Chapter 23
Sunday and Texas stared at the white plastic stick in her trembling hand.
Two pink lines. Clear. Undeniable.
Her knees gave out, and she sank onto the edge of the bed. All she could do was stare. The world felt distant, muffled, like cotton had been stuffed into her ears.
When she finally looked up, Texas was still standing there—pale, silent, stunned. How the hell had this happened?
It was the dumbest question she could’ve asked herself. She knew exactly how. They hadn’t been careful. There’d been no discussion, no plan, no talk of children or even the future.
Sunday shut her eyes, trying to slow the spin of her thoughts. One thing at a time. Being pregnant didn’t mean marriage. She had to remember that. Texas had been married. He’d lost his wife. He might never want that again.
Texas snatched the test from her hand, staring at it like it might suddenly explain itself. “What the hell do two lines mean?” he muttered. “Wasn’t it one line for pregnant?”
He grabbed the crumpled instructions from the counter and scanned them, flipping the paper over, then back again, frustration building.
“Are you pregnant?” he asked, voice tight.
Sunday nodded, her whole-body trembling.
“Fuck me.”
Her eyes widened at his response, and Texas saw the fear flicker behind them.
He crossed the room and dropped to a crouch in front of her, cupping her face with a rough, gentle hand. His thumb brushed away the tear that slid down her cheek.
“Hey,” he said softly, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t cry.”
“You’re mad.”
“No,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’m not mad.”
He held out both hands to her, steady and sure. “Come on. Let’s go tell our family and friends we’re gonna be parents.”
Sunday hesitated for half a second, then slipped her hands into his. He pulled her up gently, wrapping her in his arms for a moment before easing back.
Part of her wanted to ask, Are you really okay with this? But the words stuck in her throat. She didn’t want to push, didn’t want to make it heavier than it already was.
Texas must have sensed her hesitation, because he tightened his arm around her shoulders and pressed a kiss to the side of her head.
Without another word, he guided her out of the room, walking with her toward the living room like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Texas sat beside Sunday, trying to steady the storm rolling through his chest. He wasn’t mad—not at her. But himself? Yeah. He was angry.
They should’ve talked about this. About everything. Mostly about his daughter. He stared down at his hands, flexing his fingers like he might shake the guilt out of them. The fear he’d buried years ago came roaring back now, sharp and cold.
The doctors had called it a rare birth defect. Nothing they could’ve predicted. Nothing they could’ve done. But what if it hadn’t been a fluke? What if it was genetic?
He and Lisa had never looked into it. After the funeral, she’d shut the door on having more kids, and Texas hadn’t pushed. It hurt too much. Now, with Sunday pregnant, he found himself wishing—no, needing—answers.
“Texas,” Sunday said quietly.
Her voice pulled him from the spiral. He looked up, locking eyes with her.
They’d been thrown together out of necessity—her safety first, nothing more. But somewhere between Sudbury and here, something had shifted. They’d found something real.
Sunday had been the one thing that made him feel whole again. She’d reached the part of him he’d buried so deep, he’d almost forgotten it existed and she’d brought it back to life.
He took a breath, then turned to the small group gathered in the room—his folks, Cree, and Kennedy—all of them watching, waiting.
With his usual cocky wink, he said, “We’re expecting.”
Kennedy was so excited she started slapping Cree’s arm over and over in rapid bursts until he finally grabbed her hand, laughing as he stopped the assault. Then she let out a squeal that could’ve shattered glass.
“I’m gonna be a godmother!” she grinned, practically bouncing. “I am, right, Sunday?”
“Yes,” Sunday laughed. “You can be the baby’s fairy godmother.”
Texas snorted, cutting in with a grin. “Hey, what if it’s a boy? No son of mine’s having a fairy godmother.”
“If it’s a boy,” Sunday countered with a teasing smile, “he can have a burly godfather that rides a bike.”
Texas raised a brow, pretending to think it over. “Now that I can live with.”
Knowing damn well he’d ask one of his brothers to be godfather, Texas countered her with a smirk. “How about a burly, grouchy godfather that doesn’t ride a bike?”
“You can pick whoever you want,” Sunday said softly, cupping his cheek with her hand. “It’s your baby too.”
That simple truth landed like a weight in his chest.
“Sunday…” he breathed. “We’re gonna have a baby.”
She nodded, then shrugged with a nervous little smile, like she wasn’t sure what came next.
But Texas wasn’t hearing anything else. The words echoed in his head—we’re gonna have a baby—over and over until the joy cracked wide open into panic. His chest tightened. His breath stuttered.
His daughter had died because of a defect in her tiny heart—a silent thief they hadn’t seen coming. What if this baby…
His stomach churned. Cold sweat beaded along the back of his neck. He was freaking out.
Overwhelmed by a surge of panic and self-disgust, Texas shot up from the couch and bolted to the kitchen. He barely made it to the sink before his stomach lurched.
He emptied everything he had; hands braced on the edge of the counter as his body shook. When it was over, he turned on the cold water, rinsing the mess away with trembling fingers, then splashed the icy stream onto his face, trying to steady himself.
Behind him, he felt Sunday approach before she touched him. Her hand moved gently over his back, worry etched into every stroke.
“I was afraid you’d react like this,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry, Texas. I hate that I’m the reason you’re—”
“Sunday,” he cut in, still leaning over the sink, his head bowed as the water ran over his wrist. “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”
“You’re upset.”
“No...” he paused, correcting himself. “Well… yeah. But not because you’re pregnant.”
She didn’t respond right away, and he felt her waiting.
He knew what had to come next. “We never talked about my daughter,” he said, voice low, almost hoarse. “Or my wife. Not really. Just that day in the diner.”
Sunday stood beside him now, quiet and steady. “Then what?” she asked, gently.
Before Texas could answer Sunday, his mother stepped into the kitchen.
“Ange,” she said gently, using his formal name, “your dad and I are heading home. We asked Cree and Kennedy to stay with us tonight.”
Texas met her eyes and immediately understood. She was giving them space. Space to talk, to breathe, to figure out what this all meant. “Thanks, Mom,” he said, his voice a little steadier. “We’ll come over for breakfast.”
Kathryn walked across the room, her steps quiet, but sure. She kissed Texas on the cheek, her touch soft, and gave him a look that said I know, and it’s okay.
Then she turned to Sunday, wrapping her in a warm hug. She kissed her on the temple before pulling back.
“Be patient with him,” she said softly. “And listen to what he tells you.”
Sunday nodded, watching Kathryn disappear through the kitchen doorway. A moment later, Cree and Kennedy called out from the front of the house. “We’re grabbing our stuff. See you in the morning!”
Sunday called back, “See you at breakfast!”
As their voices faded, she turned to Texas. The house had fallen quiet again, the kind of quiet that made it clear—they needed to talk. And not standing in the kitchen.
They needed the comfort of soft light and warm water, a space where words could come a little easier. She knew the perfect place.
Sunday sighed softly as Texas lowered himself into the tub, settling against the wall and pulling her close.
Her fingers traced slow circles over his calf, and she let her gaze linger on him. How beautiful he was—strong, rough-edged, and somehow utterly gentle when it mattered most.
She loved him. More than she’d ever thought possible.
They stayed wrapped around each other, the quiet between them filled only by the occasional drip of the faucet. But beneath the calm, her heart hammered with anxiety.
When is he going to say something? “Texas?” she whispered.
“Hmmm,” he murmured in response.
“Were we… going to talk?”
The silence stretched, each second heavier than the last.
One… two…
Fear twisted tighter in her chest as she waited for him to break the stillness.
The silence grew heavier as the water cooled around them.
Sunday eased out of the tub, shivering slightly, and Texas stepped out right behind her. Without a word, he grabbed a towel and gently wrapped it around her shoulders.
She shivered again, and he pulled the towel tighter, then reached for another to dry himself off.
Texas felt the weight of the growing silence pressing between them. He knew he was dodging the inevitable—the conversation he’d been dreading.
How could he find the right words to tell her about his daughter? Words stuck somewhere deep inside, refusing to come out.
Once dry, he wrapped the towel securely around his waist and glanced at her. “You dried off?” he asked quietly.
“Um, yeah. I’m looking for my sleep shirt.”
Texas smirked, stepping closer. “You mean my shirt.”
She grinned softly. “You gave it to me.”
“Did I?” Texas teased, stalking toward her with a playful grin.
Sunday stepped backward, laughing nervously, trying to slip past him and out of the bathroom.
But he moved faster.
Before she knew it, he caught her around the waist, pulling her close. Her laughter bubbled up, warm and light against his chest.
He kissed her shoulder softly and then stepped back. “Go get ready for bed,” he murmured, his voice low and tender. As much as he wanted her beside him, skin against skin, he knew—they needed to talk first.
Later, tangled beneath the covers, Texas found the strength to open up about his life before Lisa died. He spoke quietly, every word weighted with pain and loss.
Sunday’s body stiffened at times, an involuntary, physical reaction to his story. When he told her about their baby, her eyes snapped open, wide and searching.
He sensed her fear, the same terror he carried. What if their child inherited that same cruel birth defect?
And then he saw it, the glimmer of tears pooling in her eyes.
She reached for him, voice thick with empathy. “I’m so sorry you and Lisa had to endure that.”
Her words took his breath away. How deeply he loved her. How fully she accepted him—without judgment, without hesitation. He pulled her down to him, wrapping her in his arms.
They lay there together, the world outside fading away until sleep claimed them both.