Book 1 in the Sacred Bonds series.
There are two kinds of scars on a man. The ones you can see, etched into skin by the Texas sun, and the ones you can't; the kind carved into a twelve-year-old boy watching his legacy get stolen at the barrel of a s...
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The tires of the F150 crunched over the gravel of the driveway as I pulled up into the house. This house, this ranch I'd bought five years ago was just a structure; a beautiful, empty shell for my mother's ghosts and my own.
My mother, Maria... she hadn't been the same since we lost Zayan. The light in her that once outshone the Texas sun had been reduced to a flicker, a pilot light on the verge of going out. That's why Aunt Frida Valdez was a mercy I didn't deserve. She'd insisted on moving in, on being the one to care for her old friend, saving me from the constant worry that came with hiring a stranger for a caretaker. My one rule, my only non-negotiable, was that I was home on time. Always.
I was just killing the engine, the tick of the cooling block the only sound in the evening quiet, when I saw her. Frida. Rushing out of the front door, her usually calm face a mask of pure panic, her hands fluttering like frightened birds. My heart didn't just skip a beat; it dropped into the abyss of my stomach and turned to ice. I was out of the truck before I even registered moving, meeting her halfway on the crushed stone.
"Mijo (Son) -- Azad --" she gasped, her breath ragged, her hand pressed to her chest. She must have been sprinting.
"Aunt Frida, what is it? Is it Mama? Is she okay?" The questions came out in a rush, my voice tighter than I intended.
"She's gone, mijo (son)," Frida choked out, her eyes wide with terror. "I was in the kitchen for five minutes, no more, to make her tea. When I came back... the living room was empty. I've looked everywhere! The gardens, the stables, the workers are still looking but... Dios mio (my God), she's just gone!"
The world narrowed to a single, dark point. Gone. The word was a bullet straight to my heart. But I wasn't a boy anymore, ruled by panic. I was a man, and a man acts.
I was already spinning on my heel, rushing back to the truck. "When?" I yelled over my shoulder, my hand already on the door handle.
"Just now! Maybe ten minutes ago!"
The engine roared to life before the door was fully shut. I threw the truck into gear and tore out of the driveway, gravel spraying like shotgun pellets behind me. The early evening hues, the bruised purples and fiery oranges of the Texas sky, all blurred into a meaningless streak as I pushed the truck faster, the speedometer needle climbing. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel, but my mind was a single, focused prayer whispered over the growl of the engine.
Ya Allah, protect her. Let her be safe. Let her be where I think she is. Let her be unharmed. Ya Rabb, just let her be okay.
I knew, with a certainty that was carved into my bones, I knew exactly where she had gone. She was retracing the steps of a life stolen, heading for the one place that had ever truly been home.
The old ranch road was a scar through my memory, every pothole and bend a landmark in a history I'd tried to forget. I didn't slow down for a second; the truck ate the distance until I arrived. And then it came into view. The house. My father's legacy, my stolen trust, standing there in the fading November light like a ghost that refused to be laid to rest.
