Orrin’s rheumatoid tangled fingers balanced the cards so precariously that any advantage a deal might give him was always at risk of being exposed. His shell had the abandonment of a man who was widowed for a good many years—a man who no longer moved fast enough to get done basic chores before the day was done, and a new day dawned and presented its priorities. Orrin had run the post office in town from the time he was a young man, until he retired of age. He had been retired as long as Liddy had known him, which was all of her life that she had memory of. He had delivered mail by plane at some point in there. At least many legends existed that included that detail. So Orrin, as did most of the hanger-rounds, flew or at least used to. It wasn’t the flying that drew old flyers together—it was the tales.

Jensen Laughton was not a flyer. Well fitted in his crisp three piece suit, he sat tight-in like a man wrapped in plastic. His elbows pressed in against his ribs, and he held his cards inches from and below his spectacles. Jensen played poker with the insecurities of a domesticated dog tossed in the wild to fend for itself. All Liddy knew of him was that he worked for the bank, and he found himself to Crik’s place three or four times a week to play cards. Or he’d just sit and sip a pop and watch Crik check and heal the planes. He burned the midnight oil at the bank to make up for his time away during the day and to avoid a wife he feared—that was the rumor anyway. Jensen didn’t fit here. This was exactly why Liddy figured he chose this refuge—it would be the last place anyone would look. Liddy had asked Crik what Jensen’s story was, but he said he didn’t know and didn’t care, which she knew was true. Crik could know a man for years, without knowing him, and be perfectly satisfied with the relationship.

Crik was decked out in coveralls stiffened in spots by layers of old grease. Both pant legs were tucked into his black western boots. His crown was completely free of hair, which suited his smooth, round head. A smudge of grease was on the back of his hand and on his forehead—one was sure to have painted the other.

“She’s still pulling to the left. Thought you went through her, ” Liddy complained.

Crik didn’t look up from his hand. “Soundin’ like your old man, girl.”

“I should be flying somewhere else.” Liddy plucked her gloves from the pot.

“Been sayin’ that since you were sixteen. Why don’t ya’?” Crik tilted back in his chair and reached for the cigar box. Liddy handed it over, and his fingers rapidly flipped through the pile of bills inside. “Did real good, honey, Orrin even heard the whoops.”

Orrin shook as he placed one end of a pounded brass ear trumpet in his ear and aimed it at Crik as he asked for a second go at the words, “What’s that?”

Crik counted and then pinched a stack of cash from the box and held it up the way a deal maker does when trying to entice the seller. Liddy flattened her palm open in front of him, and he laid the bills across it. His sleeves were rolled-up displaying a collection of scars creased in skin that loosely clothed his well used muscles. The scars came mostly from time working on the engines of planes—the deeper ones had come from a plane crash he’d lived to tell about from the first war. A story that was true. He had spent much of the following year in a hospital bed fighting for his life.

It was the telling from Crik’s sister, Liddy’s mother, which assured Liddy of this history of Crik’s. Edda Hall had spent that year in prayer and service to ensure her little brother’s recovery. He was her only living relative and the main focus of her life until she married Jack Hall, Liddy’s father, when she was past thirty. Marriage didn’t release her from the bonds of being older sister to Crik though. After leaving the hospital, Crik went to the Hall home before he was on his feet again. So with three year old Liddy underfoot, Edda was nurse and mommy. Her husband was soldiering overseas at the time, and the presence of a man in the house was a welcome addition.

When the war ended, Crik bought his first Jenny off the Army for two hundred dollars. He hooked up with some war buddies and started storming. Eventually he found a good place with the Great Gilbert Flying Circus, and took his pay from them. In order to draw the crowds, the air shows started to push the risks. Crashes became more frequent, and the government stepped in and wrote some laws. The new regulations grounded many of the planes the stormers flew and called their more risky stunts illegal. The circuit couldn’t make it after that, and Crik returned home to Holly Grove.

He set up dusting farms and put on a show every few weeks during the warmer months. As long as he only drew a crowd to his own place, no one bothered him. And it was useful to have a pilot in farm country. Things needed to be picked up and delivered, including people that needed emergency medical care that a small town doctor couldn’t offer. Farmers wanted to dust more and more fields as the practice took hold, and Crik also became known as the plane doctor. With the exception of the cut he took from the show that Liddy and Daniel flew at his place in his planes, repairing engines, skins and wings was the way he now got by. It had been over ten years since Crik had flown for a crowd.

“Okay, sit down here and give us a stab at that money there,” Orrin prodded Liddy.

“You’ll never give up, will ya?” Crik hollered to his friend.

“It’s worth askin’,” Orrin said to Crik and then looked up at Liddy. “What’s it gonna take for you to sit a hand with us, girl?”

Liddy leaned toward Orrin’s ear, patted his back and raised her voice, “When there’s no chance of losing, you give me a holler.” She stuffed the money deep into her pocket then moved behind Crik, circled his neck with a hug, kissed the top of his head and polished it in with her hands. “See you later.”

As she left the barn Crik called after her, “Tell Jack hi for me.”

From over her shoulder Liddy called back to Crik, “I will.”


While looking up at Daniel’s flight, Liddy wound her path in and out of the cars parked in the field. She could see that wig woman had a life grip on the sides of the cockpit. Daniel was patient—he endured the screeches and screams that Liddy simply couldn’t. He had his niche and she had hers.

In the distance, two ‘good ole boys’, Rowby Wills and one of his side-kicks leaned on a car, her car. The 1927 Dodge Four was pocked with rust and couldn’t remember the last time it wore a top to keep it dry from rain or shaded from the beating sun. Its second round of paint was faded and flaking. Still, somehow it staked out its identity as a car to find fun in.

Rowby leaned with intention. He took great care with the angle of his hat down to the crossing of his legs at his ankles. His side-kick mirrored the pose without the same cool. The third son on one of the biggest ranches in the state, Rowby had the skin of… How do you describe bronzed, flawless, polished-looking skin? Perfect, his skin was perfect, the skin of the gods. It was pulled tightly over high cheekbones and a sharp jaw, but not so tight that two deeply set dimples didn’t sink in at the sides of his mouth, even when he wasn’t smiling.

His jet black hair competed with his dark blue eyes that you couldn’t look into because the color was so thick—your gaze just slid over the surface like they had landed on a frozen pond. His form was carved high and low in all the right places, and he had one of those sexy walks that you can only enjoy as the person is leaving because there is no way to be nonchalant about the viewing.

With all his good looks, Rowby suffered from an anemic self-worth that showed itself in an overactive use of the most inappropriate assumptions. Accomplishments that involved the intellect were lacking in his bag of tricks, and all of his claims laid on the successes of his family and their money—claims he’d decided entitled him to all of everything, anywhere from anybody. The other members of the Wills clan were not only as great an eye feast, they shared a brain function that Rowby didn’t have or understand, leaving him out of family conversation and ventures. And as it usually goes, identity is often a result of the relative experience in the family and circle of friends where people are formed.

It’s too bad that Rowby didn’t possess the self-worth of Liddy’s car. Despite her worn state, she looked offended by the uninvited guests that had planted their backsides on her skin—she knew what she was worth.

Liddy spoke up in her car’s defense, “Hi, boys, watch the paint, would ya?”

The request didn’t stir the two men. “Hey, Lid, we’re gonna take a ride down to Larry’s place, wanna ride along?” Rowby pinched the brim of his hat and moved it up off his forehead. “I’ll buy you supper at the diner when we get back.”

Liddy looked at Rowby as she would a child who just asked if they could raise fish in the toilet. She grabbed him playfully by his shirt collar, pulled him off the driver’s side, swung in around him and grabbed the door handle. She tossed her gear in the back seat, opened the door and slid behind the wheel. Rowby was still straightening his collar.

“Tempting, can’t though. Next week, okay?” Liddy reached under the dash panel and touched two wires that were twisted together to one that was dangling free, and the engine sputtered and rocked.

Rowby’s perfect skin reddened, which was such a shame because the golden tenor was so nice. He clenched his teeth, “Liddy I’m gettin’ tired of…” Then he collected his outer calm and took down a different road, “Marry me, Liddy Hall, and I’ll buy you a car worth drivin’.”