The Daughter of the Mountain
The gel was warm this time.
I lay back on the crinkling paper of the exam table, my breath hitching as the technician—the same kind-eyed woman from the ER—prepped the wand.
I was twenty weeks and four days. My bump was no longer a "secret" I could hide under a denim jacket; it was a firm, proud curve that had completely changed the center of gravity in my world.
Moving into Nick's house three weeks ago had been the best decision I'd ever made. Every morning I woke up to the smell of cedar and coffee, and every night I went to sleep with the heavy, protective weight of his arm draped over my waist.
But today... today was the day the "what ifs" became a "who."
Nick was sitting in the plastic chair beside me, his large frame making the furniture look like a dollhouse set.
He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on the blank monitor with an intensity that made my heart ache.
He hadn't said a word since we'd pulled into the parking lot.
He just kept squeezing my hand, his palm rough and steady.
"Okay, let's see what we've got in here," the technician murmured, pressing the transducer to my stomach.
The screen flickered to life. The graininess of the early weeks was gone, replaced by the sharp, clear anatomy of a person.
I saw the spine—a perfect string of white pearls.
I saw the tiny, translucent ribs. And then, the flicker of the four-chambered heart, beating with a rhythmic, defiant strength.
"Heartbeat is 158," she said, smiling. "Perfect. Everything looks healthy. Development is right on track."
I felt a sob of pure relief catch in my throat. I looked at Nick, and for the first time, I saw a tear escape his gray eyes. He didn't wipe it away. He just stared at the screen, his mouth slightly open.
"Is that... is that a hand?" Nick rasped, his voice thick with wonder.
"That's a hand," the technician confirmed, pointing to a tiny, five-fingered shadow that seemed to be waving at us. "And there's a foot. Measuring exactly where they should be."
She moved the wand lower, her eyes narrowing as she looked for the one thing we'd been waiting for. I held my breath, my fingers digging into Nick's knuckles.
"Well," the technician said, a wide grin breaking across her face. "I hope you like pink, because there's no mistaking that. You're having a girl."
The world went silent.
A girl.
I looked at the screen, my vision blurring with hot, happy tears. A daughter. A tiny, fierce version of the life I'd fought so hard to protect. I looked at Nick, expecting the "Mountain Man" to be overwhelmed, but he looked... transformed.
He didn't move for a long beat. Then, he stood up, his gaze never leaving the monitor. He reached out with a trembling hand, his finger grazing the glass right where the image of our daughter's head was resting.
"A girl," he whispered, the word sounding like a prayer. "We're having a daughter, Aubrey."
We. The word hit me harder than the news itself.
"She looks just like you," Nick murmured, his voice breaking. "Look at that profile. She's got your nose."
"She's got your stubbornness," I laughed through my tears, my hand resting over the spot where she was currently doing a tiny victory lap in my womb.
The technician gave us a moment, printing out a long strip of black-and-white photos—the first portraits of the girl who was going to change everything. As she left the room to get the doctor for the final sign-off, Nick dropped to his knees beside the bed.
He didn't go for my hand this time. He went for my stomach. He pressed his forehead against the bare skin of my bump, his shoulders shaking with a silent, deep-seated emotion.
"I've got you," he whispered, and I realized he wasn't talking to me. He was talking to her. "I've got you, little girl. Nobody is ever going to touch you. Nobody is ever going to make you feel like you aren't enough. You're a daughter of the mountain now."
I ran my fingers through his dark hair, my heart feeling like it was going to burst. Brandon might have the blood, but he was a ghost. He was a man who ran when things got hard, a man who lied when the truth was inconvenient.
He didn't deserve this moment. He didn't deserve to know the color of her eyes or the sound of her first cry.
This was Nick's victory. This was the man who had stayed.
"What are we going to name her?" I asked, my voice soft in the quiet room.
Nick looked up at me, his gray eyes shining with a fierce, absolute love. "Whatever you want, baby. As long as her last name is Harrison."
I froze. "Nick... the lawyers... the paternity suit—"
"I don't care," he said, standing up and pulling me into his arms, lifting me off the table until my feet dangled.
He buried his face in my neck, holding me like I was the most precious thing he'd ever found.
"She's mine. From the second that heart started beating, she was mine.
Brandon can file his papers. He can send his lawyers.
But I'm the one who's going to be there when she's born.
I'm the one who's going to walk her down the aisle. I'm her father."
I clung to him, the "backbone" the readers had been looking for finally solidifying into something unbreakable. We weren't just a couple anymore. We were a family.
As we walked out of the clinic, the black-and-white photos tucked safely in my purse, I saw a familiar black SUV parked across the street.
Brandon was there. He hadn't left town. He was sitting in the driver's seat, his eyes fixed on the clinic doors.
But I didn't flinch. I didn't hide.
I looked him straight in the eye, tucked my arm firmly into Nick's, and walked toward the truck with my head held high.
I had a daughter to protect. And I had the man of my dreams by my side.