Love on a Battlefield Read online

  About this Book

  Not every compass points north.

  Andrew Summers is forced to spend his vacations reliving Civil War battles with his father. He hates every minute, until a blue-eyed, red-haired boy behind enemy lines catches his eye.

  Shep Wells would much rather travel the world than play at boring war reenactments. He never dreamed a Texan boy would capture his heart.

  Real life and years separate them; Andrew is forced onto real battlefields, but for Shep the world is a playground. They’re opposites, but writing letters closes the distance, uncovering their hopes and dreams. When Shep visits Andrew, they get to see if the tug they’ve felt for years is the compass pointing the way home.

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  ~This is a story about first times, second chances, and the transformative power of the written word.

  Copyright © 2018 Posy Roberts

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  All rights reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and complying with copyright laws.

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

  Editor: Denise Bower

  Proofreader: Barbara Moore

  Cover Artist: GoOnWrite

  Back Cover: Olive Us Designs

  The Licensed Art Material is being used for illustrative purposes only.

  All products and/or brandnames mentioned are registered trademarks of their respective owners.

  First Edition, February 2018.

  Published by Labyrinth Bound Press

  Also by Posy Roberts

  Thank you so much for buying Love on a Battlefield. To be the first to find out when I have new releases, sign up to my mailing list. Follow me on BookBub too.

  NOVELS

  Silver Scars

  Fall Into You

  *

  Naked Organics Series

  Farm Fresh

  Picked Fresh

  *

  North Star Trilogy

  Spark

  Fusion

  Flare

  *

  NOVELLAS

  Love on a Battlefield

  Stroke of Luck

  Momo, My Everything

  Analog to Digital

  Feathers From the Sky

  Bent Arrow

  Tangled Mind

  *

  SHORT STORIES

  Cheeky Hipsters & Jocks

  *

  FREEBIES

  Naked Origins: Hudson

  Contents

  About this Book

  Also by Posy Roberts

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  Also by Posy Roberts

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  For the last year and a half, my life was detoured. Not quite like the detour you’ll read about that Andrew deals with in this book, but I was forced to choose another path aside from writing.

  Words simply refused to come, so I dove headfirst into the editing-side of my freelance work. But, omg, I missed writing so much! I missed how it filled up my soul and had the power to take me away.

  Thankfully, my friend Teegan Loy stood by me and encouraged me when I was sure I’d never write another word again. Nearly everyday, she said something to push me back to my keyboard. Knowing I kept stalling out, she asked me if I had any stories lingering on my hard drive that were begging for attention.

  Start there. Finish something so you remember what that feels like.

  And it feels great!

  Throughout all of this, my family has been so patient with me: my husband making sure I don’t go hungry, my daughter partaking in emoji-offs that always leave me laughing, and my adorable dog cuddling with me as I wrote and getting me away from my keyboard every now and then.

  I’m grateful for my editing clients for giving me a distraction from my writer’s block and for being flexible and understanding why I need a writing month every now and then.

  My friend Melissa read this story several times, as did Teegan, each time pointing out something to help make it stronger. <3 That helped me keep going, and with each pass through the manuscript, I got more excited. You not only helped strengthen this story, you helped boost my confidence. Thank you.

  N.R. Walker helped me with this blurb, and without her help, this book would’ve been much shorter. Sometimes all it takes is a person pointing out one line or a word, and my muse latches on like a wild woman. This is a much richer story because of her help.

  I find it very fitting that this is the book that helped me work through whatever it was that was holding me back from writing.

  I used to write fearlessly. This was one of my very first pieces of fiction that I wrote back in 2009 and it’s about a man who’s life was taken completely off track through no fault of his own.

  I started writing because of another detour life tried to plant in my way. I found putting words down on paper helped me maneuver around it rather than being stopped dead in my tracks, as so easily could’ve happened. Writing healed me in ways physical therapy, doctors, and medications couldn’t. It put power back in my hands so I no longer felt like a victim.

  The written word can be powerful. It has the ability to heal, and Andrew discovers this on his journey.

  So, thank you for reading this story about first times, second chances, and the transformative power of the written word.

  ~Posy

  For Teegan, who encourages me to take risks.

  1

  Canvas handles cut into my forearms as I made my way across my apartment parking lot with too many stuffed grocery bags. I tried to walk faster, but my hip was achy today, which meant it was probably going to rain. My joints were better at predicting the weather than the meteorologists most days.

  I shifted a few bags to my left arm so I could open my mailbox with my keys. Metal jangled as I shoved my hand in deep to make sure I got everything. A bag slid down my forearm, causing my balance to shift. “Crap.”

  “Want some help there, Andrew?” came from behind me. Carlos, my neighbor.

  “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

  He took a few bags from me, but I overcorrected, sending my mail tumbling to the ground.

  He laughed at me as he picked it up. “Man, you could’ve made two trips.”

  I pocketed my keys and dispersed the weight better. “Yeah, but what’s the fun in that?” I headed toward my apartment, Carlos trailing behind and chatting away.

  “I’m not gonna make it to our tutoring session tonight. There’s a concert at the high school. Jazz band, and well, I’d kinda like to go watch. I mean, listen.”

  I snorted at his slip of the tongue. “Who are you going to watch?”

  His smile turned dreamy as I shoved my key in my lock. “His name is Jack. He plays drums and has the most muscular forearms.”

  I chuckled. “Okay, kid. No problem. But if you need help this week, it needs to be tomorrow.” I opened the door to my apartment, and Carlos breezed past me, immediately took over, and started unpacking my groceries. He put them in the cupboards like he owned the place, and I was too tired to protest.

  I sat at my postage-st
amp-sized kitchen table, weary but grateful my workday was over. If I didn’t have to tutor Carlos tonight, I was going to float in the pool, maybe order takeout, and get lost in a good book.

  “Thanks,” I said as Carlos hung the grocery bags on the hook by the door. “I really appreciate the help.”

  He sat across from me and grinned. “Anytime.” Then he glanced at my mail. “Looks like you got another letter from Shep.”

  My eyes cut to the envelope on top of the stack. Sure enough.

  Carlos stood and shook a finger at me. “Read it right away this time. If I come back and see this letter sitting here tomorrow, I’m not going to be happy.”

  I held my hands up in surrender. Who knew a fourteen-year-old kid could be so intimidating?

  He winked and left. I picked up my letter opener and sliced through the envelope.

  Dearest Andrew,

  I know it’s been a long time, but I need to see you. You changed my life all those years ago. Changed me. And not hearing from you for months put that into perspective.

  When you didn’t respond to my last letter, I thought it was because you were back in the field, deployed again, stuck between one battle or another. Months passed, still with no answer, nothing updated on Facebook even. I wondered if I was blocked from conversations, excluded from seeing your posts.

  When your silence had me thinking the worst, I went searching and contacted a few of your friends from back home to see if they’d heard from you.

  Last week I discovered you were injured months ago, discharged from the army because of it. None of the friends I contacted knew who was helping you, only that your parents didn’t live in Texas anymore. Who was there to help you? It should’ve been me. It would’ve been me if I’d known.

  I realize things haven’t been easy for you for a lot of years, and I feel horrible about not just taking time off from my gallivanting to fly there and be with you. Even a day or a weekend would’ve made the difference. Now … well, I’m not putting this off another day. I need you in my life. It’s that simple.

  I’ll be in Austin next week for some work. Please agree to meet me. Call me. Anything. I just need to know you’re well.

  Yours Always,

  Shep

  Folding the crisp, white stationery back into thirds, I slid it into the stiff envelope before turning it over to see my name written in loopy script. My name was always written with such care, while the rest of the address was scribbled with obvious haste.

  He wanted to see me after all these years, and he was coming here? I didn’t know how I felt about that. In some ways, he knew me better than anyone, had accepted things about me that no one else even knew. In other ways, we knew nothing about each other besides what we shared that sultry weekend nearly five years ago and what we were willing to confide in our numerous letters. And, of course, the plastic versions of ourselves we plastered on social media.

  Despite having spent little actual time with him, what I felt was the closest I’d ever come to love. I was sure of that. All the letters we’d written over the years were the only proof I needed.

  I stood to head over to my bookcase but was overtaken by pain zinging through my hip and thigh. I cursed the metal plates, pins, and screws holding my leg together. I cursed the VA surgeon for refusing to do a total hip replacement because I was too young and hadn’t tried all the alternative therapies yet.

  I pushed through the pain, refusing to take an opioid to dull it, and hobbled to a red lacquered box. I pulled the hinged top up, revealing every letter Shep had written to me. I strummed them like one would a guitar, the crisp envelope edges making zippy pops as I thumbed each … until I hit one of the letters.

  There it is.

  It made a duller sound because the envelope’s crispness had been worn away. So many times I’d opened and closed that letter, reading and rereading the words that meant more to me than anything.

  Holding it to my nose, I drew in a deep breath, barely able to discern the faint scent he’d sprayed there before he sealed the envelope and slipped it in a mailbox years ago. Yet that aroma took me to a place altogether different.

  I was transported to a grassy knoll where I stood in an itchy, gray uniform, readying myself for battle.

  2

  Five Years Ago

  My father started taking me to Civil War reenactments long before I understood the politics of the war and its moral implications. I was introduced to the tradition before I knew what any war was truly about.

  To my kid’s eye, it was about the costumes my mother sewed for me, the horses, the noise of the weapons. It was about playing with other kids my age, enjoying the outdoors, sleeping in tents, cooking over an open fire. And when the battle started, it was about the play acting⁠—dramatic death scenes where I spun around and landed in a heap on the ground. From there I got to watch the real action. Grown men fighting for dominance, thinking three steps ahead of their enemies, reloading weapons as they were forced to retreat. Fear filled their faces despite this being pretend.

  It wasn’t until I was sixteen that I was allowed to carry a weapon and shoot it myself. The physicality of battle was exciting too. Hand-to-hand combat when munitions were spent was better than football any day. It was rougher, more real without layers of padding.

  But there were strict rules my dad implemented that I didn’t enjoy. “If we’re going to do this,” Dad always said, “we’ll be as authentic as possible. We’ll do it right, unlike those people who think this is Summer Stock.”

  I wasn’t allowed to socialize with the Yankees at all, so I hung out with the Confederate kids or sat around campfires listening to the adults shoot the shit. If school was in session, I’d bury myself in homework and often ended up helping some of the younger kids with their lessons. The guys my own age … Well, we had little in common. Some were intense, a few down-right scary with their racism so proudly displayed.

  What I’d learned after hanging out with them for years was that they hated everyone who wasn’t like them.

  I wasn’t like them, but I wasn’t about to let them know for fear they’d turn their hate on me.

  For the last two years, I’d watched a Union kid who only came to a few of these events, not like most of the reenactors, who made this a way of life. When he showed up, he was the center of attention. Maybe because he was novel, but when he was there, he always drew my eye. It was obvious the other kids looked up to him, fawned all over him, really. I never got close enough to talk to him, to find out what made him so fascinating.

  But I saw it from afar. He was strong yet graceful, with a mess of hair in a color I’d never seen outside of jewelry or pipe fittings. His smile was easily earned, and he seemed so … carefree. So unlike the overly serious and angry kids who surrounded me.

  When I was stuck listening to the Rebels’ hate speech, I’d watch the Union kids in their shorts and T-shirts laughing and having fun. I wanted to be a deserter. I wanted to go see what life was like on their side. It sure as hell looked like a lot more fun than what ended up feeling like a weekend prison sentence in a hot, scratchy suit.

  I couldn’t stop myself from turning to him, staring at him. I’d watch him leap into the air to catch a wayward Frisbee or wrestle boys to the ground, then help them up, all with a bright smile on his face.

  Last summer, he’d worn a wreath of daisies in his hair, walking around as if it was the most normal thing in the world. My ‘friends’ laughed at him and speculated about his sexuality. I joined the adults then, unwilling to spend any more time with the assholes. It brought me closer to the redhead too, so I made myself blend in with my surroundings and looked to my heart’s content.

  I didn’t know his name. I never got the chance to find out, but if he was here this time, I was determined to discover it.

  As we arrived Friday afternoon, I scanned the area for his hair but didn’t see him. We quickly set up camp, and my father slapped me on the back. “You’re an adult now, so you’ll have a bit
more freedom than in the past, but don’t do anything to disappoint me.”

  “I won’t, sir.”

  “Don’t drink. Be respectful. I trust you to make good choices.”

  “I will, Dad.”

  He adjusted his belt buckle and smiled. “Let’s go strategize for our upcoming battles. Two days of fighting. This’ll be good.”

  I followed him out of our tent and joined the other men as they scoured maps and walked the battlefield to get a lay of the land. I turned down an invitation to hang out with the Rebel kids and instead listened to an expert on this particular battle drone on and on. Sitting there, sweating in my wool uniform under the scorching heat for hours, I had to get out from under the sun.

  “I’m going to go fill up my canteen,” I whispered to my father.

  “Stay hydrated.”

  I gave him a quick nod, made my way past the tent filled with women and young girls quilting or spinning yarn, and found the metal water pump. I pushed down on the handle, trying to draw up the water, with little luck.

  That’s when I saw him. He was in full Union dress, the buttons of his coat making the gold and red highlights in his hair appear metallic. He was unlike anyone else I’d ever seen.

  He walked toward me with a wide smile. Sure of himself, but not cocky. More … careless. Utterly free.

  “Want some help?” he asked. “I heard it’s hard to get this one started.”

  I met his blue eyes, brilliant and wild like the sea. I was stunned into silence. He was even hotter up close, and suddenly I was unable to form words. I nodded my assent instead.

  He wrapped his fingers around the metal handle and pushed down. It made a grating squeak that echoed, but the lever moved. He helped me push it down several times, hands sliding closer and closer with each pump until our fingers intertwined.

  He laughed as water poured from the spout, and he bent down to taste the stream. The smell of iron surrounded us as I filled my canteen.

  I watched him wet his hair, making it darker, which made his skin look extra pale. He was gorgeous, and the way the sun hit him right then, he looked like something out of a dream.