Page 13 of Curvy Girl and the Protector Cowboy

"I think," he says carefully, "that you should consider it. Give yourself and Miguel a few days to catch your breath before deciding. The buses run every day."

A few days. It’s not a lifetime commitment, nor a decision I can't take back. Just a moment to pause, to think clearly without the panic of immediate flight.

In the distance, I can hear children's laughter—Miguel and Lucy, heading toward the stables with Sarah and Charlotte. My son's voice, bright with excitement, carries on the morning breeze.

"Okay," I say, surprising myself. "A few days. Just to figure things out."

Cole's smile is like sunrise breaking through clouds. "That's all I'm asking."

Chapter 5

"That's all I'm asking," I say, and I mean it, though something deeper stirs beneath the simple statement.

Luisa tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the morning sunlight catching the hints of amber in her eyes. Something about her has gotten under my skin in less than twenty-four hours.

Her strength, maybe—the kind that doesn't announce itself but reveals itself in the quiet moments. The way she watches Miguel when she thinks no one's looking, like he's the entire universe contained in one small body.

Or maybe it's the curve of her lips when she almost smiles, or how her borrowed t-shirt can't quite hide the soft swell of her hips. She probably has no idea how beautiful she is, standing here on our porch with the wind tugging at her ponytail, her face free of makeup and worry finally easing from her features.

I clear my throat, suddenly aware I've been staring.

"Should we head back in? I can make more coffee."

She nods, wrapping her arms around herself against the morning chill. As we walk back toward the house, I'm conscious of the space between us—close enough that I could reach out and touch her, far enough to maintain the boundaries a woman in her situation needs.

Inside, the kitchen is empty, the remains of breakfast still scattered across the counter. The house feels unusually quiet with everyone out at the stables.

"They'll be away for a while," I say, pouring fresh coffee into two mugs. “Sarah likes to introduce the kids to each horse individually and explain their personalities. Lucy will be showing off for Miguel, telling him all about how she helps feed them."

Luisa accepts the coffee with a small smile. "He's never been around animals before. We lived in an apartment where pets weren't allowed."

"Well, he's a natural, according to Sarah. She doesn't give that compliment lightly."

Pride flickers across Luisa's face before uncertainty replaces it. "I don't know the first thing about country living. I've always been a city girl."

"It grows on you," I assure her. Then, acting on impulse, I add, "Want to see something?"

Her expression turns guarded immediately. "What kind of something?"

"Nothing scary," I promise. "Just... something that might help you understand why I believe in this place."

She hesitates, then nods cautiously. "Alright."

I lead her from the kitchen to our living room, where decades of family photos cover nearly every inch of wall space. Mom started the tradition when we were kids, and Jackson's kept it going since she passed.

"This is my family's history," I explain, gesturing to the collection. "Every milestone, every Christmas, every first day of school."

Luisa steps closer to the wall, studying the images. Her fingers hover near a faded photograph of five small boys in matching cowboy hats, sitting on a fence.

"You?" she asks, pointing to the second-youngest.

I nod. "Age seven. That was the year I decided I was going to be a bull rider like my dad when he was younger."

Her eyes move across the photos—birthdays, graduations, rodeo competitions. She pauses at a recent one of all five brothers with our arms around each other, taken at Jackson's birthday last year.

"You all look so happy," she says softly.

"We weren't always," I admit. "After Mom died, we were a mess. Dad withdrew into himself. Jackson tried to hold everything together, but he was barely twenty himself."

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