Page 62 of Halfway to Hell

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Frowning, he eased the UTV toward the disturbance to investigate. At first, it looked like a couple—probably guests from the Air b-n-b—lingering after a last round of apple picking. Nothing unusual.

Then he saw her.

Sunday burst from the tree cover, sprinting full tilt, terror etched deep across her face. Behind her, a man gave chase, his footsteps pounding the earth.

“Hold on!” Texas barked, slamming his foot down on the gas. The UTV jolted forward, tires tearing up dirt and dry leaves as they tore across the orchard.

As they closed the gap, time seemed to slow. Sunday’s eyes locked with his—wide, desperate, begging.

Then Texas saw it. The man’s hand rose, glinting in the fading light. A knife. Bloodied. The world narrowed to a single point. Texas didn’t think. He didn’t brake until the last second, skidding hard and jerking the UTV sideways.

Before it even stopped, he was out and launching himself at the man. They hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud.

Rage surged through Texas, hot and blinding. He drove his fists into the man’s face, again and again, until everything blurred into a crimson haze.

It was his brothers’ shouting that finally cut through the fury.

Gasping, Texas staggered back, heart hammering, vision swimming. The man moaned, weak, trying to crawl away.

Texas didn’t spare the man another glance. He scrambled to Sunday’s side, dropping to his knees.

“Stay with me, baby,” he said, pressing his hand hard against the wound in her side. “You’re gonna be okay. I got you.”

Roan’s urgent voice pierced the chaos—shouting into the phone, calling 911, demanding an ambulance and police at the Moulin à Cidre immediately.

Texas glanced over his shoulder and saw Clause standing over the attacker.

The man was hogtied, his face swollen and bruised beyond recognition.

Clause cracked his knuckles and gave Texas a grim nod—silent warning that this wasn’t over.

But Texas wasn’t thinking about that anymore. His whole world had shrunk to the blood seeping between his fingers and the shallow rise and fall of Sunday’s chest in his arms.

* * *

Texas paced the hospital floor, his boots scraping against the linoleum with every restless pass. Fear gripped his chest, tightening like a vise, just as it had during the long ambulance ride, sirens screaming through the night.

He’d tried to stay calm for Sunday—for their baby—but the dread had swallowed him whole.

His family hovered nearby, silent and tense, but no one had answers. No one could say how Sunday or the baby were doing. Every second dragged on like an eternity.

The only time Texas left was to slip into the hospital chapel—desperate for a place to pray, to beg, to bargain with whatever higher power might be listening.

The double doors swung open, snapping him out of his spiral. A doctor approached, clipboard in hand. “Mr. Bossière?”

Texas stepped forward, heart pounding so hard he thought she might hear it. “That’s me.”

The doctor offered a reassuring smile. “Your wife and son are both doing great. She’s in recovery now, and the baby’s beentaken to the nursery. Someone will come get you once they’re settled in a room.”

“How long until I can see them?” Texas asked, his voice rough and tight with emotion.

He needed to see them—needed to touch them— needed to know they were real. Safe.

“Not too long,” the doctor said, offering another gentle smile, a lifeline in the haze of fear.

“Thank you. Thank you for everything,” Texas said, every word heavy with gratitude.

As the doctor moved away, Texas felt his family’s presence close around him, relief filling the space like fresh air. He nodded, muttering his thanks, but he couldn’t stay in the crowd another minute.