Page 36 of Halfway to Hell
“When Monday gets back to Montreal,” he said carefully, “I’ll bring you back.”
Sunday’s heart pounded so hard she was sure he could hear it. Part of her wanted to throw her arms around him, bury her face in his chest again, but she didn’t move. She kept it together, pushing herself upright and smoothing back her hair like it wasn’t trembling fingers doing it.
“I’d like to go with you,” she said, steady and sure.
And she meant it.
“Good. Let’s get dressed so we can hit the road, I’m starving,” Texas said, flashing her a quick grin before disappearing into the bathroom.
Sunday stayed where she was, sitting in the center of the bed with the blanket pooled around her legs, staring at the closed door he’d just gone through.
Reality settled over her like a second skin.
Of course he’d asked her to come with him. Not because he needed her there, but because of last night. Because she’d fallen apart. Because he was kind.
Her fingers twisted in the sheets, clutching the fabric like it could hold her steady. Maybe she should’ve been embarrassed. Maybe she was. But under it all, something warm stirred. She was grateful, even if it wasn’t forever.
Still debating whether she should back out of going to the farm, Sunday climbed out of bed and moved with quiet urgency. Therewas no point in hesitating, she didn’t want Texas to see her second-guessing.
She dumped out her backpack onto the bed, rifling through the wrinkled pile of clothes she’d shoved in there days ago. After a moment, she pulled out a cream-colored distressed sweater and a pair of faded jeans, setting them aside.
The sweater went on over the t-shirt she’d slept in, its oversized sleeves hanging past her wrists. She paused, wishing she had underwear and a bra. Wishing she had anything that felt like hers.
Sliding into the jeans, she didn’t have to bother with the button or zipper. They hung on her hips, loose and unfamiliar. In the three months Dalton had kept her captive, her body had changed. She’d dropped weight she couldn’t afford to lose.
Grabbing her toiletry bag, she crossed to the sink. She washed her face, scrubbing harder than necessary, then brushed her teeth until her gums stung. Staring at her reflection, she hated what she saw. The hollowed cheeks, the bruised-looking shadows under her eyes made her look like a ghost of herself.
“I appreciate you thinkingit’sfine,” Texas said, struggling not to laugh as he bent to retrieve the towel. He wrapped it securely back around his waist, this time gripping it with one hand as he crossed the room toward his clothes.
Sunday stayed rooted in place, still facing the wall, her cheeks burning. “Can I get in the bathroom?”
“Yeah,” he said easily, already rummaging through his duffel. “I’ll get dressed while you’re in there.”
She nodded, still not looking at him, and hurried toward the bathroom with a muttered, “Thanks.”
As the door clicked shut behind her, Texas shook his head, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t the way he’d planned to start the day, but it sure as hell wasn’t the worst.
Sunday kept her gaze firmly averted as she entered the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.
She leaned against it, hand covering her mouth, shoulders shaking as she fought back a laugh. A second later, the laugh slipped out anyway—quiet, breathy, and real.
God, it felt good to laugh.
She hadn't done that in… she couldn't even remember when.
Dropping her hand, Sunday exhaled and pressed her head back against the door, trying to get it together. She just hoped Texas wasn’t the sensitive type—because if he heard her laughing, he might think she was laughingathim. Or worse—atthat.
And she definitely wasn’t.
From what little she’d seen, there was nothing to laugh at. Not even a little.
Texas was pulling on a pair of jeans when he caught the sound of Sunday laughing through the closed bathroom door. He shook his head, a grin tugging at his lips. After trying so hard to be a gentleman, all it took was a runaway towel to turn him into a dirty old man.
Chuckling to himself, he yanked a shirt from his bag and slipped it over his head. Dropping onto the bed, he bent down to pull onhis socks and boots, the sound of Sunday’s laughter still echoing faintly in his ears.
Digging through his duffel, Texas pulled out a small black bag. Unzipping it, he lifted out a thin silver chain holding a cross and his St. Joseph’s medal, along with a small brass key. He slid the chain over his head, letting it rest heavy against his shirt.
Next, he pulled out his watch and leather bracelet, slipping them on one after the other. At the bottom of the bag lay four rings: a chunky Harley ring, two simple silver bands and his gold wedding band, tarnished and worn from years of neglect.
