Page 179 of Deacon

I shake my head then nod. “I don’t know. I thought they were Braxton Hicks.”

“Ginny’s calling into the hospital now,” he says. “They’ll let us know if you should go in yet or wait.”

I nod, swallowing. He takes my hands, looking into my eyes.

“Hey, I’m right here, sweetheart,” he says. “I won’t leave you for a minute.”

I look into his eyes, and I’m not scared anymore. He’s here. He always is, no matter what I need. I swallow and offer him a weak smile.

“I’m ready,” I whisper.

Ginny walks in, holding the phone to her ear. “They’re saying because of the distance, you should start gathering things up and head in now. It’s not a hurry, but we need to head in that direction.”

Shakily, I turn to Deacon. His fingers grip mine hard.

“You ready, sweetheart?”

I look into his eyes, dark and soft. I squeeze his hand back.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I whisper.

It’s ten hours later when I’m on my back with the ceiling spinning, floating in and out of euphoria that it’s over. I can hear my baby mewling angrily in the nurse’s arms. Deacon’s saying something, and I can tell he’s somewhere beyond happy.

The nurse gets me cleaned up and helps me sit up against the pillows. Another nurse holds our baby, wrapped in a blue blanket. My heart is going so fast, I might pass out. Deacon says something to the nurse in a low voice. Smiling, she puts our little bundle in his arms. Our baby is so small, Deacon can hold it in just his hands. But then, he’s always had huge hands.

“Deacon,” I say.

He looks up. I’ve never seen him like this before. His dark eyes are wide, his lashes wet.

“You seeing this, sweetheart?” he says, looking down. “That’s our baby.”

“I could see better if you bring her over,” I say.

He walks over, like he’s afraid he’ll break something, and sinks onto the edge of the bed.

“It’s a boy,” he says.

My brows shoot up. All through the pregnancy, I was so convinced I was carrying a girl. It takes me a second to calibrate myself.

“You alright?” Deacon asks.

I nod, sniffing. “He’s perfect.”

Smiling through my tears, I realize I never cared. I just want my family to be happy and whole. I’m worn out but not too tired to let him put our baby in my arms. He’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen, red and scrunched up with dark hair. Right away, I can tell he’s going to favor his father. When he cracks a blurry eye, I see a hint of the same bullheadedness I know so well.

I just hope he’s less of a daredevil.

“What do you want to name him?” Deacon asks, leaning in.

I reach out my free hand and slip it into his. All through the labor, which the doctor said was easy and short, Deacon held my hand. He brushed my hair back and fed me chips of ice with a spoon. When the pain made me want to give up, he kissed my sweaty forehead and let me cuss him out for doing this to me.

Now, all that’s faded, and we’re in the thick of the new baby haze. We stare down at him, holding onto each other hard.

“I just had girl names on my list,” I say.

“I didn’t have any names,” Deacon admits. “You seemed pretty set on the ones you had.”

I glance at Deacon. He’s in his work pants, steel-toed boots, and charcoal gray shirt. Behind him, through the hospital window, runs the highway, and beyond it are the mountains. I never noticed until now, but in this light, they’re the same color as the shirt he always wears, a shade brighter than his eyes.

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