Page 25 of Promised to the Cowboy

His smile is small, almost shy. “Okay.”

For some reason, that single word makes me feel steadier than I have in weeks.

Chapter 9

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.