Page 2 of Craving Her Cowboy
Gavin forced his shoulders down, unclenched his jaw. "Just tired. Long drive."
She watched him for another moment, clearly not buying the deflection, but Miss Bee had learned when to push and when to let things be. "Well, we'll get you settled and fed. That'll help."
They continued toward the back door, but he could feel her glancing at him sideways as they walked. She'd noticed the shift in his mood—from whatever small relief he'd managed to find to this tight, angry thing that had taken up residence in his chest. But she didn't pry or ask questions he wasn't ready to answer. That was another thing that hadn't changed about this place. People here understand that sometimes you needed time to work through your own mess before you could talk about it.
"Ranch is doing real well these days," she said as they stepped out onto the back porch. "Andy's got three new hands working full time, plus the usual rotation of folks coming through the program. Built two new cabins last year, got plans for another one this summer. Been some real success stories too. Remember Jake Morrison? Army medic who came through about two years back?"
Gavin shook his head. Two years back he'd been buried so deep in work he barely remembered his own name, let alone random veterans passing through Silver Creek.
"Well, he started his own security consulting business down in Austin. Doing real well for himself. Still sends Christmas cards." Miss Bee's voice carried pride, the kind that came from watching someone find their footing again. "That's what this place does, you know. Gives folks room to figure out who they want to be next."
Who he wanted to be next.As if it were that simple. As if the weight of expectations and family legacy and political machinery could be shed like an old coat.
Although he turned the ringer off, hisphonevibratedin his pocket.The thought ran through his head thatmaybe itwould better to lock thephoneaway and only check it once he finished for the day. He knew the only person reaching out to him like this wasSenator McAllister.There was nodoubtit wasanother message about duty and opportunity and the bright political future that awaited his wayward son.
"Your cabin's just past the oak grove," Miss Bee said, pointing toward a cluster of trees. "Take your time getting settled. Lunch is at noon if you're hungry."
"Thanks, Miss Bee." He managed to inject some warmth into the words, because none of this was her fault. Miss Bee was just trying to make him feel welcome in the only way she knew how.
But as he walked toward his cabin, James McAllister's campaign poster burned in his memory.
***
The cabin felt smaller than he remembered, though nothing had changed. Same full-sized bed with the patchwork quilt, same rough-hewn desk under the window, same sense of deliberate simplicity that usually felt like relief. But the walls seemed to press closer now, and he found himself pacing the small space like something caged.
He dropped his duffel bag on the bed and forced himself to stand still for thirty seconds. Breathe in. Breathe out. Let the quiet work its way into his bones. But his father's voice kept echoing in his head, and the campaign poster burned behind his eyelids every time he closed them. The McAllister legacy. Family obligations. Leadership you can trust.
Bullshit. All of it.
He needed air. Space. Something real to focus on that wasn't wrapped up in political calculations and carefully managed public images. Horses.
Horses didn't care about polling numbers or family names or the weight of expectations that had been crushing him since childhood. They just wanted someone who knew how to be calm and present, and right now that sounded like the closest thing to salvation he was likely to find.
The walk to the stables took him past the vegetable garden where tomatoes hung heavy on their vines, past the chicken coop where a few hens scratched in the dirt with single-minded determination. Normal ranch life carrying on like it had for decades, like it would for decades more regardless of whether Gavin ever figured out what the hell he was supposed to do with his life.
The familiar smell of hay and leather reached him before the barn came into view, and something in his chest began to loosen. This was what he'd come here for. The simple, honest work of caring for the land and animals that didn't give a damn about his last name or his political potential.
But when he rounded the corner of the main barn, he stopped short.
Someone was already in the corral.
A woman he'd never seen before stood in the center of the round pen, working with a bay gelding that looked like it would rather be anywhere else. The horse's ears flicked back and forth, nostrils flared, every line of its body screaming tension. But the woman moved with quiet confidence, her hands steady on the lead rope, her voice too low for Gavin to hear the words but pitched perfectly to cut through the animal's anxiety.
As he watched, the irritation began to shift into something else. Curiosity, maybe. Or recognition of a kindred spirit. The woman knew what she was doing.
She kept her shoulders relaxed, her movements deliberate and calm. When the gelding shied away from her approach, she didn't force the issue or raise her voice. Instead, she stepped back, gave the animal space, waited for it to settle before trying again. Patient. Methodical. The kind of approach that came from real experience, not weekend riding lessons.
She was Black, with warm brown skin and dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. Athletic build, probably late twenties, wearing jeans and a plain gray t-shirt that had seen better days. Nothing flashy or attention-seeking about her appearance, but she moved with a confidence that suggested she could handle whatever the day threw at her.
The gelding took a tentative step toward her, and she rewarded the movement by standing perfectly still, letting the horse make the choice to approach. Smart. Most people would have reached out too quickly, spooked the animal back into flight mode. But this woman understood the delicate balance of push and pull, the art of making a nervous horse believe that cooperation was its own idea.
Gavin found himself leaning against the fence rail, watching longer than he'd intended. There was something mesmerizing about good horsemanship. The subtle communication, the patience, the way trust could be built one small gesture at a time. It was the opposite of everything in his regular life, where decisions had to be made fast and consequences rippled out in directions you couldn't always predict.
The woman noticed him watching and glanced over, meeting his eyes for just a moment. Brown eyes, direct and assessing, taking his measure the same way she'd been reading the horse. Then she returned her attention to the gelding, who had finally decided she might be trustworthy enough to sniff her outstretched hand.
"Making progress, I see."
Andy Harvey's voice came from behind him, warm with approval. Gavin turned to find the ranch owner approaching, his weathered face creased in a smile that reached his eyes. More than ten years since Andy's wife had passed, and the man still carried grief in the set of his shoulders, but he'd learned to let joy back in around the edges.
