Letters From Home. Kristina McMorris

curling up at home, losing herself in classical literary works, she was stuck in a dance hall packed with slick soldiers on the prowl.

      Morgan sat beside her, their shoulders only inches apart. If this guy was hunting for a khaki-whacky girl, he was barking up the wrong table. She leaned away, just as Charlie began spinning Julia round and round like a top. Liz grew hopeful that her friend would rush back, ready to head out. But then both dancers broke into a fit of laughter, confirming Liz was on her own.

      “So—” Morgan cleared his throat. “You’re Liz?”

      “You’re not going to use your brother’s goofy lines, are you?”

      “No, miss. I was—just asking about your name.”

      The sincerity in his voice underscored her own brusqueness. He hadn’t done anything to deserve such treatment. At least not yet. “I’m sorry,” she said, softening. “Yes, it’s Liz.” As she extended her hand, his mouth curved into a smile.

      “It’s real nice to meet you,” he said.

      Something about his touch caused her pulse to sprint. She released her grasp and sipped her coffee, despite it being a few degrees too hot. “So tell me, why do they call your brother Chap?”

      “It’s short for Charlie Chaplin. Got the name ’cause he loves making people laugh.”

      As if on cue, Charlie hopped around Julia like an island native performing a tribal mating ritual. His partner appeared as entertained as spectators on the sideline.

      Liz tightened her lips, but a giggle snuck through. “And you really claim that guy as your brother?”

      Morgan hesitated before nodding slowly. “Yep. But only by blood.” A caring glimmer shone in his eyes, emerald gems speckled with gold. A miner’s prized find.

      Her leg started to quiver. Surely a side effect of the coffee and a tiring day of work. She tamed her knee. “I assume you’ve got a nickname too?”

      “Just Mac, short for McClain. Nothing fancy.”

      “Well,” she said, “at least it’s nothing to blush over. My roommate’s told me about plenty I wouldn’t dare repeat.”

      “I can imagine.” He grinned. “Suppose I should be grateful Farm Boy didn’t stick.”

      The mention of a life so different from her own intrigued her. “Then you’re a farmer?”

      He half shrugged, a movement suggesting embarrassment. “My uncle owns a good chunk of land in southern Illinois. I’ve been managing it the past few years.”

      “What kind of farm is it?”

      “You mean the crops?”

      She nodded.

      “Feed corn mostly. And we alternate with soybeans. Rotated the lower half last season and—” He bit off the ending, rubbed the faint cleft in his chin. “Probably more than you wanted to know.”

      “Not at all. Really. I’m interested.” More than she should have been.

      “Guess you can tell, us plow jockeys don’t get out a whole lot.”

      “Except for USO dances and taking out your girlfriends, right?” It was a forward question, but if only he’d confess he had a sweetheart, Liz could stop her nerves from jittering.

      “Charlie does do more wooing than working,” he admitted. “But me, afraid I don’t do much else but tend the fields.”

      She caught herself in a smile, a betrayal in its fervor.

      “And what do you do,” he asked, “when you’re not at USO dances?”

      Propriety prompted her to enlighten him about her courtship with Dalton and their path to matrimony, an eventual yet inevitable step in her practical plan—a checklist to a respectable future. In-stead, she replied, “Guess I spend most of my time studying. That and taking care of elderly folks, a job I love for some reason.” She wrinkled her nose. “Sounds odd, I know.”

      The polite, humoring head shake she expected didn’t come. Rather, he seemed to examine the words, taking them in. “Not a thing wrong with helping out people who need it.” He peered at her with those polished green gems, their deep shade nearly hypnotic. “So what are you studying, Liz?”

      “Well—I’m . . .” She had to sift her mind for the answer. When had this become a hard question? “English,” she remembered. “I want to be a literature professor.”

      “Wow, that’s wonderful.” He sounded genuinely impressed. A nice contrast to those who viewed her desire to work as an assault on the family structure. “What made you decide on that?”

      “It’s what my father does.”

      Morgan nodded, then asked, “But, what made you want to be a teacher?”

      She stumbled over the inquiry—direct, thoughtful, unexpected. Her father’s legacy had always sufficed as a natural explanation; no one had ever bothered to probe further.

      “Sorry.” He shifted in his chair. “Didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

      At a loss for an answer, she merely gave a nod, then opted for deflection. Or perhaps she yearned to know more about him. “And what about you? Any plans after the service?”

      “Oh, we’ll likely buy up some acreage. Charlie’s pushing for cattle ranching, but we’ll see.”

      “Ahh,” she said, head tilted. “But what is it that you want?”

      He grinned broadly, a nonverbal touché, and replied, “To put down roots, I suppose. Raise a family. Can’t imagine anything more important.”

      The warmth in his words reached for her heart like invisible hands. Fortunately, she spied the single-striped chevron at the top of his sleeve—private first class—grounds for challenging his integrity. “By the way,” she said, “when did you get promoted to staff sergeant?”

      He half glanced at his shoulder and his expression dropped. “Um, well, you see. I’m not exactly . . . a staff sergeant. Yet.”

      With Betty as a roommate, Liz had learned a great deal about military insignias. The fact that his rank was three grades lower than the one boasted by his brother didn’t mean a thing to Liz. What did matter was his evident penchant for honesty. Which only made him more likable.

      “My brother,” he apologized, “he’s a bit of an Irish storyteller.”

      “Mmm.” She feigned contemplation. “You are in the service, though, right?”

      A slight smile returned. “After all our training, I sure as heck hope so.”

      “It’s a good thing you went Army, then. I hear basic’s a lot harder in the Navy and Marines.”

      At that, his mouth retracted, leaving him speechless. Liz tried to keep a straight face but failed.

      Tentative, he shook his head before easing out a laugh. “Are you always this nice to fellas you just met?”

      “Just the special ones.” The admission rolled out before she could stop it. Oddly, however, she felt no need to backpedal; they seemed anything but strangers.

      “In that case,” he said, “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

      Behind Morgan, an attractive woman in a WAVES uniform rose at the neighboring table. She linked arms with an airman, who bid farewell to his buddies, and the couple set off through the crowd.

      It suddenly occurred to Liz that she had landed herself in the worst kind of room, one full of impending good-byes. Distant memories seeped about her. As she refocused on Morgan, words never far from the clutches of her mind spilled out. “So when are you leaving?”

      He paused.