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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. 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.
Liz urged her legs to follow—after all, what was she doing?— but then a series of notes overpowered the thought. A slow version of “Stormy Weather.” A melody of her past, towed through every dramatic measure.
“This tune”—Morgan gestured toward the band—“reminds me of my mom. Sang it around the house all the time.”
“Really?” Liz remarked at the coincidence. She tried to think of how many times she’d heard the original playing behind her mother’s locked bedroom door. Must have been a thousand. Liz had every reason to hate the song, yet somehow it persisted as one of her favorites. “Mine liked it too,” was all she added.
Eyes toward the singer, Morgan shook his head. A tender smile played on his lips. “Funny. She always made it sound so upbeat, I never noticed how sad the words are till now.”
Liz listened to the lyrics, about gloom and misery, and realized she hadn’t either. She verged on volunteering as much, but the glow in his expression stole her focus. Before she knew it, her gaze sloped down his arms, leaving her to imagine how they would feel wrapped around her.
When the tune ended, she jerked her eyes away, hoping he couldn’t actually read her mind. Then another ballad began, “At Last,” based on the opening bars. A horn sang soft and sultry and filled the silence between them. A silence that suddenly gaped for miles as he fidgeted in his chair. Staring in the other direction, he tapped his heel at quickstep tempo, as though antsy to reach the exit. She wanted to say something, yet nothing came to her. Their wordlessness dragged every second into a torturous crawl. Unsure of what to do, she peeked at her watch to verify time hadn’t stopped.
“So, Liz,” he said finally, “would you mind if I, um, asked you to dance?”
She was so relieved he had spoken it took her a moment to weigh his invitation.
It was a slow number.
She should decline.
Then again, he was leaving tomorrow.
“Sure—I mean, no, I wouldn’t mind.”
They rose and walked to the edge of the dance floor. As she slipped her hand into his, unfamiliar nerves rippled up her sides. His other hand cupped the small of her back and drew her close. She fought the trickle of a chill on her neck, willed moisture into her mouth gone dry.
This was a mistake, she warned herself. Still, she rested a palm on his broad shoulder, the starched fabric separating her from the skin beneath. At the shift of his muscles, the feel of his gaze, her heart pounded twice as fast as the beat. She didn’t take in a single lyric, yet everything about the song was perfect. It seemed the spiraling combination of notes was commanding her emotions to lead; her body to follow.
She turned her head and closed her eyes. Vanilla, lemon, and cedar—the scent of his talc or aftershave was soft but masculine. The slight rasp of his chin brushed against her temple; a rush of warm breath passed by her cheek. She tightened her grip on his shoulder as subtly as she could. Cracking her eyelids, she noted goose bumps prickling her arms. She desperately hoped he didn’t notice the effect he had on her. Unless he felt the same.
What was she thinking? They’d only just met. Sensible. She needed to be sensible.
Then his hand adjusted on her back. His fingers moved up slightly, pulling her closer. Never before had she been so aware of being touched. The air enveloping them thickened, a dense cloud, smothering sensibility.
She relaxed her neck, her shoulders, her rules. Unable, unwilling to stop herself, she angled toward his gaze. Her mind reached for his lips, and—
“Watch it!” a stranger’s voice shrilled.
Liz startled back to the room, and to the sailor falling straight into them. Morgan tried to slant her out of the way, but wasn’t fast enough to dodge the man’s red drink. It splattered an S down the side of her dress.
“Hey, I’m soor-ry,” the stocky guy slurred. He floundered off, rubbing his hairless head.
“You okay?” Morgan touched her bare arm.
Chills again. She pulled the damp portion of her dress from her legs. “I just need to clean up in the powder room.”
“Take your time,” he told her, and smiled.
She turned to hurry away, not from anxiousness to leave, but rather to return.
With the fog Morgan found himself in, he almost wondered if fumes from his brother’s whiskey were to blame. Liz had disappeared into the crowd, yet here he was, grinning like a possum. He couldn’t stop. He’d never met anyone so captivating. From her amber eyes that glowed and dimmed with her mood to the fragrance of a lavender field on her soft skin. More attractive still was the blend of her gentleness and outward strength.
But there was something else. A feeling of understanding, a comfort that defied reason. It was as though kissing her, a near stranger, would have made all the sense in the world.
He’d certainly had the impulse. Maybe he should have acted on it. Most guys at the dance would have done so without 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.”
