Page 3 of Craving Her Cowboy
"She knows her way around horses," Gavin admitted, nodding toward the corral.
"Asha Monroe. She’s a former Marine. Joined us last week. That bay's been giving everyone trouble since we got him from the rescue, but she's got the touch." Andy joined him at the fence, both men watching as the gelding allowed the woman, Asha, to stroke his neck. "Figured you might appreciate some quality horsemanship."
Former Marine. That explained the confident bearing, the methodical approach. Gavin had worked with enough ex-military to recognize the type. Disciplined, reliable, probably carrying her own collection of invisible scars.
"Glad you’re here, actually," Andy continued. "We're planning to rebuild the old cabin up on the ridge, make room for more folks coming through the program. Could use some extra hands if you're interested in getting dirty."
The response came out of Gavin's mouth before his brain had time to process it. "I’m in."
Andy raised an eyebrow. "Don't you want to know what it involves first? It's going to be hard work. Hot work. Probably take the better part of two weeks."
"Doesn’t matter to me. That’s what I’m here for."
The truth was, he needed the work. Needed something that would exhaust his body enough that his mind might finally shut up long enough for him to sleep. Needed anything thatwould keep his hands busy and his phone calls from his father unanswered.
"Alright then." Andy's smile widened. "We start Monday morning, first light."
Chapter 2
Asha Monroe stood just inside the main doors of the ranch’s large mess hall and took everything in. Her gaze made a slow circuit of the room, leaving nothing to chance. Entries, exits, likely threats, likely friends, probable lunatics. The tally was the same as yesterday: three definite PTSDs, two anger management cases, and the rest were somewhere in between.
She took her time in the food line, letting others cut in if they seemed in a rush, studying the way the hands and faces moved. There was no sense of threat in the air, but her reflexes weren’t interested in the logic of it. She still counted the steps between herself and the nearest door, noted which ranch hands took their meals armed, which ones kept their backs to the wall, which ones couldn’t sit still for a whole conversation. The habit was so ingrained she barely noticed she was doing it.
Asha balanced her tray of food as she scanned for a seat. No empty tables, just clusters of ranchers and ex-military, a jumble of conversations she had zero interest in joining. Her first instinct was the back corner, which gave her the best view of the room, but the spot was claimed by two older ranchers arguing about South Dakota gun laws. She could wedge herself at their end, but it would mean too many questions she didn’t want to answer.
She spotted him two tables over, eating alone, head bowed over a plate of roast beef like it was the last meal on death row. Gavin McAllister. The politician’s son, the famous consulting firm guy, the war hero. She recognized him from the news. The scar above his right eyebrow looked deeper in person, like someone had tried to erase part of him and failed.
She considered walking past, pretending not to see him, but curiosity outmuscled her self-preservation. She pivotedaround a pair of chattering ranch hands and slid into the seat across from him, the legs of her chair screeching their objection against the floor.
He didn’t look up right away. Just kept chewing, eyes on the same fixed point somewhere over her shoulder. She waited, letting the silence do the heavy lifting.
When he finally glanced up, his eyes didn’t linger. “You’re the new one. With the horses.”
She set her tray down. “Yup. That’s me.”
He nodded once, not quite approval, not quite dismissal. “You’re good with them.”
“Better than most people.” She stabbed at her vegetables. “Horses have straightforward expectations.”
That brought the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “People, not so much.”
He went back to eating, but she could tell he was listening. She let the silence stretch again, an old contest she’d never lost. She broke first. “I heard you and Andy talking about you helping on the cabin project.”
“That’s the plan.” Still not quite a smile, but the tension in his jaw eased, just enough to be noticed.
“You swing a hammer or just supervise?” She kept her tone light.
He looked at her this time. The green in his eyes was sharp, almost cold, like a winter field under hard frost. “Both, depending on the job.”
She nodded, took a bite, and chewed slowly. She was here to work, not to make friends, but her mind itched with the need to solve the puzzle of this man. Most ex-military were open books to her. Gavin was more like a locked safe and she wanted to see what was inside.
He shifted in his seat, eyes flickering past her to the commotion at the salad bar. Some of the younger hands weregetting loud, tossing croutons into each other’s drinks, harmless bullshit but the kind of thing that would have made her nervous six months ago. Gavin didn’t flinch at the noise, but she caught his fingers drumming a low pattern on the side of his tray—three short taps, a pause, two more. A nervous tic, maybe. Or a code.
She dropped her voice. “You always eat alone?”
“Usually.”
“Ever get tired of it?”
