It was good news. It was terrific news, in fact. His plan to advance in the military was going splendidly and Winters had even told him that “the sky was the limit.”

And yet. And yet he had not received it with the enthusiasm he would have expected of himself.

Margaret—or at least the idea of her—had offered a different path. As she talked about the marriages of her friends as well as her little niece, his mind considered a life as settled as that and it was strangely welcome.

It had sowed just enough seeds of doubt to make him think about deviating from what had always been expected of him.

It had led him to imagine a picture on that mantel that included a wife. Children.

A surprisingly welcome thought.

He pulled Margaret’s picture from his pocket—always close by. They’d been writing for over a year. At first, he’d romanticized the whole thing—and her—encouraged, as he’d been, by John and William. It had been fun to have a girl to think about. A photograph to hold on to.

But he was beginning to realize that he’d thought of her as a good luck charm. She was disembodied words on a page. A joyful diversion from the horrors he’d seen. Any romantic notions he’d attached to her had been rooted in encouragement from John and William. And he’d willingly played that game.

This was different, though. He was soon going to have to decide to go as far as he could in the military and postpone a family until the timing was right. Or take a chance that what had been a lark might actually be…love.

Every one of her letters revealed something he hadn’t known before. They filled out the two-dimensional air mail sheets with hopes and dreams and worries and fears and gave shape to an actual woman who was giving him so much without even realizing it.

Tom ran his hands through his newly clean hair and gripped it into a fist.

No matter what he chose, they’d grown too close for him to keep up a pretense.

She needed to know him as Tom Powell.

If she chose not to continue their friendship after that, the decision for any more wouldn’t even be his to make.

He owed her another letter. But it was not something he could pen in a hurry. He’d have to ruminate on it if he had any hope of her forgiving him.

*  *  *

“We’re rolling out, men. Have your things ready. We leave at zero five hundred.”

Captain Winters had given Tom the unenviable task of rousing the soldiers, many of them hungover after several days of gambling and drinking and brawling. They had reverted to the teenaged boys that many of them still were, releasing months of the terrors of battles in immature ways.