Authors: Kristina McMorris
“Pardon me, ladies,” Charlie said. “We’re in dire need of your assistance.”
“Why? You lost, soldier?” the redhead teased.
“Not anymore.” He grinned, sporting his dimples. “Now that I’ve found my way to your heart.”
When the gals exchanged incredulous looks, Morgan considered sneaking away, preserving his dignity while the possibility remained. But the mere sight of the brunette’s profile locked his knees. Unbelievably, she was even prettier up close.
“Wait a minute,” Charlie went on. “I think we’ve met you girls before. You’re Gor and Geous, ain’t ya?” Their lack of response didn’t faze him. “All right, what are your lovely names, then?”
Nothing. Just blank stares.
“Afraid I’m not going anywhere till I know.” Charlie crossed his arms and waited, a rare showing of following through.
The brunette released a sharp sigh. “Fine. I’m Liz, this is Julia, and
you’re
leaving.”
Morgan pressed down a grin.
“Leaving?” Charlie repeated. “How could I, after finding the two prettiest gals in the city?”
Julia shook her head. “Has any of this actually worked on a girl before?”
“She means a
human
girl,” Liz added.
“Ouch!” Charlie stumbled backward as though her insult had struck more than his ego. “You sure know how to hurt a guy.” For the pathetic come-on alone, Morgan could think of a worse punishment.
“Goodness me,” Liz exclaimed, hand on her chest. “Where are my manners?”
“Not to worry, apology accepted.” Charlie’s assurance drove straight through her sarcasm, arching her brow. “Besides. I owe
you
an apology as well, for not introducing myself properly.”
The situation was deteriorating. But it wasn’t too late. If Morgan moved now, blended into the crowd, he just might escape the quicksand of humiliation. His brother could find his way back on his own.
“My name’s Charlie,” he said as Morgan edged away, “but good friends and peachy gals like you call me Chap. And this dashing gentleman over here is my brother, Staff Sergeant Morgan McClain.”
Staff sergeant?
Morgan bristled at the lie, and found himself trapped by their gazes. He held his breath, arms at his sides, as if preparing for Saturday inspection.
Liz stretched her neck over her shoulder, curiosity forcing a peek. With Morgan’s charcoal black hair and olive complexion, she questioned if he and the fair-skinned knucklehead were actually brothers.
“Evening,” Morgan said, the word barely audible. A fitted service shirt outlined his broad build. His facial features were of the average sort, but he had an allure about him, an unnamable quality Liz couldn’t dismiss.
“Hi,” she replied as Charlie continued.
“Honestly, ladies, here’s our situation.” His serious tone implied a change in strategy. “You see, me and Morgan, we’re leaving for war soon. As two of the U.S. Army’s finest, we’ll be fighting on the front lines. So without much time left to live, I’ve got just one thing I’m wishin’ for.” He knelt, presenting Julia his palm. “To dance with this red-haired knockout before I go.”
“Sorry, Casanova, but I’m already spoken for.” She held up her left hand to display her engagement band. Daily polishing, since her fiancé's fleet shipped out a month ago, kept the gold shiny as new.
“Well, then …” The gears clearly cranked away in Charlie’s mind. “How ‘bout a dance to celebrate your engagement?”
Liz replied for her. “How ‘bout we celebrate when your squad tosses you overboard?” She heard Morgan quietly laugh, a second before his brother directed his plea to Liz.
“C’mon,” he said. “Is this how you thank a man who’ll be risking his life for
your
freedom?”
She felt a smile threatening to surface. “If you got these lines out of a book from the drugstore, you should really get your nickel back.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to save your friend Julie, here, from years of guilt. Imagine the headlines: ‘Soldier denied a final dance …dies for his country …’”
Julia giggled, hand covering her mouth. “Okay, okay.” She rolled her eyes. “One song.” Together they headed toward the dance floor, where skirts flared and couples dipped to the band’s emboldening tune.
After a moment, Morgan stepped closer and pointed to Julia’s chair. “May I?”
“Why not,” Liz said, a verbal shrug. Her night was tumbling downhill at avalanche speed. Rather than 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. Instead, 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 a pat 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 …an NCO. 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. The question ironed the crinkles from the corners of his eyes. “We’re heading for our post tomorrow.”
It was a reply she should have anticipated. Still, her heart sank.
“Wanna know the truth?” He leaned toward her as if passing along a secret, his forearm on the table approaching hers. “I’m still hoping they’ll have second thoughts about trusting my brother with a loaded weapon.”
She nodded as he sat back, and found herself equally disappointed and grateful he’d increased the space between them. “Well, that may not be an issue. Rumor has it, the war could be over any day now.”
“Yeah, well. Whatever you do, don’t tell Charlie. If he doesn’t see at least one battle, he’ll never speak to me again.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“I made him wait till he turned eighteen.” Morgan traced the edge of the table with his thumb. “Even took a deferment to give him time to grow up.”
“And you think that worked?” she mused.
“Based on what we’ve seen tonight, I’d say definitely not.” With a wink, he turned to watch the dancers. Aside from the premature gray sprinkled above his ears, he appeared just a few years older than Liz. Only from careful observation of his eyes did she sense a forced maturity, a cheated youth. An accumulation of endured hardships intended for a man far surpassing Morgan’s age.
“I swear,” he said, “that kid has added ten years to me.” He gave the side of his head a gentle scratch as if he’d read her thoughts.
“Sounds like he’s kept your life exciting, at least.”
“That he has.” When Morgan faced her, their gazes did more than meet; they locked in place, forming an open passageway. Her natural reflexes should have intervened, broken the connection, but those reflexes were no match for the invitation in his eyes. Without reason or reservation, she felt her soul accepting.
“I’m done,” Julia said breathlessly, materializing out of nowhere. Her presence tugged Liz back to reality, reminded her of the performance that had brought her here. She glanced at the stage. A tuxedoed soloist had replaced the trio. Betty must have been primping for fans in her dressing room.
“What happened to your partner?” Liz asked, not seeing Charlie.
“Oh, don’t worry about him.” Julia flicked her hand behind her. “He’s already found a new victim. Thank goodness.”
Morgan stood and offered the chair to Julia.
“That’s okay, I’m not staying,” she said, grabbing her beaded purse.
Liz’s shoulders tensed. “You’re ready to leave?”
“Suzie and Dot are here. We’re going to Tasty’s to grab a bite. Want to come?”
Morgan retook his seat, appearing watchful of Liz’s response.
“You go on ahead,” she replied. “I’ll be home after the show.” Even in her own ears, the words seemed to have come from someone other than herself.