His shoulders dropped.
Only then did he smile.
It was not the triumphant smile his father would have worn.
Not the expression of a man who had won bloodline, property, or legacy.
It looked almost frightened.
“Then I'm happy.”
He set the socks carefully on the table.
She laughed through tears.
“You don't have to handle them like explosives.”
“I've never held anything that small.”
“They're socks.”
“For a person whose feet currently don't exist outside you.”
She stared.
He frowned.
“That sounded better before I said it.”
She laughed harder.
The cowboy stepped toward her and stopped.
That habit had become part of him now.
He no longer assumed touch merely because they were married.
He lifted his hands slightly.
“May I?”
The frontier woman opened her arms.
He entered them.
His chest pressed against her softness. She felt his breath against her neck. His arms barely reached comfortably around her, and he laughed once against her shoulder as though discovering again that hugging his wife required commitment.
She held him.
For a long time neither spoke.
Then she whispered:
“This child does not fix anything.”
“I know.”
“It doesn't prove our marriage.”
“I know.”
“It doesn't save the ranch.”
“I know.”
“It doesn't validate your name.”
“I know.”
“And if anyone says heir in front of me—”
“I'll throw them into the creek.”
She pulled back.
“No.”
He smiled.
“Metaphorically.”
“You're a terrible liar.”
“Yes.”
She took his hand.
Placed it gently against her abdomen.
There was nothing to feel yet.
No movement.
No kick.
Just warmth.
Still, the cowboy's entire face changed.
The frontier woman watched him.
“You're terrified.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He looked offended.
“Good?”
“It means you're thinking.”
“I was hoping for reassurance.”
“You married the wrong woman.”
“I know.”
She smiled.
Then his expression became serious again.
“What did the doctor say?”
“That I appear healthy.”
“Appear?”
She noticed his panic.
“Sit.”
He immediately sat.
That made her laugh.
“You obey that quickly now?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
“Continue.”
She sat opposite him.
The wooden chair creaked under her.
“The doctor said pregnancy will be harder on my body because of my size.”
The cowboy's face tightened.
“But?”
“No but.”
She reached across the table.
“This is the part you need to learn.”
“What?”
“Don't turn every risk into a prophecy.”
He stared.
She continued:
“He wants me checked regularly.”
“Yes.”
“He wants me to rest more.”
“Done.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“I said rest more, not become furniture.”
The cowboy closed his mouth.
“He wants us prepared for complications.”