Kristina McMorris - Letters From Home

“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. 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 no where. 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.

Julia rumpled her brow, then extended a curious smile. “You two have a good night.” Once out of Morgan’s eyeshot, she gave Liz a look that said she expected a full explanation in the morning.