Page 43 of Halfway to Hell
“Sunday, you shouldn’t go traipsing around the property in those sneakers,” Kathryn added, eyeing her shoes with mild disapproval.
Glancing down at her beat-up sneakers, Sunday didn’t have the heart to admit they were the only shoes she owned. Instead, she offered a small smile. “I’ll have to grab a pair of boots in town.”
“In the meantime, I’ve got some mud boots that’ll fit you. You can use them while you’re here if you want to.”
“That would be great. Thank you, Mrs. Bossiere.”
“Please, call me Kathryn.” She smiled at Sunday as she headed toward the door. “Come on, we’ll show you around. If you wait on Ange, you might never get a tour.”
She kept chatting as Sunday bent down to change into the mud boots.
Turning from Sunday, Kathryn bit back a laugh. She’d long hoped her son would find someone to share the next chapter of his life with. They still missed and loved Lisa, but even she wouldn’t want Ange to spend the rest of his life alone. And Sunday Mornin just might be the kick in the crotch her son needed.
When Sunday stepped outside, she wasn’t prepared for how vast the property really was. What she expected to be a quick tour turned into an all-day adventure, and she enjoyed every moment of it.
They rode through endless rows of apple trees in one of the UTVs, stopping here and there as Kathryn and Helen pointed out different parts of the orchard. At the restaurant and gift shop, they filled her up with samples until she thought she might burst. Sunday had no idea so many things could be made from apples—pies, jams, butters, sauces, ciders, even skincare products.
Music blasted through the barn speakers while Roan lay back on a bench, trying to catch his breath. Texas hadn’t missed a step since leaving the farm a month ago. If anything, he seemed faster, stronger—more focused—than the last time they’d trained together.
The rhythmic thud of fists hitting the heavy bag pulled Roan’s attention. He looked over and saw Texas hugging the bag, stilling its swing. Something was weighing on him.
Roan didn’t need to ask. He knew exactly what—or rather,who—was on his brother’s mind. The pretty blonde who’d arrived with Texas had stirred something in him. That much was obvious.
He wondered which one had given up—Texas or the bag. “You done?” Roan asked, but got no answer as Texas kept holding the bag still.
Poor guy seemed to be struggling. Maybe they shouldn’t have given him such a hard time about Sunday. The one thing they hadn’t told Texas—the one thing theyshouldhave—was that it was nice to see him with a woman
Seventeen years ago, they watched Texas, and his wife Lisa suffer the loss of their only child just hours after birth. They thought he’d never recover from that crushing blow. But he did.
For a time, Texas and Lisa built a life full of love and happiness. Then, fourteen years later, tragedy struck again when Lisa was killed in a single-car accident. They watched Texas spiral out of control.
Though the family didn’t fully understand his decision to join a motorcycle club, it was the club that pulled him back from the brink. Somehow, it gave them back the Texas they loved.
He refocused himself, becoming even more involved in the orchard. He even bought acreage adjoining the family property and opened a cider mill. They understood the new business venture was his way of filling both his time and his mind.
“No.” Texas shoved the heavy bag back into place and walked over to grab his water bottle. He was trying to work off all the pent-up emotions he’d been wrestling with since kissing Sunday that morning.
“Grab the strike pad. Let’s get another twenty minutes in before we call it a day.”
Roan begrudgingly got up and grabbed the hand pads. He knew he’d need a massage by the time Texas was done with him. Sliding the pads over his hands, he slapped them together.
“Let’s see what else you’ve got, big boy.”
Texas smirked. “I think you’re getting soft now that you’re married, little brother.”
Roan held up the strike pad. Texas struck out with his right foot, connecting solidly and sending Roan stumbling back.
Growling, Roan watched Texas bounce on his feet, waiting for him to raise the pad again. But instead, Roan tossed it aside and grabbed the hand pads.
Holding up both hands, he braced himself for the classic one-two punch. He got what he wanted when Texas jabbed, followed by a sharp right hook. Spinning around, Texas landed a sidekick to Roan’s upper thigh, knocking him off balance.
“Asshole,” Roan snapped at Texas, rubbing his pad-covered hand over his sore thigh just as he spotted his reprieve approaching the barn.
Texas shoved his hair out of his face, silently wishing he’d tied it up before the workout. His brother should be the one working out—not whining over a little tap on the thigh.
Roan pointed his gloved hand toward the open door, sucking air in and out through his nose. His thigh was screaming at him.
“What are you wheezing about, bitch? I’m the one doing all the work,” Texas teased his brother.
