This was the road where he’d learned to drive: first a tractor, then a car. This was also the first place he’d ever kissed a girl, Rani from Sacramento, in said first car.
He kept his gaze straight ahead, though it strayed now and then to the fruit trees that lined the path, his family’s bread and butter. The bread and butter of so many of the families that lived in this town. In an hour or so, people would be out in the orchard. Harvest season was long over, and the trees were bare now, silently prepping for the next season, but there was still work to be done. The work was never finished on a farm, though it changed every month.
He blinked to wet his eyes, dried out from the air blowing from the vents. He’d only stopped once throughout the drive, and he was feeling it.
He came to a fork in the road, then turned right, then left, and there it was. The house was just as he remembered itfrom the last time he saw it, a two-story wooden structure. Big enough to raise a family and a couple of kids. Nikka ghar, they’d called it, growing up. The little house.
Jas turned off the engine and grabbed a bottle of water from the bag in the passenger seat. He glanced in the rearview mirror.
Katrina had been silent for the first hour of the drive, the tension radiating off her in waves, but thankfully that frenzied anxiety that had gripped her in her kitchen had vanished. She’d either taken a pill or run herself down, because she’d fallen asleep the second hour in and hadn’t stirred since.
He got out of the car and stretched, groaning. He placed his hands on his hips and glanced around. All was still and quiet.
And familiar. So familiar his back teeth ached.
Had it been just yesterday morning that he’d wished he could run away from worrying about McGuire and his own impending exposure? How ironic, to run away to the one place he’d once runfrom.
He gazed up at the no-frills house. It wasn’t exactly small, as the name would suggest. His great-grandparents had envisioned multiple generations living here. Multiple generations had lived here. The farm hadn’t truly taken off until he was ten or so. They’d lived here until the big house was built, his family of four, his grandparents, his mom, and him.
It had been comfortably full. Each of the three bedrooms had an attached bathroom, and the living room and kitchenwere of a decent size, though nothing like what Katrina was used to. A wide porch wrapped around the front, with two rocking chairs his great-grandmother had bought still sitting right up front, the wood weathered by time.
He crouched and touched the soil. The dirt clung to his fingers.
Home. There was pain, yes, but also love.
The second Jas had had the idea to come here, his gut had told him it was the right move. As he’d driven through the night, he’d grown more sure. They could both run away. Two birds with one stone.
His grandpa wasn’t in the country. He could stick close to the little house, and none of the employees would come this far west, to a nonworking part of the farm.
Jas dusted his hands off and rose. He’d get to help Katrina and satisfy that craving to see his home without actually having to deal with the biggest issues that came with it. A win for everyone.
He’d called his stepbrother to tell him they were coming and asked him to keep it under wraps. Bikram was the foreman, though he was only twenty-five. Unlike Jas, his little brother ate, slept, and breathed this farm and this little town. Ideally, Bikram wouldn’t let his presence here slip to their parents. He didn’t want his mom to get her hopes up.
Jas surveyed the heavy growth of trees that shielded the little house from view. He’d arranged for a 24/7 security detail. The first shift should be arriving soon, and the guards would stay out of sight. He’d told Katrina about the arrangement during their trip so she wouldn’t be worried if she spied them.
He exhaled, his breath fogging in the cold early morning air. October was so much colder here than it was in Southern California. The cold wind blew through the valley, right through his thin cotton long-sleeved shirt. He’d packed warmer clothes, but he might have to borrow a heavier jacket from his brother as well.
He couldn’t be grouchy about the weather. His knee might grow stiff soon, but the cold was his old friend, enveloping him in an icy hug, much kinder to him than the sun had ever been.
Jas opened the back door of the car and bent down. His hand hovered above Katrina’s shoulder, unwilling to take even the slightest liberty when she was unconscious. “Katrina?”
Nothing.
He dared to use two fingers to poke her shoulder, grimacing as he did so. This was not smooth.
Or effective. Her breathing remained as deep as ever.
He finally shook her shoulder, then shook her again. “Katrina?”
Jas straightened, flummoxed. He glanced around, the cold air crystallizing his breath. He couldn’t very well let her sleep in the car for the rest of the morning, and he was too exhausted to keep poking her until she woke up.
He scuffed his otherwise spotless shoe in the dirt.You’ve carried her before.
Only once, when she was having an attack and he’d moved her. Never from a car to a bed. He’d especially never carried her over a threshold.
He glanced at the structure. Over his ancestral family home’s threshold.
He tried to shake her gently again, and thank God her lashes fluttered open. “Hmm?” she murmured, and the sleepy sound went to his gut.
