bottom. If it were not for Aubrey’s prize money from her flying, they would have lost it all. That source of income had ended when Aubrey had crashed and totalled her plane. What little compensation she’d received from Arthur after the European escapade, by way of a middleman, was nearly gone as well.
“Aubrey, will you excuse us?” Arthur asked.
“He’s here on official business,” Aubrey told her father. “I’ll post a guard at the door.”
Arthur smiled weakly at the joke. “Can you give my driver a glass of water or lemonade? We’ve had a long drive.”
“What about you?”
Arthur eyed the decanter of whisky and the other spirits on the side bar. “I’ll manage on my own.”
“At this hour?”
“It’s five o’clock in Paris,” Colonel Endeavours said.
“Very well, Father, but don’t get drunk. We have to go into town later.”
“Out of here, you,” the colonel said.
Aubrey paused at the door. “I’ll see you before you go, Arthur?”
“Count on it,” he said.
She poured the driver a glass of fresh lemonade and took it out to him; he was most grateful. Then she went back to the barn and finished tacking up Ferguson. She could take him out for a long ride, she knew; she was confident Arthur wouldn’t leave without seeing her. She climbed up into the saddle and was starting down the worn trail when she spotted the postal delivery boy on his bicycle at the end of the driveway. He was putting something in their roadside mailbox.
Ferguson protested when she steered him away from the trail that led to the woods on the far side of the farm. She pointed him down the dusty road to the mailbox, then slid out of the saddle and reached in. There were four letters. Aubrey was about to tuck them into the inside pocket of her riding jacket when she noticed one of them was addressed to her. That was unusual. She had written a cousin in Canada a few times, mostly just to practice her written French, but that had trailed off after the war. This letter looked official; the address was typed. The return address was New York. She tore into it and read the letter while Ferguson stomped beside her.
“Oh my,” she said, and Ferguson whickered in response.
“There, there, Ferguson. We’ll go riding later. I have to speak to Father.” She galloped back to the
