Letters From Home. Kristina McMorris

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 ring. 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?”

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