Page 1 of Craving Her Cowboy
Chapter 1
Gavin's knuckles had gone white against the steering wheel, though he kept telling himself to relax. The gesture was automatic now, pretty much second nature to everything he did. Grip tight, force his shoulders down, pretend the tension wasn't eating him alive from the inside out. His black SUV kicked up plumes of dust that hung in the still air behind him, marking his path down the gravel road. The fence posts blurred past, each one a marker counting down to something he wasn't sure he was ready for.
It had been four years since he'd been back to Silver Creek Ranch.
He rubbed at his right arm through the sleeve of his gray henley, fingers finding the familiar ridges of scar tissue beneath the fabric. The burns had healed years ago, but the habit stuck. When the stress climbed too high, when the walls started closing in, his hand went to those scars like a rosary. A reminder of what happened when you thought you had everything under control.
The dark circles under his eyes felt carved in stone. He'd caught his reflection in the rearview mirror an hour back and looked like hell warmed over. Three days of maybe four hours of sleep total, and that was generous. The nightmares had been coming harder lately, more frequent, like his subconscious had figured out he was planning this trip and decided to remind him that he’d stayed away too long.
His shoulders ached with a tension that had taken up permanent residence somewhere around his shoulder blades. He rolled them back, tried to work out the knots, but it was like trying to smooth out crumbled rock. The pain had become background noise, white static he'd learned to ignore. Mostly.
The main gate came into view, and something in his chest loosened just a fraction. Silver Creek Ranch spread out ahead of him, unchanged in all the ways that mattered. The same weathered wood fencing, the same red barn sitting solid against the horizon, the same sense of space that made him feel like he could actually breathe. He pulled through the gate and followed the drive toward the main house, his tires crunching over gravel that sounded like home.
When he parked beside the porch and killed the engine, the silence hit him like a physical thing. No traffic. No sirens. No constant hum of a city that never slept. Just the whisper of wind through the oak trees and the distant sound of someone hammering. Steady, methodical, purposeful. The kind of work that had a beginning and an end, unlike the endless grinding machinery of his consulting firm.
He sat in the driver's seat for a moment, hands still gripping the wheel, and let the quiet settle around him. The South Dakota heat pressed against the windshield, promising another scorching day, but it felt clean here. The smell hit him the moment he opened the door. Hay, horses, and that blend of dust and grass that belonged to working ranches. It cut through his defenses faster than he'd expected, pulling up memories he'd tried to keep buried. Weekend visits when he was a kid, back when his father still thought this place was a useful photo opportunity. Before politics had consumed everything, back when James McAllister had beenDadinstead ofSenator McCallister.
Gavin stepped out and stretched, feeling his spine pop in three places. His body felt like it belonged to someone twice his age. Too many hours hunched over spreadsheets and conference tables, too many nights pacing his apartment instead of sleeping. He was thirty-two and felt ancient.
The sound of hammering grew louder as he stood there, rhythmic and oddly comforting. Someone was building something, fixing something, making something better with their hands. When was the last time he'd done anything that simple? That real?
A weight he'd been carrying for months began to lift, just slightly, like someone had adjusted the pressure valve on his chest. Silver Creek Ranch didn't care about polling numbers or campaign strategies or the McAllister family legacy. It just existed, solid and real, offering space to anyone willing to work for it.
A distinctive ring tone played on hisphoneasitbuzzed against his hip, thesoundsharp and intrusive in the ranch quiet. Hedidn'tneed to look to know it was his father.The messages had been coming every few hours for the past week, each one a little more insistent than the last. "You can’t avoid this, Gavin. It’s time to discuss your political future." "The party needs fresh faces." "Your country needs you."
Gavin pulled the phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen. Three missed calls, two texts. Senator James McAllister didn't believe in subtlety when it came to getting what he wanted. The preview showed the beginning of the latest message: "Gavin, we need to talk about the Senate seat opening up. It's time to do your duty."
He switched the phone to silent and shoved it back in his pocket. Whatever his father needed to say could wait. Everything could wait. That was the point of coming here again. To find some space between himself and the expectations that had been crushing him since before he could walk. He raised his hand to knock, but the front door swung open before his knuckles touched wood.
"Well, I'll be damned." Miss Belinda Butler stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, brown eyes bright with genuine pleasure. "Gavin McAllister. It’s good to see your face again."
"Nice to see you too, Miss Bee." He felt his mouth twitch toward something that might have been a smile. The woman in front of him was still beautiful at her age and he could only imagine what she looked like when she was younger. Her presence was as comforting as the smell of whatever she'd been baking.
"Don't you 'Miss Bee' me, Gavin. Get in here before you melt into the porch." She stepped back and gestured him inside, already talking over her shoulder. "Andy's out in the south pasture with some of the hands, but he'll be back for lunch. Said you might be coming by, but I wasn't sure you'd actually show."
The walls still held the same mix of family photos and ranch memorabilia—pictures of Andy with various groups of veterans, shots of successful cattle drives, a few faded military commendations in simple frames. Nothing had changed, and that steadiness hit him harder than expected. His world had been shifting and cracking for months, but this place remained solid. Dependable. Real.
"Your usual cabin's ready," Miss Bee said, leading him through the familiar hallway toward the back of the house. "Fresh sheets, stocked fridge. Though you better plan on eating my cooking while you're here. You've lost weight."
He hadn't, but arguing with Miss Bee about food was a losing battle. She'd been mothering broken soldiers for ten years now, ever since Andy had hired her after his wife passed. The woman had a sixth sense for who needed feeding and who needed space, and she rarely got it wrong.
They passed Andy's office, door standing open, and Gavin's step hitched. There, tacked to the bulletin board behind the desk among feed store receipts and veterinary schedules,was a campaign poster from his father's last senate race. James McAllister's practiced smile beamed out from the glossy surface, all confidence and political gravitas under the slogan "Leadership You Can Trust."
The sight hit him like a sucker punch.
"It's time you prepared for a Senate run, son." His father's voice cut through his memory, sharp and insistent. They'd been standing in the study of their family home, James behind his mahogany desk like he was holding court, while Gavin had paced like a caged animal. "The party leadership is very interested. Your military background, your business success. It's exactly what voters want right now."
"I'm not interested in what voters want."
"Don't be naive, Gavin. This isn't about what you want. This is about responsibility. Legacy. The McAllister name means something, and that comes with obligations."
"Obligations." The word had tasted like poison in his mouth.
"The family legacy won't maintain itself. Your grandfather built something important, and I've spent my career expanding on that foundation. It's your turn to step up."
Gavin's jaw clenched hard enough to make his teeth ache. His shoulders pulled tight, that familiar tension climbing his neck, and old anger rose in his chest. Politics was a game of compromises and calculated moves, and he'd never had the stomach for either. Too many people depending on you to make the right call, too many ways to get it wrong, too many lives hanging in the balance.
"You alright, honey?" Miss Bee's voice cut through the memory, gentle but observant. She'd stopped walking and turned to study his face, those warm brown eyes missing nothing. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
