Page 33 of Promised to the Cowboy

The room stills all over again.

Evie’s fingers tighten around mine. “And we found out yesterday”—a smile breaks across her face before she can stop it—“we’re having a little girl.”

Nobody moves.

Then Jenna lets out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Oh, my god, that’s wonderful news! Congratulations!” she says, moving forward to hug Evie and then me.

Delaney’s notebook is open before anyone else has even found their voice. “I’ll need dates,” she says automatically. “Due date, next appointments, who’s driving, whether you’ve picked names?—”

“Delaney,” Daniel says, amusement tugging at his mouth.

“What?”

“Let them breathe.”

“I can organize breathing.”

“I know you can, baby. But maybe you should congratulate the happy parents first?”

Delaney frowns. “Oh, yes, of course.” She stands and hugs us both, beaming. “Congratulations, guys. The first baby Sutton on this side of the family.”

Ethan walks over to us. My middle brother runs the security grid for Stoneridge and Havenridge Ranches and an ordnance résumé I don’t ask about. He’s wearing his glasses, which he only does around people he trusts. He takes them off and rubs the bridge of his nose. When he puts them back on, his eyes are wet, and he’s pretending they’re not.

He looks at Evie, then at me. “A little girl.”

“Yeah.”

“Lord help her.”

I frown. “Why?”

“Three Sutton men wrapped around one tiny finger?” He shakes his head. “She’ll own this ranch before she’s in kindergarten.”

“Four Sutton men,” Daniel corrects quietly.

I follow Ethan’s gaze across the kitchen. Jacob hasn’t moved. His eyes are fixed on us. Or rather, on the grainy ultrasound photograph sticking out of my shirt pocket.

Without thinking, I pull it free. “It doesn’t compare to seeing the real thing,” I say, suddenly feeling strangely protective of the tiny piece of paper. “But...”

I hold it out.

Jacob hesitates before taking it. His rough fingers are absurdly careful against the glossy print. He studies it for a long time. Long enough that nobody interrupts him.

When he finally speaks, his voice is rough. “She’s beautiful.”

He isn’t really looking at the picture anymore.

He’s looking at me.

Something passes between us—small, fragile, impossible to name.

His eyes don’t leave mine. “Is everything okay? With the baby?”

I know what he’s really asking.

Does she have the same heart you do?

“The scan looked good,” I say. “Strong heartbeat. Everything’s measuring right where it should.”