Page 7 of Craving Her Cowboy
She took that in. “You could’ve just said you like the exercise.”
“I don’t.”
She laughed. Not a big laugh, just a short, surprised burst that made him like her for one second before he remembered he wasn’t here for that.
He scanned the site. “We’ll need at least two more hands when the real materials get here. No way we set the beams with just the two of us.”
She agreed, nodding her head in agreement.
They broke for water, sitting on the tailgate of the Polaris, not quite next to each other but not distant either.
Gavin poured a little into his palm and wiped it over his neck, cooling the skin. He could feel the sun heating up, the air turning from crisp to sharp. Cows called to each other below, a sound so familiar it almost faded into the background.
When the water break was done, they dug into the framing. The rest of the plywood went down easily. They set up the wall plates, squared the corners, then started the slow, brutal work of raising the first studs and nailing them off. Heat swarmed around them like hornets, the only wind coming from the sudden gusts whenever a cloud moved to block the sun.
They spoke even less than before, but something had shifted in the silence. Less edge, more rhythm. He found himself wanting to close the gap, to tell a joke, or maybe just a comment about the weather, but every time he opened his mouth the words dried up. He watched Asha run the tape, her thumb pressed against the metal tang, eyes squinting as she checked the measure against the print in her other hand.
Just after eleven, she called for a wrench. “Box end, three-eighths. Should be in my bag.”
Gavin walked over, careful to keep his shadow off her workspace, and found the tool bag open beside her knee. The wrench was right on top. He grabbed it, but his hand hesitated when he saw the scrap of paper wedged next to the side pocket.
It was torn from a notebook, ink faded but readable:Breathe. One count at a time.
He stared for a second too long, then handed over the wrench. She took it with a quick “thanks,” not meeting his eyes.
He recognized the trick. It was a fallback from panic training. It was combat breathing, taught to steady a blown-out nervous system. He used it himself, sometimes in meetings, more often in the dark when the shit started swirling around inhis brain. Seeing it in her bag tightened something in his chest. Not pity, exactly. More like kinship.
He watched her torque the anchor bolt, forearms flexed and sure. Saw the tiny tremor of fatigue in her hand as she backed off the pressure. She’d worked just as hard as him today, maybe harder. He wondered what kind of ghosts followed her at night that forced her to Silver Creek Ranch.
He wanted to say something to ease the tension. Instead, he started predicting what she’d need. He measured twice before she could ask. Fetched the box of nails when he saw her eyeing it. Cut lengths of rebar for the anchor straps before she could even walk to the saw. She noticed, too. After an hour of this, she stopped and said, “You running logistics now?”
He shrugged. “I can multitask.”
She rolled her eyes, but softer this time. “You should see my toolkit at home. My brothers used to call it the arsenal.”
He didn’t know what to do with that. So he just said, “You got siblings?”
“Four. All boys. Marines. Well, except for the one who got smart and went into the Air Force.”
He smiled, a real one, and it didn’t even feel forced. “Sounds like family holidays are intense.”
She hammered a stud into place, put her weight into it, then said, “You don’t know the half of it.”
The noise of shovels, tape snaps, and the slow groan of rakes filled the next hour. They didn’t speak except when necessary, but somehow their pace synced. By noon, the foundation trenches were squared, the grade held true, and all that was left was waiting for Andy’s okay before they started mixing gravel.
Asha packed up her gear first. “You got anything else before lunch? I’m starving.”
He shook his head. “Nah. Go grab some food.” Asha looked as if she were going to say something, but shook her head and turned away to walk down to the mess hall.
He wiped his hands on his pants, checked his phone for messages, found three missed calls from the Senator, and ignored them. The only thing he wanted to think about was wood, grass, horses, and how to not to lose his damn mind.
He walked down the ridge in silence, and for the first time in weeks, the voices in his head were just background static.
No less than thirty minutes later, Gavin dumped his lunch trash, downed a swallow from the thermos, and found Asha already on site, laying out joists on the packed gravel foundation.
She didn't say anything. Just pointed at the stack of lumber waiting for him.
He got to work, pulling lengths of pressure-treated wood and setting them on the perimeter. The smell of fresh pine and chemicals was strong enough to burn his nose. He liked it. Reminded him of the first time his father put a tool in his hand—before politics ruined the rest.
