Emma Rose

Inc.

The song was quickly—too quickly—drawing

to an end. Her groan was soft and silent. His hum became murmured words as he sang with the music—words about seeing rainbows when holding her in his arms.

She floated, mesmerized by his voice. She’d read about sharing bodily warmth to survive if caught out in extreme cold. But the book hadn’t mentioned the body’s reaction to this warmth, that tingling stirring nerve-ends at every point of contact.

Like the dance, the song’s mellow saxophone notes faded.

This wasn’t supposed to be happening. Years of loneliness had built an invisible, yet effective, fence around her heart. Protecting this heart was vital to survival, just as becoming a teacher was vital to a financially secure future.

This is only for two hours—just for tonight. He’s just another soldier. Here today and gone next week.

Praise for Sandra McGregor

Her method of writing makes you want to continue reading, one of those books that you pick up and don’t want to put down…

~Joan Barr, reader

Emma Rose

by

Sandra McGregor

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Emma Rose

COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Sandra McGregor

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Vintage Rose Edition, 2016

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0933-0

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0934-7

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To Brittany Barker,

my favorite young writer.

Go girl, the world waits to read your words.

Chapter 1

Her feet ached. The eight-block walk to the USO club was the last thing Emma Sanders felt like doing. She glanced at the near-empty sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. A lot had changed since Pearl Harbor was bombed three months earlier. Denver had once been a bustling city, but now, people tended to stay home more.

Come on, Emma. Smile. You’ll never catch the attention of a handsome soldier tonight if you’re acting like a limp dishrag.

She released a silent sigh, but managed a tight smile. She should have turned down her co-worker’s invitation to go dancing, but they had insisted she needed a night out. Two full-time jobs would tire anyone.

You’re still working nights at the orphanage?

Yes. She hesitated, then shrugged. Years alone had taught her to keep secrets, but Carol and Mary were friends. They wouldn’t laugh or tease her. I was orphaned at five years old, and after I turned eighteen, the matron offered me a job. I work with the younger children in the evenings in exchange for room and board.

Wow. I can’t imagine losing my parents. Mary reached out to brush a hand along Emma’s arm. That must have been scary.

Her hand clamped tighter on the leather purse strap draped across her chest like a sash, but nothing could stop the shudder. The police, the tears, and the ride with strangers before being left with a mean-looking woman dressed in black. "You have no idea. Those first days were a nightmare right out of Hansel and Gretel."

Can we move on to something a bit more pleasant?

Emma was happy to comply with Carol’s sarcastic suggestion. Some memories were better locked away.

I love this time of year. Mary’s wistful voice sighed out into the growing dusk.

As long as there’s no snow and ice, I don’t care what month it is. I hate the cold, Carol quipped.

Emma nodded agreement. Since America entered the war, the days had been cold and dreary…scary and uncertain. Now, three sunny days in a row made the balmy, March evening perfect for walking outside without being bundled in a wool coat. A cardigan was all she needed.

Em, if you were to describe the perfect man, what would he look like?

Emma glanced right, noting Carol’s slight frown. Is any person perfect? She was definitely hedging, but after all, this was Carol asking the question. Beneath the Roaring Twenties-style cap of dark-brown hair, the girl possessed a quick mind…and a sassy mouth. Large, innocent eyes dominated a high-cheeked face, but at times, her words were like darts tossed at a board, sharp and painful.

Mary, the youngest by a year, didn’t hesitate. I want a tall, dark, and handsome soldier with money to buy me clothes and a big house. Her chin lifted a notch higher, as if looking down her nose at them. Then she erupted in laughter, exaggerating the sway of her hips to make the full black skirt swish around her shins.

That’s original, Carol sneered. So does every other girl in Denver, dearie. Get in line. Besides, rich men don’t become soldiers.

Mary frowned at the statement issued with such an air of authority. That’s not fair. Why should they be different?

Some are, some aren’t. Even a few of our favorite movie stars have already joined the war effort, so not all rich guys are cowards, Emma interjected, unsure why she was defending men who never dated poor, working girls like herself.

Well, I really don’t care whether a soldier is cute or rich. I just want to have fun dancing with him for an hour or so. Besides, everyone knows all the really good-looking ones are snooty or already have a girlfriend.

Whoa, Carol said, a loud laugh barking out. Mary, for a girl who doesn’t date much, what makes you such an expert on guys?

Emma didn’t miss Mary’s gaze dropping to the sidewalk. Why are some people so cruel? The girl’s embarrassment was obvious, and so was Carol’s amusement. Mary’s despondent expression dredged up years of her own hidden emotions—years without close friends and thinking no one cared.

With compassion for a friend under attack, she leaned closer to Mary and whispered encouragement. Carol’s just jealous. Your long, black hair attracts the attention of men like ants to sugar.

Her gaze remained downcast. Though Carol’s darts had obviously landed in old wounds, she finally managed a slow smile that gently lifted the corners of a saddened mouth. Thanks, Em.

For goodness’ sake, come on you two, admonished Carol, linking an arm with Mary. If we don’t hurry, all the cutest guys will be taken.

Emma dismissed the absurd comment, but increased her pace to match the others. Men, men, men. That was all these two—especially Carol—ever talked about.

Two years working alongside Mary had taught Emma to tread lightly around the girl’s tender feelings. Despite being only twenty-one, living in Denver Orphan Home, or The Home as the kids called the three-story brick building, taught Emma valuable lessons—like how to avoid answering questions, and consequently, avoid most arguments. One of Matron’s strictest rules was to treat others the way you wanted to be treated.

It’s a shame the guys we meet tonight will be gone in a week or two.

Emma held her breath, waiting for Carol’s retort, but one never arrived. She decided to remain silent and stay safe outside the line of fire. Her two co-workers were like oil and water…night and day. Opposites might attract in men and women but didn’t play out well when there was no desire or incentive to treat each other with respect.

Ladies, tonight some handsome devils will be at the USO, and I plan to dance my socks off. A giggle slipped out as Mary executed a quick two-step.

Hey, do either of you know why the club is called the USO? Carol’s face scrunched into a frown.

It’s the United Service Organization, Mary offered. It serves as a fun, safe place for soldiers to meet and mingle when away from home.

You sound like a commercial for the place, but the name makes sense, I guess. Carol’s eyes widened as a smile flashed. Do ya hear the music? Come on, hurry! She led the way, stepping off the curb to scurry to the other side. Her next comment was tossed over a shoulder. The trolley’s coming, Emma. Don’t dilly-dally.

The rumble of the cars being dragged along the tracks grew louder, its bell clanging a warning. Emma hurried across the street.

The nearly empty train cars passed to stop in the middle of the block behind them. The screech of brakes clamping down on the metal wheels tensed her jaw, sending a shiver down her legs.

She glanced back in time to see several service men, each with an attractive girl by his side, exit the trolley and turn toward the club. Their deep voices and laughter mingled with the sound of popular tunes drifting out when the club’s door opened.

Emma watched the couples, their hands linked and eyes only for each other. Their futures held promise. Her heart ached, raw with a never before experienced need for someone of her own, yet knowing a relationship couldn’t happen. Not yet, anyway. As much as she wanted to share life with someone special, marriage would have to wait until she saved the money for college and secured her future by becoming a teacher. Still, hard as she tried, not even plans for a better future—plans etched in stone over the last few years—could appease the renewed feelings of loss and loneliness.

The soldiers and their dates had passed, hurrying toward the club. She continued to stare at the loving couples, even when the guilt of witnessing stolen kisses warmed her cheeks.

They arrived at the USO, stopping behind a dozen or so people who formed a slow-moving line out the open doors and down the street.

Now, don’t forget, Mary instructed, we’ll meet back here in three hours.

One hour. Emma held up a finger and leaned over slightly to be sure both girls were listening. "I agreed to come for one hour."

Look, Em. Mary raised her voice slightly to be heard over the music and laughter. We’ll barely be inside the door in one hour.

She frowned. Her friend wasn’t normally the one to play games. Despite the inner struggle to give in, she stood her ground.

Finally, Mary shrugged. Okay, a compromise. Two. We’ll leave in two hours.

On a deep sigh, she nodded acceptance. When Carol rolled her eyes, Emma tightened her lips. I’m just tired.

You have the rest of your life to be tired.

She held back a retort, knowing the words would bounce off the girl’s thick skin. Carol’s gaze was already redirected at two soldiers standing outside the club to smoke a cigarette.

Ladies, her co-worker murmured under her breath, I’m going to nab the attention of a handsome soldier and dance the night away.

Emma knew the next couple of hours would test her reserves of strength, just as Carol tested her patience.

Happiness is a choice. Matron had a million adages—advice she constantly quoted to the children under her care. This was one Emma had always questioned. How could a person choose happiness? Didn’t it depend on how a person was treated or if she had a loving family? Still, Matron was seldom wrong, so maybe there was something to the notion after all. Why not give it a try? A smile crept in and slowly grew.

That’s better, Emma. Guys don’t want to be with a sourpuss. Mary dug in her pocketbook and pulled out a lipstick and compact. With deft strokes, she swiped on the bold, red color, and then pursed her lips as if puckering to offer her mirror a kiss. Satisfied, she snapped the compact closed and unceremoniously dropped it back into her handbag.

Emma shifted to ease the pressure on her tired feet. All she wanted was to sit down and listen to the music. Or better yet, be at home with her feet up, reading a good book, and going to bed early. The loud music drowned out a groan of self-pity.

Another step closer. Her thin, cotton skirt gave little protection from the light breeze currently chilling her bare legs. Memory of other evenings brought a soft smile. This wasn’t her first time out on the town with a couple of girlfriends. Far from it. But for some reason, going to a dance club didn’t seem nearly as exciting since the state of Colorado now considered her of legal age.

The door of the club was being held open now, as if inviting everyone to join the party. Emma liked that soldiers from all branches of service were welcome, and the more young women available to dance with them, the better. Of course, she’d be just as happy to share a soda and listen to a guy talk about home and family. Some of the men she’d spent time with said that talking helped them forget, at least for a short while, where they were going and what would soon be required of them in service to their country.

The voices of men and women—conversations and laughter—competed with the crooning voice of Frank Sinatra coming from speakers inside, near the modest dance floor.

Well, ladies, we’re here, Carol announced when they reached the entrance. It’s time to let our hair down and cut a rug!

Mary and Emma shared a smile, their gazes connecting for a moment as the extrovert of their group twirled around and then strode into the dimly-lit club without a backward glance.

Once inside, they followed the jostling crowd, skirting the wooden dance floor to thread a slow path past the occupied booths lining the walls and a few small tables scattered at the far end of the large room. Their destination was the bar—a highly-polished, mahogany structure where two men served sodas for a nickel a glass.

Emma breathed easier when the crowd thinned, leaving a better view of the cavernous room.

Smile pretty, girls. We’re in the most strategic place to be seen by the eligible men.

Her stomach muscles tightened at the idea of being on display—an item up for auction where the highest bidder got the prize. Funny, she had never thought about it in that way before. This might be Carol’s dream evening, but for herself, the comparison dredged up memories of the first day at the orphanage. The other children had stared and whispered, then walked away to leave her standing alone.

Almost immediately, Carol and Mary began to scan the unattached soldiers standing along the crowd’s fringe. Matron’s words flashed in her mind—words repeated many times during her youth: You’re as good, and worth as much, as everyone else. The only person who can lower your value is yourself.

I see a really cute guy sitting over there, Mary whispered through clenched teeth, using a slight nod to indicate which direction they were to look. Don’t stare, she hissed. Then she laughed out loud as if enjoying something one of them had said.

Emma cringed. The girl’s phony attempts to get the soldier’s attention was obvious…embarrassingly obvious. Sure, the guy was cute, but only his gaze shifted to scan the crowd. He reminded her of a jungle cat watching for his next meal. Aloft and on the prowl. Dangerous.

A shiver scampered down her spine. Not interested.

Within moments, the soldier slid from the booth and sauntered toward them. Emma held her breath, sending up a silent prayer. Have him ask Mary. Have him ask Mary. Her pulse throbbed as his gaze slid from one of their trio to the next. When it connected with Mary’s, and he smiled, Emma felt only relief and turned her attention to the dance floor.

The song’s mellow tune and words of promised love had couples swaying close together, wrapped in the arms of the other while the dim lights and shadows created a feeling of seclusion in the crowded, noisy room. A gentle smile lifted her lips. She liked seeing people having fun and forgetting the troubled world for the evening.

Excuse me. Would you care to dance?

The deep voice interrupted her musing, drawing her attention to the dark-haired man standing near. His insignia and stripes labeled him an officer, and the white uniform identified him as Navy—not a branch of the service seen often in Denver.

He leaned forward slightly, his stance relaxed yet with a degree of military form. His deep-set, dark-blue gaze held her captive, mesmerized, like a hypnotist weaving a trance. She couldn’t look away. Most officers assumed any girl they chose would be willing to spend time with them. This one appeared to wait for an answer.

I’d love to dance. Her smile was automatic.

His shoulders relaxed a bit more as he stepped in closer and held out a hand. As their fingers touched, a tingle raced across her skin, sending a shiver down her back in sharp contrast to the heat radiating from his skin. Emma continued to stare, until, with a gentle tug, she was drawn forward to be tucked protectively close to his side. The captivating gaze lasted another moment before his attention turned toward the dance floor and threading a path among the numerous couples.

The situation felt strange. How could someone she’d just met lead her with a word and a stare? Something was different about him—something she couldn’t identify. Someday, when other soldiers became a faded memory, this night—this man—would linger.

This song is almost over, so we have a chance to introduce ourselves. I’m Thomas.

Nice to meet you, Thomas. I’m Emma Rose. Hopefully, he’d heard the response over the loud music and the thunderous drumming of her heart.

Fighting the urge to shift her gaze to the dancers, or even the small purse hanging near her hip—anything except Thomas—she held his stare. An officer, and much more handsome than her usual dance partners. Why did he single her out? Maybe he liked quiet women, and she looked the part? Or maybe she reminded him of a girl back home?

In the end, his reasons for asking her to dance didn’t really matter. After tonight, I’ll never see him again.

The first blush of youth and naïve eagerness to go to war was common with the newer soldiers she’d danced with, but Thomas was at least six or seven years older. His air of quiet maturity impressed her.

She’d heard people say a person’s story—pain and loss or health and happiness—was told by the eyes. If so, the sadness lurking behind his gentle gaze said Thomas had already seen and experienced too much. His brows were drawn together, as if in mental turmoil or physical pain.

Then he smiled.

Tingles started low in her back and danced upward to disappear under the thick hair weighing heavily on her neck. It took willpower to remain objective—willpower she hadn’t needed for several years. She clamped her jaws together, determined not to fall under his spell.

But the upturned mouth transformed the man’s good looks to heart-stopping handsome. His gaze held her captive, leaving her unable to look away, and hesitant to consider the tempting thoughts lurking in her mind. Carol and Mary had bullied her into coming, but if the evening turned out well, she might owe them both an apology…and a huge thank you.

Chapter 2

Emma couldn’t believe her luck. Thomas was easily the most handsome man in the club, and the spiffy, white uniform was a striking contrast to his deep suntan.

She was on the short side, only a few inches more than five feet, so Thomas towered above her. With grace and ease, he