Page 45 of Halfway to Hell
Clearing his throat, he caught her attention. “A friend of mine and his ol’ lady are coming for a visit.”
Fluffing the last pillow, she smiled. “When will they get here?”
“Tomorrow sometime.” He ran a hand through his long hair. “Listen Kennedy, Cree’s woman she witnessed her boss kill a man. Went on the run until Cree was sent to bring her in.”
He caught the flash of shock on Sunday’s face and added gently, “You’ve been through your share of shit… maybe the two of you will hit it off.”
“I’m sorry that happened to her. I’m sure we’ll find something to talk about.” Patting Texas on the shoulder, Sunday eased past him.
Texas gave a small nod, his gaze lingering on her for a second longer than necessary. “Thanks for being cool about it.”
Sunday shrugged, turning toward him with a soft smile. “You’d do the same for me.”
He pushed off the doorframe, following her down the hall. “You need anything before they show up? I can run to the store, pick up whatever.”
She thought for a second. “Not that I know of. Maybe cider, since that seems to be the draw.”
That pulled a low laugh from him. “I’ll grab some from the mill.”
Sunday’s smile lingered before she tilted her head. “Is she… okay now? I mean, after what she saw?”
Texas sighed. “Don’t know all the details. Cree just said she’s solid.”
“Well then, it’ll all be fine.”
He stepped in, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before heading for the door. “I’m heading to the mill. I’ll make sure to grab some cider for Kennedy.”
“I’ll be here. All day,” Sunday said, laughing lightly. She’d just spend the day tidying up while he was at work.
Once the door shut behind him, the house settled into silence again. Sunday stood still for a moment, letting it wrap around her. It was a peaceful kind of quiet, the kind that reminded her she was safe here.
She made her way to the kitchen, tying her hair up as she walked. The list of things she wanted to get done wasn’t long, but it gave her a purpose. Something to keep her hands busy and her thoughts steady.
First things first, she wanted to start a pot of chili for dinner.
She pulled her hair into a loose knot, rolled up her sleeves, and opened the pantry. The simple rhythm of gathering ingredients—beans, crushed tomatoes, spices—settled something in her. Chopping onions, browning the meat, adding garlic and cumin... it was a routine she didn’t have to think too hard about. Familiar. Soothing.
As the chili began to simmer, the rich scent filled the kitchen, wrapping around her like a favorite blanket. She stirred slowly, watching the sauce bubble as the flavors came together.
While it cooked, she wiped down the counters and cracked a window to let in the breeze. It carried the scent of warm grass and distant woodsmoke, reminders that summer was slowly starting to give way to something softer.
With the pot set to low and the lid slightly askew, Sunday leaned against the counter, arms folded loosely across her chest. For a moment, she let herself enjoy the quiet. The normal.
Pushing off the counter, she headed to the guest room. She gathered fresh linens and opened the windows to let in the morning breeze. The air smelled faintly of apples and something sweeter drifting in from the backyard, maybe the sweet alyssum by the fence.
She made the bed with practiced care, smoothing each corner, tucking everything just right. Then came the small touches—a candle on the nightstand, an extra throw at the foot of the bed, and a folded towel on the dresser.
She stepped back and took it all in. It wasn’t much, but it was warm. Inviting. Safe. And if Kennedy was anything like Texas made her sound, maybe she’d need a place that felt like that.
Back in the kitchen, Sunday checked on the chili. Pulling off the lid, she gave it a stir. It was coming along—thick, rich, and full of spice. Chili had always felt like a safe choice. Hearty. Comforting. She didn’t know what Kennedy liked, but this... this seemed like a good place to start.
As it simmered, she wiped down the counters, humming softly to herself. The day moved in a rhythm she hadn’t realized she missed—slow, domestic, almost soft.
By late afternoon, the house smelled like tomatoes and spice. Texas would be home soon with the promised cider.
“Smells good.”
The sound of his voice made her jump. She spun around and tossed the dishtowel at him. “You scared me.”
