Page 49 of Halfway to Hell

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Texas saw the change on Cree’s face—the easy calm gone, replaced by something harder—when Kennedy stepped back, maneuvering herself partially behind him. It riled Texas that he hadn’t been there when Sunday needed him most.

“It’s okay. I’m here,” he said firmly, his voice steady but fierce.

His eyes landed on the items Kennedy held, and he knew she understood the unspoken urgency, even if Sunday was still scared of him.

“What do you have, Kennedy?” he asked.

“I thought we could tie her hair up,” Kennedy said softly. “And I found her a jacket with a hood.”

“Good thinking. Can you buy those, along with anything else Sunday picks out, and bring the scarf and jacket back to me?” Texas instructed.

“I got it,” Cree said, gathering the items. He glanced at Kennedy and told her to stay. He knew she’d give him grief about it later, but she’d get over it.

Fifteen minutes later, Sunday’s hair was wrapped snugly in the scarf, the hood from the jacket pulled up over it.

After leaving the store, Texas hurried them back to the bikes. They’d barely made it down the street to where the bikeswere parked when the first heavy drops of rain splattered the pavement.

“Ladies, this is gonna be a fast run,” Texas warned. He caught Kennedy’s thumbs-up in response. Sunday kept her head down, simply nodding, lost in her own thoughts.

Suddenly a cold splash of rain hit his face. “And it’s gonna be wet,” he added with a grim smile.

Cree clapped Texas on the shoulder. “After we get you home, we’re making a run for Montreal.”

“No. You two are staying with us at the house.”

A few more drops of rain fell, and Cree nodded in agreement and they’d stay.

Once their packages were stowed and the two couples were mounted on the bikes, they rolled out of town, heading for the farm.

Texas hadn’t lied, it was a fast, wet ride. By the time they reached the farmhouse, they were all drenched to the bone.

Chapter Twenty

One month later…

Sunday’s footsteps softened against the kitchen tile as she approached, the scent of fresh chicken and spices lingering in her mind from Aunt Helen’s recipe. The morning light filtered through the window, casting a warm glow over the counters. She froze for a moment, taking in the unexpected sight of Texas leaning casually by the coffee pot, steam curling from the mug in his hands.

He looked up, eyes catching hers with a quiet smile. The moment stretched—familiar and charged—before Sunday found her voice. “Morning.”

Texas nodded, his gaze steady. “Thought I’d get the coffee started.”

Sunday smiled back, the quiet comfort of the kitchen and his presence settling around her like a soft blanket. “I’m making dinner tonight. Aunt Helen gave me a recipe. Thought it’d be nice to say thanks.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

She shrugged, a small laugh escaping. “I want to.”

For a moment, they stood there, the easy silence between them filled with something unspoken but understood.

Texas’s eyes flicked down to her boots again, then back up, sharp and tense. “You know that’s going to soak right through. You’ll be miserable before you even get inside.”

Sunday met his gaze steadily, shrugging just a little. “I hadn’t really thought that much about my footwear.”

There was a pause—thick with something unsaid—before she added softly, “I was planning to curl up by the fire and take a nap. Then Kathryn called, said she needed help at the restaurant.”

Texas’s jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around the edge of the counter like he was holding something back. Sunday could see it in the way his eyes darkened—something eating at him beneath the surface.

She knew what it was. She’d been in his house. In his bed. For two weeks. The weight of those days, the closeness they’d shared, sat heavy between them now, unspoken but impossible to ignore.