Curvy Girl and the Broken Cowboy (Blackwater Falls: Cowboys #6)

Chapter 1 - Rhett

The numbers on my laptop screen blur together for the third time in ten minutes. I blink hard, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my palms, but it doesn't help. My concentration is shot to hell, and I know exactly why.

She'll be here in less than two hours.

My mail order bride.

Jesus Christ, I can't believe I actually did it.

What kind of desperate asshole hires a woman through some sketchy website?

The kind who's watched all five of his brothers find love while he sits alone in his cottage every night, apparently.

The kind who's so fucked up from the war that he can't imagine meeting someone the normal way.

The kind who's too damaged to deserve love but still stupid enough to want it.

I close the spreadsheet without saving. Not that I've actually accomplished anything in the past hour anyway.

My fingers drum against the desk, a nervous habit I picked up after the explosion.

The buzzing in my left ear kicks in right on cue, like my body knows I'm spiraling and wants to make it worse.

The doctors said the tinnitus might be permanent. Most days I can ignore it, tune it out like background noise. But when I'm stressed, it gets louder. Right now it sounds like a swarm of angry bees has taken up residence in my skull.

I push back from the desk and stand, pacing the small office space.

Through the window, I can see the main house where Tucker, Wade, and their families are probably having breakfast. Normal people doing normal things.

Not plotting elaborate lies to hide the fact that they're meeting a stranger they bought on the internet.

God, that sounds even worse when I put it that way.

My phone buzzes with a text, and my heart nearly stops. But it's just Colt in the group chat, sending some meme about ranch work. I scroll past it, checking my direct messages instead. Nothing from Claire.

Claire Dawson. Twenty-five years old. Brunette. Blue eyes. Chubby. Her word, not mine, though I'll admit I spent more time than I should have staring at her photos. Most men seem to want stick-thin women, but that's never been my thing. I like curves. Something to hold onto, to grab, to—

I cut that thought off before it can go anywhere. First, I need to make sure she doesn't take one look at me and run screaming back to wherever she came from. The burn scar on my shoulder throbs like it does when I'm anxious, phantom pain that the doctors also said I'd have to live with.

I resist the urge to rub it through my shirt. The scar tissue is thick and twisted, stretching from my left shoulder halfway down my bicep. It's ugly as sin, and that's not even counting the shrapnel scars scattered across my chest and legs.

I'm a real catch.

My laptop pings with an email notification, and I lunge for it as if it's a lifeline.

It's just a supplier confirmation for feed delivery next week.

I need to get my shit together before she arrives, but every time I try to focus on something normal, my brain spirals back to the same question: What the fuck was I thinking?

The answer, of course, is that I wasn't thinking.

I was feeling, which is always a mistake for me.

I'd spent another Friday night alone while everyone else was paired off and happy.

Wade and Sierra curled up on the couch watching some movie.

Tucker and Marley doing that gross domestic bliss thing in the kitchen.

Boone and Nicole practically glowing at each other.

Even Colt, Colt, the man who'd sworn he'd never settle down, was whispering something in Harper's ear that made her laugh.

And there I was, the last man standing. The only one still eating dinner alone.

Frank used to tell me I was a good man who'd been handed a bad hand. But Frank's been dead for two years now, and without his voice in my head telling me I'm worth something, it's hard to believe it.

I check my phone again. An hour and forty-five minutes until Claire's bus arrives at the station. I should probably shower, change into something that doesn't smell like coffee and desperation. Make sure the guest cottage is ready for her, that it has everything she might need.

My brothers think I'm picking up a friend from my military days who needs a place to stay for a while. That's the lie I crafted, the story I'll stick to. *Claire and I served together, kept in touch, and she's going through a rough patch. Just helping out an old friend.*

It's not even a good lie. Anyone who knows me knows I don't keep in touch with people from my military days. But it's the best I could come up with, and I'm committed to it now.

The buzzing in my ear fades slightly, replaced by the sound of someone knocking on my office door. Before I can answer, it swings open and Boone sticks his head in.

"You alive in here?" he asks, his quiet voice somehow carrying concern. "Haven't seen you at breakfast all week."

"Been busy," I say, gesturing vaguely at the laptop. "Quarterly reports."

Boone steps inside, closing the door behind him. He's always been the most intuitive of us, the one who sees things others miss. It's what makes him so good with horses and so goddamn annoying when I'm trying to keep secrets.

"You seem stressed," he observes, leaning against the wall. "More than usual."

"Ranch finances are always stressful," I deflect, which isn't entirely a lie. Even with Sierra's investment, I worry constantly about keeping us in the black.

"Rhett." Boone's voice is gentle but firm. "What's going on?"

For half a second, I consider telling him the truth. Boone wouldn't judge. He'd probably just offer support and keep it to himself. But once one person knows, the secret becomes real in a way I'm not ready for.

"Nothing," I say. "Just... picking up a friend from the bus station later. Someone I knew in the military. She's going through a rough time and needs a place to stay."

Boone's eyebrows rise slightly. "*She?*"

"Yeah. Claire. We served together, stayed in touch. She's had some bad luck lately, and I told her she could crash here for a bit."

It's amazing how easily the lies come once I start talking. I tell myself it's not really lying, that Claire and I did make contact, and she does need help. I'm just leaving out the part where I'm hoping she'll marry me.

"That's good of you," Boone says, and I can't tell if he believes me or not. "She can stay in Wade and Sierra's old cottage?"

"That's the plan."

"Want company at the station? I could drive you."

"No," I say too quickly, then soften it. "Thanks, but I've got it. Might be easier with just me, you know? Less overwhelming for her."

"Alright. Let me know if you need anything. Nicole and I can help her settle in if she wants."

"Appreciate it."

He leaves, and I release a breath I didn't know I was holding. One conversation down, dozens more to go. By tonight, all my brothers will know about Claire, will have met her, and will have questions I'll have to dodge.

The buzzing returns with a vengeance, and I grab my jacket off the back of my chair.

Can't sit in here spiraling for another hour.

Need to move, do something productive. I head to the guest cottage, checking it one more time.

Clean sheets on the bed, fresh towels in the bathroom, a basket of snacks on the kitchen counter that Sierra helped me put together when I told her about my "friend" coming to visit.

The place is small but comfortable, with a view of the hills and enough privacy that Claire won't feel like she's living in a fishbowl.

Assuming she stays.

Assuming she doesn't take one look at me and realize this was all a terrible mistake.

I straighten a throw pillow that doesn't need straightening, adjust the curtains, check the bathroom again. Everything's perfect. Everything's ready.

Except me.

I pull out my phone and open my messages with Claire. Our last exchange was yesterday:

*Her: Bus gets in at 2 PM. Still okay to pick me up?*

*Me: I'll be there.*

Short, simple, practical. Neither of us has acknowledged what we're really doing here. Two strangers agreeing to get married because we're both desperate for something we can't name.

Claire's profile was different from the others on that website.

Most of the women had professional photos, practiced smiles, curated descriptions of themselves.

Claire had three slightly blurry pictures and a bio that was honest to the point of being brutal: *25, no family, no money, no prospects.

Father died two years ago. Lost everything.

Need a fresh start. Not looking for a fairy tale, just someone decent. *

And then there was her face. Pretty blue eyes, long brown hair, soft features. And a scar above her eyebrow, smaller than any of mine, but visible in every photo. She hadn't tried to hide it or angle her face away from the camera. It was just there, part of her.

Something about that scar made me think she might understand. Might not run when she saw what I looked like under my clothes.

I sent her a message that same night, before I could chicken out. Told her I was a ranch owner in Montana, thirty-nine, former military. Sent her the least terrifying photos I had—fully clothed, scars mostly hidden, taken in good lighting.

Just the basics: decent guy with a stable life looking for someone to share it with.

She responded the next morning. We messaged for two weeks, nothing deep or personal, just surface-level getting-to-know-you stuff. She told me about her father, about losing him and then losing their house. I told her about the ranch, about the life I could offer her here.

When I asked her to marry me, I did it through a message because I'm apparently a complete coward. Expected her to say no, or at least to want to meet first. But she said yes within an hour.

*I know this is crazy*, she wrote, *but staying where I am isn't working. At least with you I have a chance at something different. Something better. Let's try.*

The clock on the wall reads 12:15. Time to shower and make myself presentable. Time to become the man I told Claire I was—stable, decent, someone worth taking a chance on.

I just hope when she sees the truth—the scars, the damage, the broken parts I can't hide forever—she doesn't run.

Because I don't know what I'll do if she does.

A few hours later…

By the time I pull into the bus station parking lot, my hands are sweating so badly I can barely grip the steering wheel. The buzzing in my ear has been constant for the past thirty minutes, a high-pitched whine that makes it hard to think straight.

The station is just a small building with a covered platform, the kind of place that looks forgotten by time. A few people mill around: an elderly couple, a teenage kid with headphones, a woman with two small children. None of them are Claire.

I check my phone. 2:03 PM. The bus should be here any minute.

I lean against my truck, arms crossed, trying to look casual instead of like a man whose entire future is about to step off a Greyhound. The afternoon sun is warm on my face, and I close my eyes for just a second, trying to calm my racing heart.

What if she's not what I expected? What if I'm not what she expected? What if we take one look at each other and realize we've made a colossal mistake?

The sound of a bus engine makes my eyes snap open. A dusty Greyhound pulls into the station, air brakes hissing as it comes to a stop. My pulse kicks into overdrive.

The door opens with a hydraulic wheeze. The elderly couple gets off first, moving slowly. Then the teenager. Then a businessman in a wrinkled suit.

And then her.

Claire steps off the bus, and time does this weird thing where it slows down and speeds up at the same time.

She's exactly like her photos. Long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, curves that fill out her jeans and a simple blue t-shirt.

But she's also different. Real. Three-dimensional. Actually standing here in front of me.

She's holding a single duffel bag, looking around the platform with wide blue eyes. When her gaze lands on me, she freezes. I straighten up from the truck, my heart pounding so hard I'm surprised she can't hear it from here. This is it. The moment of truth.

She doesn't run. Instead, she takes a deep breath and walks toward me, her steps hesitant but determined.

As she gets closer, I can see the scar above her eyebrow, a thin white line that catches the sunlight. Can see the uncertainty in her eyes, the way her fingers grip the strap of her bag like it's a lifeline. I can see that she's prettier than her photos showed.

She stops about three feet away from me, and for a long moment, we just stare at each other. Two strangers who've agreed to build a life together on nothing but desperation and hope.

"Rhett?" she asks, and her voice is trembling a lot more than I expected. She's clearly nervous.

"Claire," I confirm, and I'm surprised my voice comes out steady. "Good trip?"

It's a stupid question, but she smiles anyway. "Long," she says. "But I made it."

"Yeah," I say. "You did."

Then Claire takes a step closer, looking up at me. "So," she starts. "What happens now?"

And I realize I have absolutely no idea.