Love on a Battlefield

By Posy Roberts

The tug Andrew and Shep have felt since the day they met might be pointing their way home. 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.

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

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boho Press
• Release date: Feb 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386067276

Posy Roberts

Posy Roberts started reading romance when she was young, sneaking peeks at adult books long before she should’ve. Textbooks eventually replaced the novels, and for years she existed without reading for fun. When she finally picked up a romance two decades later, it was like slipping on a soft hoodie . . . that didn’t quite fit like it used to. She wanted something more. She wanted to read about men falling in love with each other. She wanted to explore beyond the happily ever after and see characters navigate the unpredictability of life. So Posy sat down at her keyboard to write the books she wanted to read. Her stories have been USA Today’s Happily Ever After Must-Reads and Rainbow Award finalists. When she’s not writing, she’s spending time with her family and friends and doing anything possible to get out of grocery shopping and cooking.

Book preview

1

Memories

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 would probably 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 has to be tomorrow. I opened the door to my apartment, and Carlos breezed past me, taking over and 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-stamp-sized kitchen table, weary but grateful my workday was over. If I didn’t have to tutor Carlos tonight, I’d 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 won’t 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,

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. He always wrote my name with such care compared to the address scribbled in 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 five years ago and what we confided 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 headed 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.

But I pushed through the pain, refusing to take an opioid to dull it, and hobbled to a red lacquered box that held 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.

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

2

Rebel

Five Years Ago

My father took me to Civil War reenactments long before I understood the politics of the war and its moral implications. He introduced me 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 watched 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 my dad implemented strict rules I didn’t enjoy.