Page 21 of Craving Her Cowboy
By the time it was done, her hands were steady, and her jaw was unclenched. She wiped her eyes, stood up, and washed her face at the sink.
Tomorrow, she’d have to talk to Gavin. Or maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she’d just disappear, take the job, and leave this place behind for good.
Either way, she knew something had to change. And maybe it was better for her to walk away for good before giving him another chance to reject her.
She turned off the light, crawled into bed, and waited for sleep to take her.
Chapter 9
The message cabin always smelled like old pine and cut dirt. Gavin pushed the door with his shoulder and let it swing, heavy hinges groaning once. Dust motes caught the low light, turning the inside yellow and gray. He’d meant to come here days earlier, but something had held him back. Maybe he thought the place would swallow him whole.
The inside was a square box, two benches running along the walls, and a single plank table in the center, scarred from a thousand coffee mugs and boot heels. Every rafter, every upright, every bit of bare timber was carved over with initials and dates. Some were just names—Rank, Last Name, and a year. Some had messages: STAY STRONG, or GO HOME, or FUCK THIS NOISE. The newest cuts were bright against the wood, older ones darkened by oil and time.
He drifted to the wall with the thickest cluster of marks, the right side by the front window. The first name he found was a Marine he’d served with at Herat, who’d come through last year for detox and left a month later, still breathing. There was comfort in the permanence in the messages, even if most of the names belonged to ghosts or quitters.
He let his hand follow the history. Each letter, each groove, a small violence done to the wood. He read the line from a Vietnam vet, then another from a guy who did two tours and lost his hand to a farming accident, not a bullet. A world of suffering, all reflected on this one wall.
His fingertips hit a fresh line, just below eye level, newer than the rest. He stared at it for a second before he traced theedge. The cut was clean, confident. ASHA MONROE. Under it, smaller, she’d added: JUST BREATHE.
The name hit harder than any of the others.
Gavin’s hand locked there, thumb pressed to the splintered curve of her S. He could visualize the moment she’d done it. Maybe standing right where he stood, probably with her jaw set and her eyes fixed on nothing. He braced himself, the way you do for pain you saw coming but hoped would miss you. His breath turned shallow. The floor creaked beneath his boots. A shaft of light slanted through the dirty window and landed on her name, making it pop off the surface like a neon sign.
He waited for his pulse to slow down, but it only got worse.
He let the wall take his weight, shoulders sagging. He felt like he wasn’t alone in the room. He’d seen her in a hundred places on the ranch, but here, in these four walls, he saw her for real. His thumb pressed hard against the letters until the skin whitened. He wished he could say it, wished he could say anything. But all he managed was to breathe in, slow, and out, slower.
The last time he’d seen her, she was walking away, hair pulled tight, hands in her pockets. He’d wanted to call after her but couldn’t.
The sun shifted and the beam of light faded. The name blended back into the wall. He touched it once more, lighter now, like a secret handshake.
He realized he’d been trying to outrun something that wasn’t chasing him at all. He’d been pushing her away, keeping her at arms’ length, same as he did with everything that mattered. And here she was, burned into the wood, impossible to ignore.
He turned his hand, palm flat, covering the whole name. The wood was warm. He stood like that for a long time, not letting go.
The world outside the cabin was the same as before—wind, the hint of rain, the distant rumble of a truck on the gravel. In here, though, nothing moved.
The silence in the cabin pressed in on him, thick as a shut coffin. Gavin kept moving, boots dragging tiny grooves in the old pine floor. He paced to the far wall, stopped, turned, and paced back, all without thinking. He tried to sit at a table in the cabin for those who needed to take a beat. He made it as far as perching on the edge of the chair, but the itch under his skin forced him upright again.
He ran a hand through his hair, tugged at the root until his scalp tingled. The residue of Asha’s name stayed on his palm, ghosting every flex of his fist. He looked down at the cut in his skin, the tiny white groove shaped like her S. He pressed it with his thumb, hard enough to sting.
He checked his watch, even though he didn’t care about the time. The second hand ticked, slow and spiteful. He hated the way it made him feel—cornered, rushed, as if every minute wasted was a crime.
He muttered a curse. He leaned both hands on the table, head hanging. A flash of her face from yesterday, as she passed him on the worksite. Eyes that wouldn’t hold his, but didn’t flinch away either. The line of her jaw, tighter than usual, like she’d bitten through every word she wanted to say.
He slammed his fist on the table. The sound was loud, final.
He hated that she could get to him like this. Hated the way she walked through his head, heavy boots and all, even when she wasn’t in the room. He wanted to call her stubborn, or cold, or anything that made her less impossible. But he couldn’t. She was just… there. And he wanted more. That night should have been something beautiful, but all they had was silence and avoidance. How the fuck did that happen?
He stalked to the window, pressed his forehead to the glass. The view was nothing: bare dirt, a strip of grass, the outline of a water tower in the distance. He caught his own reflection, a stranger’s face, eyes shot through with red. He turned away, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.
He tried to think of a plan, something he could do to fix what he’d broken. But every idea dissolved before it finished forming. Gavin squared his shoulders, let out a long breath through his nose.
He knew what he had to do. There was only ever one way out, and it was forward.
He walked to the door and gave one last look at the name on the wall.
His hand hovered over the handle, just long enough to feel the air moving around it.
