Chapter 20
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.
Texas had no intention of coming back to the house once he headed out for the cornfield that morning. But then his mom had cornered him at the restaurant, that familiar tone in her voice when she started asking about his relationship with Sunday.
What began as a casual question quickly spiraled into a full-blown argument. His mom and aunt had both seen them kissing at the mill. He knew she meant no harm, but it still pissed him off. What was between him and Sunday was their business, not hers.
When his mother mentioned Lisa—his late wife—and said that Lisa would want him to be happy, Texas snapped. “Stop,” he told her sharply. He didn’t want to hear what his dead wife would want for him. That was a chapter closed, and he wasn’t ready to reopen it.
Angry and unwilling to listen to another word, Texas stormed toward the barn, hands clenched tight at his sides. But halfway there, he stopped, took a deep breath, and turned back home instead. The barn could wait. This mess, this tangled knot of feelings and family, wasn’t going away just yet.
Texas’s original intent had been to spend time alone, to clear his head.
But in his frustration, he’d forgotten Sunday was still at the house.
Now, he found himself snapping at her—not because of anything she’d done, but because he was angry at himself.
Angry over feelings he didn’t know how to handle.
Angry that his family couldn’t just leave Lisa out of his everyday life.
“Texas, don’t beat up the girl. I asked her to come help at the restaurant,” his mother called out from the mudroom, her voice steady but firm.
Of course she had to follow him. She never could leave well enough alone.
Texas stared at her for a long moment, searching her face, then sighed. “I wasn’t…” He stopped, swallowing the frustration when he saw the expression on his mother’s face—equal parts concern and exasperation.
“I’m… tired,” he finally said, the words barely a whisper.
He stepped over to Sunday, kissed her gently on the top of her head, then grabbed his flannel shirt from the hook by the door. It was a chicken-shit excuse for his mood, but the last thing he wanted was for Sunday to carry the weight of his bad day.
Stopping by his mom, Texas bent down and kissed her gently on the top of her head, the same quiet gesture he’d given Sunday. Before walking away, he paused and said softly, “Don’t overwork Sunday.”
Kathryn wasn’t a fool. She saw the tension in her son’s eyes, the guarded look that betrayed the walls he’d put up.
Who could blame her for wanting him to find love and happiness?
She knew, without a doubt, that Texas was falling for Sunday.
But something was holding him back, some invisible barrier keeping him from moving forward.
And Kathryn wasn’t about to rush him. She’d be there when he was ready.
“I noticed we had another booking for the Airbnb. That makes us fully booked for the month,” Kathryn said, her voice light but practical as she followed Texas to the back door.
“If things keep going like this, we’re thinking about adding a few more cottages.
But if we do, we’ll have to hire someone to take care of them. ”
Texas’s jaw tightened as he yanked open the door, the wind immediately tugging at his coat. “Don’t start, Mom,” he snapped over his shoulder. “Sunday might not want to stay in St. Tite. And she might not want to work for us.”
With that, he stormed out into the gusty day, leaving Kathryn to close the door behind him.
Kathryn turned back toward the kitchen and found Sunday standing silently by the window, eyes fixed on the gray sky outside.
“Looks like storm clouds are moving in,” Sunday said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
“It’ll hit later tonight,” Kathryn assured Sunday, her tone gentle but matter-of-fact. “If you’re ready, we can head over to the restaurant. Unless you’d rather stay here?”
Sunday swallowed hard, the knot of emotions tightening in her chest. She’d overheard Texas talking to his mom—not everything, but enough.
She knew better than to put words into someone’s mouth, better than to assume what someone truly meant.
Maybe after three weeks around her, things had shifted for Texas. Or maybe he wanted her gone.
“Perhaps, if the weather holds, I could take a walk later,” Sunday said, still staring out the window, voice steady but soft. “If I let a man’s bad mood keep me from working, I’d have starved to death a long time ago, Kathryn.”
Kathryn closed her eyes briefly at Sunday’s words, sensing the girl’s quiet strength and the fragile hope beneath it.
“If the weather holds, it’s an easy walk back here from the restaurant,” she said softly, worry threading through her voice.
She didn’t want Sunday to feel like she needed to run away—not from them, not from this place.
“Sunday, come sit down and talk to me,” Kathryn urged gently.
“Can I take a rain check on the talk?” Sunday replied, a faint smile softening her tone.
“Sure,” Kathryn said with a nod. “I’ve got a lot of work to do. If you’re ready, we can head out.”
There was always work waiting—sometimes hard, sometimes tedious—but it was steady, and in its own way, comforting.
Texas watched quietly as his mom and Sunday climbed into the truck and drove away, the dust from the tires swirling in the windy afternoon.
Turning away, he walked back toward the house, the weight of something unspoken pressing down on him.
He needed to be alone. He needed to face what was coming on his own.
Inside, he moved through the familiar rooms with slow purpose, the creak of the floorboards beneath his boots the only sound.
He made his way to the spare bedroom and stopped at the door.
At the foot of the full-size bed sat the cedar chest—worn but sturdy, holding memories he wasn’t ready to let go.
Texas leaned against the doorframe; eyes fixed on the chest. For a long moment, he just breathed, gathering whatever strength he could before opening it again.
The hope chest sat solemnly at the foot of the bed he’d once shared with his wife.
Texas leaned heavily against the doorframe, his gaze fixed on the rectangular, oversized box.
There was nothing remarkable about it—no ornate carvings or embellishments—just a smooth, flat top interrupted only by a small gold keyhole.
No drawers, no handles, just a dark pinkish-red cedarwood chest, quiet and unassuming.
He had cycled through every emotion imaginable since her death—anger, disbelief, confusion, sadness. He’d battled panic and anxiety. Sadness and depression had driven him into nights of drinking, spiraling into blackout rages that left him hollowed and broken.
But the numbness—that cold, empty void—was what terrified him most. It made everything easier, more manageable in a twisted way, allowing him to face what others might crumble under. The only emotion he hadn’t felt was denial. He knew. He was fully aware she was gone.
So why was he standing there, hesitating to open the harmless box? Fear. Fear of ripping open wounds he had so carefully sealed shut. He knew exactly what awaited inside that simple chest—pictures and clothes. Nothing dangerous. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Yet it was a lie. Everything in that unassuming cedar box had the power to pull him down into the darkness again.
With a sharp breath, Texas shoved away from the doorframe and made his way to the bed. He sat down heavily, elbows resting on his knees, and dropped his head into his hands. His knees bounced uncontrollably, his whole body trembling with the weight of it all.
If he wanted to move forward with Sunday, he needed to find a way to say goodbye to Lisa.
The problem was, he didn’t know if he could.
Didn’t know if he was ready to let go. He’d held on to her memory like a fragile thread, a string tethering his hand to her soul—one he wasn’t sure he could sever without breaking himself.