9. Evie
Evie
Gabriel drives like he said he would. I give him country music for the first ten minutes and quiet for the rest because my stomach is doing flips, and it isn’t the baby; it’s nerves.
Gabriel seems to sense it, but he doesn’t fill the silence.
He just drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting open on his thigh like an offer I can take or not.
I take it. I put my hand in his, and he closes around it and doesn’t make a thing of it.
The clinic’s small and smells like every clinic—antiseptic and lemon cleaner. A fish tank sits in the corner of the waiting room with one bored goldfish and a sign about washing your hands.
I write my name on the clipboard the receptionist hands me and fill in the standard information.
Gabriel’s too big for the waiting-room chair. His knees are almost up around his ears.
“You okay?” he asks, seeing my hand shaking on the pen.
“I’ve been putting this off, and now that I’m here, a goldfish is judging me.”
“He does the same to everybody. It’s his job.”
A laugh slips out, and the woman at the desk smiles without looking up.
They call my name.
Gabriel stands when I stand. Hesitates. “You want me to—”
“Yes,” I say, surprised by how fast it comes out. “If you want.”
“I want.”
So he comes. Folds himself into the corner of the exam room while a tech in scrubs takes my blood pressure and asks me questions I answer on autopilot—last period, any cramping, any spotting.
I sense Gabriel go rigid in the corner at the medical bluntness, a man who could no doubt geld a colt without blinking, going pale at the word spotting.
The tech explains the procedure and asks if either of us has any questions before we begin.
Gabriel and I look at each other and shake our heads.
Then the gel, cold on my belly, and the wand. The screen turns toward me. At first, I don’t know what I’m looking at. Gray shadows. Smudges of black.
The tech moves the wand a fraction. “There,” she says softly.
And suddenly I see it.
A tiny, curved body suspended in darkness.
Our baby.
I don’t even see Gabriel move.
One moment, he’s across the room. The next, he’s beside me.
The tech points and says things—crown to rump, measuring on track, right about twenty-one weeks—and I’m not hearing any of it because there’s a fast flutter on the screen, a tiny rapid pulse.
She taps a button, and the room fills with sound.
A heartbeat. Quick as a rabbit.
I don’t make a sound. I can’t. My chest is tight. My eyes are burning and threatening to spill tears.
And then there’s a sound from beside me.
I turn my head. Gabriel’s hands are fisted at his sides, his jaw working. He stares at the screen as though he’s afraid that if he blinks, it’ll disappear.
“That’s—”
His voice gives out.
He tries again.
“That’s our baby?”
That absolutely destroys me.
Because until that second, it’s been a pregnancy.
Now it’s our child.
“What’s that sound?” he asks hoarsely, as if he’s afraid of the answer either way.
“That’s the heartbeat,” the tech explains patiently, no doubt used to reassuring expectant fathers. “Strong one, too.”
He swallows and reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together. His thumb shakes as he smooths it over my knuckles. Not much. Just enough that I know this enormous, capable cowboy who never seems rattled is holding himself together with sheer determination.
“The heart. It’s already going,” he says, mostly to himself. “It’s already—it’s tiny, and it’s already going.”
Then something crosses his face, and the wonder folds down into something like unease. “Can you—” He stops and tries again. “Can you tell, this early, if the heart’s built right? If there’s anything wrong with it?”
“So far, it all looks where it should be,” the technician says reassuringly.
Gabriel’s eyes sheen. “Good.”
This man, who couldn’t serve his country because his own heart runs wrong, stares at a brand-new one beating right.
The tech glances at him, reading something. “Is there a reason to be watching for it?”
A muscle flicks in his jaw. I watch him choose to tell a stranger the thing he’s spent a lifetime wishing wasn’t true, which I know costs him more than it would cost most men.
“I was born with a hole in mine,” he says. “A defect. They patched it when I was small.” His thumb moves once over my knuckles, and I don’t think he knows he’s doing it. “Is that the kind of thing that… carries? Down the line?”
I squeeze his hand as we both look at the screen, this gray smudge with its rabbit heart.
“Some can,” the tech says gently, not pretending it’s nothing. “Some don’t. It’s worth telling the doctor your history so she can keep an eye on the right things. But what I’m seeing today, the rhythm, the size, it’s all right where it should be for twenty-one weeks.”
He nods. I can see him wanting to believe her and not letting himself all the way, holding the fear at arm’s length where it can’t do any damage but won’t leave either.
He’s spent his whole life being the thing that came out built wrong.
I watch him look at that little flickering pulse and try to make room for the chance that this one came out right.
The tech smiles as she taps a few more measurements onto the screen. “I’ve got one more question.” She looks between us. “Would you like to know whether you’re having a boy or a girl?”
I look at Gabriel. He’s already looking at me. For a second, neither of us answers.
It’s ridiculous that one word could make everything feel even more real than hearing a heartbeat already did.
“What do you think?” he asks quietly.
I smile. “I think...” I look back at the screen. “I think I’d like to know.”
His eyes search mine for a moment before he nods. “So would I.”
“Okay, let’s see if baby is feeling cooperative,” the tech says, moving the probe slightly. “There we are...”
A pause.
Then she smiles.
“Congratulations.” She points to the screen. “You’re having a little girl.”
For a second, I forget how to breathe.
A girl.
I look at Gabriel. His eyes haven’t left the screen.
“Our girl,” he says softly.
The words seem to surprise him as much as they do me.
Our girl.
I didn’t realize how badly I needed to hear him claim her until he did.
She isn’t an idea anymore.
She isn’t a pregnancy.
She’s a daughter.
The tech prints another image. “She’s not camera shy,” she says with a grin. “She’s giving us some lovely pictures today.”
Gabriel chuckles. “She’s got her mama’s confidence.”
He says it so simply that it takes me a second to realize he means it.
The tech wipes the gel from my stomach before setting the wand aside. “Everything looks reassuring today. I’ll have the doctor come in and go over the scan with you, but from what I’m seeing, your baby girl is measuring right on schedule.”
She looks at me. “We’ll get you booked in for your next appointment before you leave, and I do want you to take a prenatal vitamin every day if you aren’t already. The doctor will go over everything else with you.”
I nod. “Okay. Thank you.”
She glances between us. “Any other questions before I grab the doctor?”
Gabriel clears his throat. “Anything she should be doing differently?”
“Other than not missing any more appointments?” she says kindly. “Eat well, keep taking your vitamins, stay hydrated, and keep showing up.”
Gabriel nods. “Thank you.”
The tech smiles. “Your daughter’s looking wonderful. And so is Mom.”
The doctor spends another fifteen minutes with us, answering questions neither of us knew we had.
She sends us away with a schedule of appointments, a recommendation for prenatal vitamins, and a referral for one more scan in a week.
“Everything looks exactly as I’d expect at twenty-one weeks,” she says as she walks us to the door. “The extra heart scan is simply because of your history, Gabriel. I don’t want you leaving here thinking I’ve seen something worrying. We’re being thorough.”
Gabriel nods. “I appreciate that.”
By the time we leave the pharmacy with a bottle of prenatal vitamins tucked into my bag, my head is spinning with appointment dates and leaflets about childbirth classes.
Gabriel helps me into the truck before climbing behind the wheel, but he doesn’t start the engine straight away—he tucks one of the ultrasound pictures into the visor above us, the one where you can make out the curve of her profile.
“We’re having a daughter,” I whisper.
He smiles without taking his eyes off the picture. “We are.”
The words settle quietly between us.
“I’ve been calling her ‘the baby’ for months. But she isn’t anymore.”
“No.” He looks over at me. “She’s our daughter.”
I swallow around the lump in my throat. “Our daughter.”
His thumb traces absent circles over the steering wheel. “When the tech asked whether we wanted to know...” He pauses. “I realized I was hoping.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. I think...” He shakes his head. “Maybe I thought it’d be easier if it was a girl. Then I hated myself for thinking that.”
“Why?”
“Because if it was a boy...” He smiles sadly. “He still would’ve been mine to love.”
The tears come before I can stop them. “Oh, Gabriel.”
He looks back at the photograph. “I’d spend the rest of my life making sure he never wondered whether his father loved him. I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure our little girl never wonders that either.”
I reach across the console and take his hand. “We both will, Gabriel. One thing I know for sure is that our child will never lack love.”
“Hearing her heartbeat was…” He shakes his head, searching for the word.
“Incredible,” I murmur.
He nods. “I thought it’d sound... I don’t know.”
“Different?”
“Yeah.”
He finally looks at me. “I wanted to keep listening. Make sure it didn’t stop.”
My throat tightens. “It didn’t. It won’t.”
“I know.” He looks back at the little printout. “I’ve spent my whole life with doctors listening to mine. I’ve never imagined how incredible it would be to listen to my child’s.”
I swallow hard. “Me neither.”
He starts the truck then, and we drive back to the ranch, our fingers laced on his thigh, the little printout the tech gave us tucked in the visor where we can both see it.
Neither of us says much.
We don’t have to.
Every now and then, I catch him glancing up at the grainy, black-and-white picture as though he’s checking it’s still there.
I do the same.
The ranch looks the same when we get back.
It’s strange how ordinary the world can look after hearing your child’s heartbeat.
Horses in the south pasture. Chickens wandering far too close to Maggie’s vegetable patch.
Captain Winky hanging his head over the fence, hoping someone might have forgotten to feed him.
Gabriel kills the engine, but neither of us reaches for the door.
“My heart’s going faster than the baby’s was,” I admit.
He looks across at me, one eyebrow lifting. “I don’t know. Our baby set a pretty high bar.”
Our baby.
The words finally land.
Not the baby. Not your baby. Not even my baby.
Our baby.
The air leaves my lungs.
Four months ago, we were two strangers passing through the same town.
One night. One motel room. One unforgettable night that has somehow become a heartbeat.
Wonder hits me so fast it almost hurts—closely followed by a million questions.
How is this going to work?
Where am I going to sleep?
What happens when Jacob comes home?
What if Gabriel wakes up tomorrow and realizes this is all too much?
What if—
“Evie.”
Gabriel’s voice is quiet.
I hadn’t realized I’d stopped breathing.
Without a word, he opens his arms.
I don’t hesitate.
I fold into him, and he wraps me up against his chest as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. One hand settles between my shoulder blades, warm and steady, while the other cups the back of my head.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
I close my eyes. His heartbeat is slow and steady beneath my ear.
“So many things have to happen now,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“We need to figure out... everything.”
“We will.”
“We need to tell your family.”
“We do.”
I lean back enough to look at him. “Actually...”
He frowns. “What?”
“I don’t think Maggie’s going to be too surprised.”
His eyebrows lift. “Why?”
“Because she already knows.”
“You told her?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t have to.”
He lets out a quiet huff of laughter. “Makes sense. I’m pretty sure she was an oracle in her former life.”
I laugh. “She took one look at me this morning, handed me decaf coffee, and told me to sit because I was eating for two.”
He winces sympathetically. “You never stood a chance. She probably knew before we did.”
I chuckle. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”
The laughter fades, leaving something warm in its place.
“They’ll have questions,” I say. “The rest of your family.”
His mouth quirks. “Of course they will. They’re Suttons.”
“They’ll probably have opinions too.”
He nods. “They definitely will. Not today, though.”
I look into his mismatched eyes. “No?”
He shakes his head. “Today...” His thumb strokes gently through the loose strands escaping my braid. “Today we heard our baby for the first time. Saw her. The logistics can wait until tomorrow.”
He rests his forehead against mine. “Today belongs to us.”
I nod. “Okay.”
Just us.
For one more afternoon.
Before the questions.
Before the explanations.
Before the rest of the world catches up.