Curvy Girl and the Protector Cowboy (Cedar Falls: Cowboys #4)

Chapter 1

The late afternoon sun beats down on my neck as I wander the perimeter of the ranch.

Doc said I need to keep moving but not push it. Easy for him to say—he's never been sidelined during peak season. This twisted ankle has kept me from the circuit for a month now, and the restlessness is worse than the pain.

I pause at the fence line, watching our newest mare, Buttercup, graze in the distance. She's skittish still, not used to the wide-open spaces of the Covington Ranch after being cooped up in that sorry excuse for a stable we rescued her from.

"Hey there, girl," I call softly, clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth. Her ears twitch, and she looks up briefly before returning to the patch of grass before her. Progress.

I limp closer—not as bad as last week, but still noticeable—and lean against the wooden post. The ache in my ankle throbs dully, a constant reminder of my own stupidity. Eight seconds on Thunder Cloud would've given me the points I needed.

Instead, I got bucked at six and landed wrong. Now I'm stuck watching my brothers taking care of everything while I'm relegated to "light duties" around the ranch.

Jackson’s been sympathetic, at least. Sarah's been good for him—he smiles more these days. Ethan, of course, finds the whole situation hilarious.

"The great Cole Murphy, taken down by a bad step." Kid doesn't understand what it's like to be sidelined yet.

Buttercup eventually makes her way over, curious but cautious. I stay still, letting her decide when she's ready to approach.

"That's it," I murmur as she stretches her neck, nostrils flaring. "I'm not so scary."

Her coat shines in the sunlight, chestnut with a lighter mane that earned her the name. Slowly, I reach out my hand, palm flat. She hesitates, then nudges against my fingers—a small victory.

"You're doing just fine," I tell her, running my hand along her neck. "We've all got our adjustment periods."

The sound of footsteps behind me makes me smile. Probably Jackson coming to tell me dinner's nearly ready. Or maybe Vincent, checking that I haven't pushed myself too far today.

"I'm fine, I'm just—" I start as I turn around, but the words die in my throat.

It's not Jackson. It's not any of my brothers.

A young woman stands about twenty feet away, frozen like a deer that's spotted a hunter. She can't be more than twenty-five, with dark hair falling in tangled waves around her shoulders. Her white dress—or what's left of it—is torn at the hem and smudged with dirt. But it's unmistakably a wedding dress or was meant to be one.

In her arms, she clutches a small child, maybe three or four years old, whose face is buried against her neck. The kid's wearing what looks like a little suit, though it's as disheveled as her dress.

The woman's eyes are wide, alert, frightened. There's a smear of something dark across one cheek—mud or maybe mascara—and her lips are parted slightly as if she was about to speak but thought better of it.

We stare at each other for what feels like minutes but can only be seconds. Buttercup senses the tension and sidesteps nervously. The movement seems to snap the woman out of her trance. She takes a step backward.

"I—" she begins, her voice hoarse. Her eyes dart past me, scanning the open field, the barn in the distance, as if calculating an escape route.

Before I can say anything, the child in her arms shifts and whispers something I can't hear. The woman tightens her grip on the kid and takes another step back.

I try to appear non-threatening, keeping my hands visible at my sides.

"Are you okay?" I ask, keeping my voice low and steady, the same tone I use with spooked horses.

She doesn't answer. Instead, her chin lifts slightly—a gesture of defiance that contradicts the fear in her eyes. The kid turns his head just enough for me to see a mop of dark curls and one brown eye peeking at me.

Behind her, the setting sun casts long shadows across the field, turning everything golden. In any other circumstance, the scene might be beautiful—the woman in white, backlit by sunset. But there's nothing romantic about the panic on her face or the protective way she holds the child.

She's running from something. Or someone.

I've seen that look before—on Buttercup when we first found her, on strays that wander onto our property, on my brother Aaron when he came back from overseas. It's the look of someone who's been hunted.

"Ma'am," I say softly, "you're on private property, but you're not in trouble." I stay rooted to my spot, giving her space. "This is Covington Ranch. My family's land."

The woman swallows hard, her throat bobbing with the effort. The child whispers something else, and she adjusts her grip, wincing slightly.

"Did your car break down?" I ask, trying to make sense of how a bride and a kid wandered onto our land. We're miles from the nearest main road.

She glances over her shoulder, toward the tree line that marks the eastern boundary of our property. When she looks back at me, there's a flash of calculation in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she finally says, her voice stronger than I expected. "We'll go."

The kid—a boy, I can see now—tightens his grip around her neck as she turns to leave.

"Wait," I call, careful not to raise my voice too much. "It'll be dark soon. And there's nothing but woods that way for miles."

She pauses, and I can see her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath.

"Look," I continue, "I don't know what's going on, but my family's house is just over that rise. We can offer you some water, maybe a phone call."

At the mention of a phone, she tenses visibly. Interesting.

"No police," she says firmly, turning back to face me. It's not a question.

I nod slowly. "That's your call."

The boy whispers again, louder this time. "I'm thirsty.."

For a moment, she seems to weigh her options, looking from me to the distant tree line and back. The kid must be getting heavy; her arms tremble slightly under his weight.

"One glass of water," she finally says. "Then we need to go."

I nod again, careful to keep my expression neutral.

"House is this way." I gesture toward the path that leads back to the main buildings. "I'm Cole, by the way. Cole Covington."

She hesitates, then says, "Luisa." She doesn't offer a last name, and I don't ask.

"Nice to meet you, Luisa." I start walking, mindful not to limp too obviously. My ankle protests, but I ignore it. She follows at a distance, maintaining a good ten feet between us.

As we make our way toward the house, I notice she's barefoot. Her dress catches on a bramble, and she tugs it free with one hand while balancing the boy on her hip.

I slow my pace, giving her time to navigate the uneven ground. Through the silence, I can hear distant voices from the main house—Jackson's deep laugh, probably at something Vincent said.

I wonder what my brothers will make of our unexpected visitors. I wonder what made a woman flee her own wedding with a child in tow. I wonder how far she's come, and who might be following.

But most of all, I wonder how someone who looks so fragile can have eyes that burn with such fierce determination.

The house comes into view around the bend, and Luisa stops abruptly. Her grip on the boy tightens as she takes in the sprawling two-story ranch house with its wide porch and multiple vehicles parked out front.

"That's... a big house," she says, wariness creeping back into her voice.

"Five brothers under one roof requires space," I explain, trying to keep my tone casual. "Don't worry—they're all decent men." I pause, then add with a half-smile, "Well, except maybe Ethan, but he's harmless. Just annoying."

The joke falls flat. Luisa remains tense, scanning the property like she's memorizing escape routes.

"How about this," I offer, noting the panic rising in her expression. "Wait here. I'll bring water out to you and the little guy."

The boy lifts his head, looking at me properly for the first time. He has Luisa's eyes—deep and wide with a speckle of amber. He stares at me with surprising intensity for a child so young.

"Mama," he says, patting Luisa's cheek to get her attention. "I'm hungry too."

Something flickers across her face—guilt, maybe—before she presses a kiss to his forehead. "I know, baby. We'll find something soon."

I pretend not to hear the quiet desperation in her voice.

"I can bring some food too," I say, careful to direct the offer to the boy rather than to her. "We've always got peanut butter and jelly. Or cookies."

The kid's eyes widen at "cookies," and Luisa's expression softens slightly for the first time.

"That's very kind, but—"

"No strings attached," I interrupt gently. "You can stay right here. I'll be back in five minutes."

Before she can protest further, I start toward the house, forcing myself to walk normally despite the dull throb in my ankle. I can feel her eyes on my back the whole way.

As I reach the porch steps, I glance back. Luisa has moved to the shade of a large oak tree, where she's set the boy down but keeps a firm grip on his hand. Even from this distance, I can see the exhaustion in the slump of her shoulders.

I push open the screen door, greeted by the familiar chaos of dinnertime at the Covington Ranch. Jackson and Sarah are at the stove, arguing good-naturedly about how much garlic belongs in spaghetti sauce. Vincent is setting the table while Lucy chatters away about something she learned at kindergarten. Charlotte catches my eye and smiles, nodding toward the scene as if to say, "Aren't they adorable?"

No sign of Aaron, Elena, or Ethan yet.

I grab a clean dish towel and lay it on the counter, then start gathering supplies: a water bottle, apple juice box, two PB&J sandwiches cut into triangles, and a handful of chocolate chip cookies from the jar.

"What are you doing?" Vincent asks, pausing his table-setting. "Picnic for one?"

"Something like that," I answer vaguely, wrapping the sandwiches.

Jackson turns from the stove, eyebrow raised. "You expecting company out by the east pasture? Saw you talking to someone from the kitchen window."

I consider lying, but there's no point. They'd find out anyway. "Just helping out a lost traveler and her kid," I say casually. "They need water and a quick snack before moving on."

Sarah exchanges a look with Jackson that I can't quite interpret. "Her kid?" she repeats.

"Yeah," I say, shoving everything into a small cooler bag. "Little boy, maybe three or four."

"And are you sure they’re lost?" Jackson asks, his tone skeptical.

I shrug, avoiding his gaze. "Didn't ask for details."

"Cole," Sarah starts, her therapist voice kicking in. "If someone's in trouble—"

"I know," I cut her off. "But right now, they're just hungry and scared. Let me handle it."

To my surprise, Jackson nods. "Alright. But you bring them in if they need real help. It's getting dark."

I grab the cooler bag and head back out before anyone can ask more questions. As I step onto the porch, I spot Luisa still under the tree, her posture rigid, watching the house like a hawk.

For a second, I wonder if I'm making a mistake getting involved. Then the little boy waves at me, and something in my chest tightens.

Whatever storm this woman is running from, it followed her right to our doorstep. And Covington men don't turn away people in need—not even runaway brides with secrets in their eyes.