As though she’d read my mind, Maggie said, “Around here, we go to dances from the time we’re babies, so we pretty much grow up knowing how.” She waved toward a back corner where some women had several toddlers corralled. “Bringing the kids lets everybody come.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

“Do you like to dance?” she asked.

“It’s okay,” I said, wishing I’d let Beatty teach me more than a Texas two-step, fun though that was.

“I could show you some,” Maggie offered. “If you haven’t run into this brand of dancing before.”

“Often as not, I’ve got two left feet,” I told her. I looked around and spotted the refreshment table. “How about something to eat? Or a lemonade?”

Nate whirled by again and called to me, “What are you waiting for? She won’t trod on your toes too much!”

And the next thing I knew, Maggie’s hand was on my shoulder, and we were in motion.

It was one good party, and I probably wouldn’t have left for even a short while, except for a little kid who broke free of the toddler keepers. He came careening across the dance floor, icing smeared and leading with fistfuls of squashed chocolate cupcakes.

Females all over squealed and grabbed their skirts out of his way. I made a grab for him just as Mr. Schieling swooped him up. Excited to find himself flying up into the air, the kid let loose of the cupcakes, which showered all over me.

“Oh, Moss!” Maggie sympathized, brushing off chocolate. “Your poor shirt.” It had blobs of icing stuck here and there.

“I reckon I better go change,” I said, and excused myself to go back to the barracks. Which was how I came to see something I’d have cause to think back on in the weeks ahead.

I was shortcutting behind the headquarters building when I noticed there was a light on inside. Then I saw Major Garrett and the visiting officer talking to each other. What struck me odd was the look on the major’s face: more . . . formal-like . . . than I was used to seeing him.

But then I spotted Maggie out on the rec hall steps, looking for me, and I put the matter out of my mind.

Sunday dawned a gloomy, snow-driven day, and most guys opted for staying inside. In the afternoon, when I took my laundry to the washhouse, I didn’t see any of the staff out either, except for the major and that other officer.

With the washhouse to myself, I filled a sink with hot water, rubbed some naphtha soap into the chocolate smears on my shirt, and commenced scrubbing it against the ridges of a washboard.