Genre: Historical Romance Heat Level: 2 Word Count: 72, 500 ISBN: 978-0-3695-1519-3 Editor: Laurie White Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

Wings Over Briarwood Airfield by Eleanor Whitlock

Heat Level 2
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A young woman returns home to a mist‑softened airfield and discovers that the engines aren’t the only things running on a knife‑edge.

When Maggie Fairchild steps back into her father’s workshop, she finds a legacy held together by worn parts, dwindling funds, and the cool, unreadable mechanic who never expected her to stay.

As she and Thomas Harland are forced to work side by side, sparks of tension mix with the hum of propellers, revealing buried loyalties, quiet sacrifices, and a future that may depend on whether they can trust each other before the next flight takes off.

 

Excerpt:

Saturday mornings at Briarwood always woke in layers.

First came the soft hum of distant engines warming, a low, throaty vibration that seeped through the air like the purr of some great mechanical creature. Then the voices—muffled at first, drifting across the field in uneven bursts as club members arrived, greeting one another, laughing, calling out for tools or coffee. The smell of fuel mingled with damp grass, and the early sun cast long, pale ribbons of light across the runway.

Inside Hangar 8, the world felt quieter. Contained. Almost private.

Maggie wiped her hands on a rag and leaned over the Avro 548’s open engine housing. Thomas worked beside her, silent as ever, his focus narrowed to the bolt he was tightening. The earlier friction between them still lingered—not sharp, but present, like the faint tang of ozone after a storm.

She tried not to think about it. Or him. Or the way he’d looked at her after she’d corrected him.

Instead, she concentrated on the steady rhythm of the morning: the clink of tools, the soft scrape of metal, the muted thud of footsteps outside. The hangar doors were open just enough to let in a slice of sunlight, illuminating the dust motes drifting lazily through the air.

Then a sound cut through the quiet.

A distant engine note—thin, uneven, wrong.

Maggie froze mid‑movement, her hand hovering over the toolbox. She tilted her head, listening harder. The engine coughed again, a stuttering, hollow sound that made her stomach tighten.

Thomas noticed her stillness before he heard it. He straightened, wiping his hands on a rag, and followed her gaze toward the open doors.

The engine sputtered once more, louder this time, echoing faintly across the field.

“That’s not right,” Maggie murmured.

Thomas didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His expression sharpened, the quiet reserve slipping just enough to reveal something alert beneath it—instinct, experience, a pilot’s awareness.

Together, without speaking, they stepped toward the sunlight.

The morning had shifted. Something was wrong in the sky.

The sunlight hit her eyes as she stepped out of Hangar 8, the morning now fully awake around them. A few club members were already out on the grass, checking fuel, tightening straps, calling greetings across the field. The usual Saturday bustle—familiar, lively, harmless.

Above them, the Finch—a cheerful little yellow-and-white biplane—circled lazily in its usual weekend pattern. Maggie recognized it instantly. Mr. Linton’s pride and joy. He flew it every Saturday morning without fail, always taking the same gentle loop before landing for tea and a biscuit.

At first, nothing seemed out of place.

Then the engine coughed.

A sharp, hollow sound that cut straight through the hum of the airfield.

Maggie’s breath hitched. She knew that sound—every mechanic did. A cough like that meant fuel starvation, or a failing magneto, or something far worse.

The Finch sputtered again, louder this time. The pitch dropped, wobbling unevenly as the plane dipped a fraction too low.

Thomas went very still beside her.

The engine caught for a moment—a desperate, rattling surge—then faltered again. The biplane lurched, its wings tilting as the pilot fought to steady her.

“That’s not good,” Maggie whispered.

A shout carried across the field.

“Engine trouble! He’s losing power!”

More voices followed, rising in alarm. Someone dropped a fuel can. Another sprinted toward the signal flags. The easy Saturday atmosphere fractured in an instant.

The Finch wobbled again, losing altitude in a slow, sickening slide.

Maggie’s heart thudded painfully against her ribs. She could almost feel the failing engine through the air—the uneven rhythm, the choking sputter, the way the propeller struggled to keep turning.

Beside her, Thomas’s jaw tightened. His eyes tracked the plane with a focus so sharp it seemed to cut through the morning light.

No words passed between them.

They didn’t need any.

The moment stretched—a breath held by the entire airfield—as the Finch dipped lower, fighting for the sky.

And then, without speaking, Maggie and Thomas moved.

The Finch dipped again, its wings shuddering as the engine coughed a final, desperate protest. The airfield erupted into motion—shouts, running footsteps, the scrape of boots on gravel—but Maggie didn’t hear any of it clearly. Her body moved before her mind caught up.

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