Letters From Home. Kristina McMorris

a second thought. At this very moment, his brother was likely coercing a smooch out of some girl in the room, a last favor before heading off to war.

      The war.

      How could he have forgotten?

      Tomorrow they’d be at Union Station, one step closer to deploying to some country thousands of miles from home—and a world away from Liz.

      Would a girl like that be willing to wait for a soldier she’d only known a single night? Or was he screwy to even consider the idea?

      He drained a sigh heavy with doubt.

      “Don’t tell me you lost that dame already.” Charlie’s voice turned Morgan around.

      “She’s in the ladies’ room.” Promptly diverting, he said, “So what happened with the redhead? Not as irresistible as you thought you were, huh?”

      “She was engaged. Doesn’t count. Besides, Jack says there’s a juice joint nearby, lots of gals there dying to show their patriotism.”

      “Hope they don’t charge much.”

      “Hey, I didn’t crack open my piggy bank for nothin’.” Charlie beamed. “I’m guessing you’re not going anywhere?”

      “Think I’ll stick around awhile.” The answer formed so effortlessly Morgan almost missed the pricking of his conscience. When the town sheriff caught little Charlie drilling peepholes at Mrs. Herman’s Lingerie Boutique, their father had made it abundantly clear Morgan was responsible for keeping tabs on his brother. A passage of years hadn’t relinquished the duty; if anything, need for the role had risen.

      But tonight, with the promise of Liz’s return, how could Morgan leave?

      “Now, if the skirt comes to her senses,” Charlie said, “and decides to hide in the john all night, be sure to come looking for us.”

      “Yeah, all right. Stay out of trouble, though, you hear?”

      “Absolutely.” Charlie grinned and snaked off toward his buddies by the door.

      “I mean it, Charlie!”

      The kid raised his hand as if to affirm he was going to heed the order. Morgan knew better, of course. And he certainly knew better than to turn his brother loose with a flask of booze and their buddy Jack Callan on their last night in the city.

      The thought ignited a flicker of regret, doused the instant Morgan’s nose caught a residual whiff of Liz’s perfume. Proof of her existence on his shirt. A reminder that he really had no choice.

      Preparing for her reappearance, he spiffed up his necktie, then swiped his hands over his hair, due for another buzz cut. In the midst of sliding his watch down over his wrist bone, he halted at the color of red: a cluster of punch spots, spiked punch at that, tainting the cuff of his sleeve. “Ah, damn.”

      Liz had only been gone a minute or two. He still had time before she finished cleaning up. Although finding a miraculous stain remover was a long shot, he had to try. The last thing he needed was a commander’s reprimand, followed by hours of scrubbing latrines. And more important, looking like a slob wasn’t how he hoped to come across to the woman he wanted to impress.

      At the snack table, a matronly volunteer extended her sympathy and set off to retrieve a bottle of seltzer. While he waited, a couple nearby Lindy Hopping caught his eye. The Marine tossed the girl around his back, then flipped her like a hotcake. His feet swiveled and scooted and shuffled. He may not have been the smoothest swinger in the room, but the fellow could pass as Gene Kelly next to Morgan’s own less-than-snappy footwork.

      Inwardly, Morgan kicked himself. He should have taken notes instead of heckling his brother when their mother used to lead Charlie in the box step around the kitchen. Then he wouldn’t have wasted two songs mustering the courage to ask Liz to dance. Too bad he wasn’t as skilled with a dance partner as he was with a plow.

      “Hey, toots! How about a twirl?” The husky voice boomed from a few yards behind. No surprise, it was the same chief petty officer who had separated him from Liz, only now he was falling all over someone deliberately: the curvy blond singer appearing from a door by the stage. She swatted at the guy’s hands, but his groping continued until she gave him a shove. Turning to break away, she lost her footing and stumbled forward. Morgan’s arms swung outward, barely catching her.

      “Gimme a chance, doll face!” The Navy man staggered closer.

      She gazed at Morgan with big blue eyes. “Save me,” she pleaded in a whisper.

      His first instinct called for a harsh warning toward her inebriated fan, and, if that didn’t work, an invitation to step outside. However, based on stories he’d heard while at basic, Morgan knew better than to tangle with a superior of any branch. He’d have to get creative.

      “Excuse me, Chief.” He positioned his body to guard the singer. “But I promised my fiancée, here, a dance.”

      The man pulled his chin back over his neck. He scrunched his face like a bulldog being challenged. “Fiancée, huh?”

      Morgan straightened, inched a step forward. “Yes, sir. High school sweethearts.”

      The Navy man scrutinized the couple with his bloodshot eyes. His pulse visibly throbbed on the side of his head, bald as a billiard ball. Suddenly, he flared a grin and stuck out a swaying hand. “Well, congrad-julations!”

      Relieved, Morgan accepted the guy’s ironclad grip while leaning away from the smell of sweat and bourbon seeping from his pores.

      “Let’s go, honey bear.” The blonde latched onto Morgan’s arm. “They’re playing our song.” She pulled him free and towed him to the dance floor. The horn section, rocking in unison, blasted lively notes toward the high ceiling.

      With no sight of Liz yet, he took the singer’s hands. He did his best to spare her toes through the basic steps of a jitterbug. Thankfully, the tune ended within a few bars and the petty officer, though still in view, had about-faced. Seizing the opportunity to exit, Morgan released the woman’s hands.

      “Can’t leave me yet, Private.” She drew him back for the crooner’s ballad. “We didn’t finish our wedding dance.” Her arms wrapped around his neck, guiding him into a close sway.

      He swallowed a gulp of air. Obviously, city girls were bolder than the small-town gals he’d grown up with.

      “Miss, I’d love to keep dancin’, but—”

      She peered at him with a seductive glint. “Oh, come now. I have to thank you for your help somehow. And you did promise me a dance.” A smile slid across her lips before she rested her chin on his shoulder. Just then, the petty officer shifted his stance to face them. Upon catching Morgan’s eye, the guy tapped an arm of the sailor standing beside him. “Hey!” they yelled raggedly, and raised their cups in a distant toast.

      Morgan lifted his chin in acknowledgment. For the singer’s sake, he’d wait for the song to end before leaving the floor discreetly—unless, that is, he glimpsed Liz’s chestnut hair, her heavenly face.

      “I’m Betty, by the way,” the blonde said.

      “I’m Morgan . . . McClain,” he said in pieces. His gaze hopped back and forth between the drunken bookends and the far corner of the dance floor, the exact spot where Liz had woven into the crowd and would presumably emerge.

      “Well, thank you for rescuing me, Morgan.” Betty’s fingertips grazed the small scar on the side of his neck, a permanent reminder of the day he’d saved Charlie from a fatal dive down a grain chute. Man, he wished his brother were here to repay the favor by cutting in.

      Charlie would think he was nuts, of course. Betty had to be the most sought-after girl in the place. Regardless, there was only one woman Morgan wanted to be with.

      Alone in the ladies’ room, Liz felt a new chapter in her life unfolding. She was a six-year-old waking to her first snowfall, a kid in