Page 12 of Craving Her Cowboy
The voice came in sharp and no-nonsense, as if the woman on the other end could see through the screen and into the barn’s cold shadow. “Mr. McAllister, just confirming our person will be on-site tomorrow, ten a.m. Andy Harvey agreed to facilitate. Please reply to confirm receipt, or I’ll have to escalate.”
He didn’t listen to the rest. He already knew the tone, the script, the implied threat behind every word. It was a warning, not a request.
His jaw clicked shut, molars grinding. The urge to throw the phone against the wall was so strong he had to close his hand around it and squeeze, white-knuckled. Instead, he set it face-down on the bench, eyes locked on the ancient wood grain running beneath his boots.
Count backwards from five. Breathe on four. Hold on three. Exhale on two. By one, you should be able to think straight.
It didn’t work. His heart was a hammer in his throat, and the only thing he wanted more than to punch something was to not give his father the satisfaction.
He stood so fast the bench squealed against the concrete. The tack room was a museum of old leather and dust, the air thick with the bite of saddle soap and lanolin. Gavin let himself run the wall with his palm, the raw feel of the wood grounding him, until he reached the door.
A shovel leaned next to the threshold. He snatched it, turned it over in his hands, and debated whether to go dig post holes or a grave. The anger spiked again, sharper this time, and he let the handle slam back against the wood. The impact was hard enough to rattle the row of bridles, one of them thudding to the floor.
He caught it before it hit, then hung it back in its slot. No point in making more work for Miss Bee. He could already hear her voice in his head: “Don’t take it out on the help, my dear Gavin. Even the inanimate kind.”
Gavin left the tack room and walked straight into the barn aisle, head down. He tried to lose himself in the physical details. The way the light slatted through the overhead beams, the churn of hay under his boots, the sound of hooves shifting in the stalls, but none of it worked.
He hit the back door just as it swung inward. He stepped back, avoiding a collision, and found Asha on the other side. She held a curry comb and a length of black lead rope, her hair tied back in a bun so tight it looked like it might cut circulation to her brain.
Her eyes flicked up at him. Not surprised, not amused, just observant.
He moved to the side, giving her space. “You ever take a day off?” he muttered.
“Same as you,” she said, tone flat. She slipped past him and made for the last stall on the right.
He watched her walk, the precise, measured steps. She’d been a Marine, you could see it in the way she held herself: everything squared, nothing wasted, every motion on a need-to-do basis.
He followed, though he told himself it was only because he needed to check on the bay gelding in the next stall.
Asha was already inside the pen, moving with the animal. She set a hand on the horse’s withers, palm steady, and started brushing with slow, deliberate strokes. The horse flicked an ear, caught her scent, then relaxed under her touch.
Gavin’s anger, now with nowhere to go, redirected itself like a heat-seeking missile. “You’re using the wrong brush for that coat,” he said, voice clipped. “He’ll blow his winter fur if you go that rough.”
Asha didn’t look up. “He’s been rolling in mud for two days. You want to clean it, or you want to admire the art?”
He stepped closer, ignoring the warning prickle at the base of his neck. “Just saying, there’s a reason you use soft bristle on a fresh cut.”
“Noted.” She kept brushing, never breaking rhythm.
He leaned on the stall gate, arms folded. The urge to pick another fight crackled in his chest, desperate for release.
“You always have to do everything like you’re getting graded on it?” he said, words sharp enough to cut.
She straightened, shoulders squared, and finally turned to face him. “You come in here just to start something, or did you run out of stuff to break in the tack room?”
The horse, sensing the shift, sidestepped and bumped against Asha’s thigh. She calmed it with a touch, but her eyes never left Gavin’s.
He felt the flash of shame before he could tamp it down. He hated when people called him on his shit. He hated it more when they were right.
“You think you know everything,” he said, softer now but no less pointed. “Like you’re the only one who’s ever had to handle something tough.”
She slowly closed her eyes before opening them and fixing her gaze on him. “You want to compare notes?”
He didn’t answer. He looked away, jaw working.
She went back to brushing, the rasp of the comb louder than their voices now.
He let the silence hang until it became unbearable, then said, “I got a call. From my father’s team. They’re sending someone out. To check on me, or spy, or whatever.”
