Page 1 of Curvy Girl and the Protector Cowboy

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.

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