Page 1 of Honoring Freedom

Prologue

The man stayed in the shadows.

He practically salivated as he watched her brush down the horse, her slender hands moving gracefully over the firm, lean muscles of Requiem. She touched him lovingly, with such great care. He was her prized horse.

Feeling a surge of jealousy, the man clenched his hands into tight fists and shoved them deep into his front pockets. Thinking of all the ways he wanted to touch her made him shudder and his body hardened.

His desire for her ran deep—so deep that he nearly despised her for making him want her so desperately.

Freedom. Freedom. Freedom. Freedom Rose.

He couldn't stop thinking about her. She was on his mind all day and kept popping up in his dreams. Right from the start, he knew she was the one for him. The first time he saw her he wanted to tangle his fingers in her hair and never let go.

Yet, she pretended she didn’t feel the same—pretended she didn’t want him.

Just today he greeted her. He’d swiped off his Stetson and offered her what he knew was his best James Dean smile. She acted like she didn’t see him.

He didn’t like being ignored.

She thought she was better than him.

Freedom thought she could have any man she desired.

She looked up from her task, scanning the tree line. Did she sense his presence? When she stared in his direction, his chest tightened. Could she see him? She turned away and he knew he was safe.

He dragged his hands out of his pockets, wanting to pummel something. Anything. He had to be careful though. Recently there was trouble between one of Freedom’s sisters and a hand, and since then every member of the crew took extra care to walk a fine line. He overheard some guys in the bunkhouse talking about how Sam Rose was letting people go left and right, so everyone was focused on their work.

The man didn’t care what others did. Never had.

Born Pok Malikan, thirty-two years ago, he grew up with his grandparents who had a loveless marriage yet punished each other by staying married until Pok’s grandfather died on their fiftieth wedding anniversary. The very day. He made a deal with the devil thinking Hell would be better than living another minute with the bitch he promised to love, honor, and cherish. His grandmother liked to yell…at Pok especially. His curly hair never laid straight. His nails were never cut short enough. He didn’t walk right. She enjoyed calling him names too. He didn’t have one memory during his childhood that didn’t include her screeching around that cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, her hacking cough, and those hideous plastic earrings sagging from stretched holes. Pok blamed her for pushing him into doing bad things like stealing cars and breaking into homes which eventually landed him in prison.

After serving three years and granted parole early for good behavior, he met a girl. Swan was her name. She didn’t like him much, but he loved her. She had to ruin things by getting him arrested for breaking into her house and setting fire to her bed after her fuckbuddy slithered out at dark.

He hated women, except for Freedom, of course.

For now, he’d play along with her cat-and-mouse game.

Retrieving the small piece of fabric from his back pocket, he lifted it to his nose and breathed in Freedom’s fragrance. Just two days prior, during her sunset ride, she had snagged herself on a branch. Her shirt tore, leaving behind a fragment of the cloth. He regarded it as a cherished memento from her.

He closed his eyes and imagined how good they could be together. How he wanted to push her against the tree and—

“Jinx!” Her voice broke through Pok’s fantasy.

He flicked his eyes open and gritted his teeth. Jinx had joined Freedom. Hatred spiraled through Pok like a dust devil sweeping through the plains. Out of habit he took out his lighter and rolled the smooth metal around his fingers.

Jinx laughed at something she said.

Envy coursed through Pok's veins. How could Jinx dare overstep boundaries with Freedom?

Pok imagined the immense suffering he wished to inflict on Jinx. The cowboy strutted about with an air of superiority. He probably grew up as a town hero, the favorite jock, the boy voted most handsome. Pok loathed all the cowboys at Sagebrush Rose Ranch who sat around guffawing at bad jokes and farting and burping like they were a group of immature cavemen.

None of them had a clue who Pok was before he came to work as a hand. It had been quite easy to hide his past, to change his name.

He chuckled. Eleven years in lock up made him a new man. During his first year serving his sentence in “Alcatraz of the Rockies”, he’d been a scrawny, shy boy that was innocent and thrown to the wolves to learn to survive. He’d been weak, shoved around like a pussy. One morning, he lost his temper when another inmate came up and shoved him, causing him to stumble and fall. Everyone’s laughter had quickly turned to surprise when he got back up and beat the older inmate to a pulp. The stunt had earned Pok a trip to the hole but what doesn’t kill a man only makes him stronger. He swore when he saw the light of day again, he’d walk like a lion, not a deer. He’d crush anyone who dared cross his path and looked his way too long.

With all the time in the world in his cell, he studied every book he could get his hands on. Worked out religiously. Learned charm. Once he transformed, inmates feared him. He became a god in the harsh dog-eat-dog society.

But he’d never forget that women were evil—just like his grandmother. The wicked witch of Texas.