Page 8 of Legacy

I watch as a cluster of lights get larger until a small row of houses comes into view. Jesse wasn’t joking about owning a house on the property, and this must be what Margaret has been talking about when she mentions the neighborhood they live in.

Jesse stops at a house near the middle of the cluster and immediately climbs out.

This far from the clubhouse feels like another universe than the one I was just standing in. The air is clear, and the night is quiet. Stars are fuller without light pollution to dull them, and the moon casts a cool blanket over the desert.

Jesse’s house isn’t what I’d expect of him at all. Unlike him, it’s inviting. Plants decorate the porch, and white shutters frame the windows.

None of it makes sense. Not that anything about this man seems to.

Jesse takes long strides as he circles the truck, looking annoyed when I start to open my door, like he expected me to wait for him. He snatches it from my hand when he’s within reach, nearly tugging it out of my grip. And when I’m fully out, he slams it behind me and grabs my suitcase from the back.

Everything about Jesse King is a contradiction, and I wonder what side of him he shows Margaret to have kept her around all these years.

Whenever she mentioned Jesse, she had good things to say.

He’s strong-willed.

A protective father.

She made him sound kind—sweet even. Nothing like the grumpy biker frowning at me while he waits for me outside his front door.

“Nice house.”

He grunts, pushing the door and holding it open for me to walk in. “Shoes off.”

There’s a small shoe rack inside the foyer, but he discards his boots in what must be their designated corner. A mild dusting of dirt and rocks has collected there.

I slip out of my sandals and find an empty spot on the rack, which is filled with rows of tiny shoes—mostly pink.

Cowgirl boots, sneakers, flip flops.

Jesse doesn’t wait for me as he makes his way down a hallway that cuts the house in two. And when I follow him, I’m surprised by how modern everything is. While the clubhouse had sticky wood floors and cigarette-smoke-saturated walls, Jesse’s house is nearly spotless. Clean lines and contrasting tones of white and dark gray are accented with black edges. The limited decorations are minimal and clean. And besides the little hints of his daughter, there’s no other indication of a woman’s touch.

He leads me into the kitchen, and I find the only pop of color in the house. His stainless-steel fridge is almost completely covered in bright, colorful drawings.

“Are these Bea’s?” I point to a drawing of a horse.

“How do you know her name?” He snaps the question.

My eyebrows pinch as I turn toward him. “Margaret told me.”

His face relaxes as he nods, and I wonder what he’s experienced in his life for his guard to be so high all the time. It’s one more side to a man I thought I’d figured out at first glance when I walked into the bar and caught him staring at some girl’s ass.

He’s protective, yes. But beyond that is something I don’t know if he’s even willing to admit to himself—fear. And it flares for his daughter the second I mention her name.

Jesse might trust Margaret, but it’s clear he doesn’t trust me.

He glances over at Bea’s pictures, silently working something over as his gaze skips from one to the next. And for the first time since I met Jesse, his cold facade slips long enough for him to appreciate his daughter’s artwork.

“She’s a fan of pink,” I say, trying to soften whatever was riled up inside him just now. “And horses?”

“She wants to be a cowgirl when she grows up.” His gaze slides to me.

“And what do you think about that?”

“At least if she’s riding a horse, then she’s not on the back of a motorcycle.” He shrugs.

I’m not sure what to make of his comment, when it sounds like he doesn’t want his daughter participating inthe life he clearly chose, but I know better than to think it’s my place to ask.

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