Yesterday, we celebrated Veterans Day in America with parades, special gatherings at Veteran's facilities, and prayers of thanks for the people who risked their lives to give us the freedoms we enjoy today. My dad, father-in-law, and my third son were all in the military. I've witnessed firsthand the struggles my son has endured after being deployed four times, with two years in Iraq. Sadly, many soldiers don't return to a happy place. I'd like to share with you a story about a Civil War veteran whose homecoming isn't quite what he was expecting. Don't worry, though, this story has an HEA. (Happily Ever After)
Here's what Beloved Enemy is About:
As a Union sniper, killing has become easy for Captain Christmas “Chris” Haley. After four long years of fighting against his own countrymen, the once naïve farm boy is now a war hardened soldier whose faith in God is shaken. Chris is ready to set aside his rifle and return to his Kansas farm. But will his family accept the man he’s become—angry and unsure if he still believes in God?
Chris struggles with being home. His mother's pretty caregiver catches his eye and begins to give him a reason to go on each day. In spite of his bitterness, his heart is softening. But what happens when he learns the secret Hannah is keeping?
Sample:
Scenario: The soldier has just arrived home after four years at war:
Chris slid off the back of the farmer’s wagon and stared at the trail leading to his home. “Thanks for the ride.” He waved good-bye. The farmer clicked out of the side of his mouth, and the wagon jerked forward.
Chris’s eyes drank in the familiar landscape. Seven months after the war ended, and he was finally home. The ranch seemed to have weathered the war fairly well. A few sections of fence were down, the big oak that shaded the house was gone, but the barn and house still stood. Excitement at seeing his family after so long battled the raging hunger in the pit of his belly.
Taking a deep breath, Chris hurried down the path in the dead knee-high grass toward home. He wanted to run, but months of recuperating in an army hospital and then nearly dying of typhus had taken their toll. Walking from eastern Georgia almost all the way to Kansas hadn’t helped, either.
A horse’s whinny echoed from the barn, snagging his attention as he passed by.
Chris turned toward the sound, grabbing hold of the corral fence and waiting as a wave of dizziness washed over him. After a moment, he made his way to the well, dipping the ladle into the already drawn bucket. Swigging the cool water, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the relief it brought to his parched lips and throat. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. The house was weathered and needed a new coat of paint. The barn had seen better days, too.
Had Sultan, their prize stallion, survived the war? It seemed impossible to believe he had. Chris looked toward the house again, thankful it was still standing when so many others had burnt to the ground. Once his mother saw him, he wouldn’t get the chance to ask about Sultan for a while, what with all the rejoicing that would commence. He’d best take a peek now.
The barn door eased open on a high-pitched squeak and a groan, and the comforting odor of fresh hay, leather, and horses wrapped around him like an old familiar blanket. The sting of tears blurred his vision, but Chris blinked them away. At times he’d wondered if he would ever see this old barn again.
Six stalls ran along one side; five of the doors hung open, stalls empty. Chris heard a soft nicker. Sultan thrust his big black head over the side of the stall at the back of the barn, and Chris’s heart soared. His old friend was still alive. Ebony ears flicking, the horse eyed Chris with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.
He heard a click, and the stall gate swung open. A pretty woman with blond hair braided and pinned in a tidy bun walked out, leading Sultan by the halter and whispering softly to him. Her brown dress swished around her slender body.
She looked up, catching her first glimpse of Chris, and stopped dead in her tracks. Her gaze darted from side to side, as if she were looking for something—or someone.
Chris narrowed his eyes. Horse thieves weren’t uncommon, even before the war. But now, with so many fine animals killed in battle or butchered for someone’s dinner table, he imagined thieving was a huge problem. What would drive such a pretty young woman to stoop so low?
No matter, Sultan hadn’t survived all these years of war just to be stolen right out from under his nose on the day he returned home. “Just hold it there. You aren’t going anywhere with that horse.” He straightened, as tall as his weary body would allow, desperately wishing he still had the rifle he’d swapped for some food and a night’s lodging.
The woman gasped. Her eyes widened in surprise. She glanced to her left, dropped Sultan’s lead rope, and lunged toward the side of the barn—right where the pitchfork rested against the gray wooden wall.
Surprised by the sudden energy flowing through his body, Chris sprang forward. Sultan whinnied, reared up, and then backed into his stall as if the excitement were too much for him.
The woman snatched the pitchfork and turned toward him. Chris dove through the air, knocking the weapon from her grasp. A pitiful squeal—something like an animal caught in a trap—erupted from her pretty mouth. They collided, and the force of his leap knocked them both to the ground.
The woman whimpered, twisting and writhing beneath him. Her golden hair flopped over her face as she threw her head from side to side. Her strength amazed him, considering her small stature.
With one hand pushing against his chest, she crashed her fist into Chris’s cheek, sending slivers of pain radiating through his head and neck. The metallic taste of blood slid over his tongue. He ducked her next attempt and grabbed her wrist.
Chris threw his leg over the woman’s body, straddling her. Grabbing her other wrist, he plopped down on her stomach, forcing a heavy puff of air out of her and into his face. It smelled of coffee—real coffee. Panic contorted her features. Eyes wild, like those of a crazed mustang, stared back. Blue eyes—pale blue.
Locked in his grip, she settled under his intense gaze. Her chest heaved, and a tear slid out of the corner of her eye. Who was she?
“No, please,” she squeaked in a soft, hoarse voice, shaking her head. Pieces of hay clung to her disheveled hair.
Chris struggled to calm his trembling limbs. Now that he had captured his prisoner, what was he going to do with her? This wasn’t exactly the homecoming he had planned.
“Do they still hang horse thieves in this part of the country?” he asked.
Her golden eyebrows tilted in confusion. Suddenly her eyes widened and then filled with something that looked like relief as she looked past him.
Chris stiffened. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see his shovel-wielding mother two feet away.
“You let her go, you beast—” A sharp pain radiated from the spot where the back of the shovel connected with his forehead. His mother blurred into two figures as darkness descended.
I think you'll enjoy this fun Christmas stories as the hero and heroine struggle to overcome their own personal predjudices and open their eyes to find something very special. Beloved Enemy is a story of hope, healing, faith and love.
