Page 40 of The Kings of Kearny

She was so quiet that I risked another glance at her. Her right brow was arched, and she gave me the same look I’d received countless times during my youth, the one that said “I see right through you, missy.”

“I apologized,” I muttered.

“Good. Knowing when to admit that you were wrong is half the battle. You two will be just fine.”

I managed to resist the urge to correct her again. Once Gran got something into her head, there was no persuading her to change her mind. I asked Dr. Perez if that was a symptom of Alzheimer’s, but she said no, it wasn’t; it was a symptom of stubbornness.

An hour into the drive, the first pair of Kings veered off, leaving us with eight guards. Five minutes later, the next set fell behind, and then the next pulled a U-turn in the middle of nowhere. Eventually only Jakob was left.

My car’s engine whined as we climbed out of an old river basin. The road carved right through the red rock of the hill, obscuring our view until we got to the top.

“Oh, that’s pretty,” Gran said when we’d reached the summit.

I had to agree with her. Spread out before us was a plateau of farmland dotted with ranches and crop fields. Jakob led us into the very heart of it before making a right-hand turn onto an unobtrusive dirt road. Half a mile down it, we passed beneath an arch that read Frihet Ranch, and I realized this wasn’t a road; it was a driveway.

The lane turned left, and as I followed the curve, a house came into view in the distance. It sat a little way down the hill from us, perched close to the edge of a drop-off. Below it, a wide, slow-moving river wound lazily past. It was an idyllic setting, especially with the small herd of longhorns grazing in a nearby pasture.

“Where has your beau brought us?” Gran asked.

“No idea,” I said. This looked too nice to belong to the Kings.

Hill Country was known for its wild, tempestuous storms, and the house was designed to accommodate for that. It was large, but instead of being tall, it sprawled along the cliff edge, built in a modern style with stucco and pale stone cladding its exterior. The rooflines were asymmetrical, set at sharp angles so rain would sluice right off. Large windows looked out at the surrounding views.

Jakob pulled up to the garage and slid his bike in next to two Harleys. I parked, leaving a car length between us, and Gran and I got out. Bugs chirped from the nearby hayfield. Birds called from overhead. Someone had planted a willow tree in a low spot far enough away from the house that the roots wouldn’t wreck the foundation, but even at this distance, I heard the breeze sighing through its bowed branches.

Tawny red flashed in my periphery. I turned just in time to watch a golden retriever bound down the front walk toward us. It caught sight of Jakob and started barking maniacally, changing course to barrel straight at him. Jakob crouched down to greet the dog and was almost knocked off his feet when it hit him at full speed. It jumped and whined all over him, trying to lick his hands, his face, wiggle as close to his big body as it possibly could—not that I could blame the thing. The scene reminded me of one of those YouTube videos where a loyal dog is reunited with their human after being separated from them, and a sinking suspicion yawned open inside me.

The dog fell off Jakob and turned to Gran and me next. We braced ourselves for impact.

A sharp whistle cut through the air. “Molly, you get back here now!” a man called.

The dog hesitated for one second, whined at us like she’d be back, and then took off, sprinting toward a blond man as large as Jakob. He looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties and padded down the walkway in a pair of worn-out jeans and a white V-neck T-shirt. His arms were sleeved in faded tattoos, and his feet were bare. Just behind him was a petite redheaded woman wearing a loose, sleeveless dress over leggings. They looked like a pair of wealthy, aging hippies.

The man’s gaze met mine, and a shock of recognition zipped through me. I knew those eyes. I’d watched them ice over a hundred times.

Gran noticed the resemblance too. “I see looks run in the family,” she said.

Jesus Christ, these were Jakob’s parents. He hadn’t brought me to a safe house; he’d brought me home.

The man I assumed was Jakob’s father reached him, grinning in an open way that his son hadn’t inherited. “Hey there, stranger.” His voice was deep and a little rough around the edges, like he’d spent his youth smoking.

Instead of hugging, the two men shook hands. The petite woman, who I was pretty sure was Jakob’s mother, was less formal. As soon as the men broke apart, she grabbed Jakob around the shoulders and pulled him down in a surprising show of strength, hugging him for a solid minute. I heard the soft hint of a feminine voice, but whatever she said to him was carried away by the breeze before it reached my ears.

There was something about meeting a person’s parents that always made me nervous. Usually I didn’t get too worked up about what others thought of me, but all bets were off when it came to the loved ones of people I cared about. I nearly sweat right through my shirt the first time I met Nina’s mom.

For the past few days, I’d told myself over and over again that Jakob meant nothing to me. That he was just a man I’d slept with. The butterflies in my stomach exposed that for the lie it was. If I didn’t care about him in at least some small way, the imminent threat of meeting his parents wouldn’t make me feel like I was about to throw up.

Jakob and his mother pulled apart.

He turned to me and confirmed my fears. “These are my parents, Liam and Jennifer. Dad, Mom, this is Krista and her grandmother, Izzy.”

The four of us exchanged hellos.

Liam gestured toward the house. “Why don’t you come on in and tell us why your girlfriend has blood on her jeans.”

“I’m not his girlfriend,” I said, just as Jakob bit out, “She’s not my girlfriend.”

Liam snorted, looked between us, and turned toward the house. “Sure she’s not,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

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