Chapter 5
Gavin sat on the bench in the tack room, back against the wall, thumb hovering over his phone like it was a ticking time bomb. He’d told himself that he wouldn’t check it until at least noon, but old habits were bastards. The minute his fingers stopped working, the need to know crept in.
The voicemail waited at the top of his notifications, courtesy of a number he recognized instantly. His father’s campaign chief, which meant this wasn’t a check-in, it was an order. He jabbed the button, half hoping the battery would die mid-message.
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.”
She stopped, then turned and faced him again. “You surprised?”
He glared at her. “It’s the principle. I came here to get away from that shit.”
Asha let the brush dangle from her hand. “Some things follow you, whether you want them to or not.”
He could feel the muscles in his shoulders tighten, the old, familiar strain that never left anymore. “Why are you always where I am?” It came out more broken than he’d intended.
She let it sit. Then, “You don’t want me here, just say it.”
He didn’t. Couldn’t. Instead, he found a different target. “You think you’re better at this than me.”
She laughed, the sound dry as dirt. “I don’t think I’m better. I just do the work.”
He watched her, and for a second, the air between them felt dangerous. Like something about to catch fire.
He stepped back, gripping the top rail so tight his knuckles went white. “Forget it,” he said, voice flat.
Asha held his gaze, and he saw something shift in her face—not pity, not empathy, just the recognition of a fight that was going nowhere. “Don’t come in here with your bullshit today,” she said, calm but final.
She started brushing the horse again, and Gavin found himself out of things to say. He turned on his heel and left, each step away from the stall making him feel lighter and heavier at the same time.
He pushed out into the daylight, blinking hard against the sudden glare. In the distance, the hills rose and fell, indifferent to everything that happened inside the barn. He stared at them until his eyes stopped burning.
For a long minute, he just stood there, breathing. One count at a time.
The problem with anger was that it never really left.
It waited. Gavin lasted a whole thirty seconds outside before the need to finish what he’d started became too much.
He paced twice across the gravel, then turned and walked straight back into the barn, footsteps echoing off concrete and old timber.
Asha was still in the stall. She had her back to him, running the brush along the horse’s flank, but he could tell by the stiff set of her shoulders that she knew he’d returned.
She didn’t look up as he approached. He leaned into the doorway, not caring that the bay gelding eyed him with mild annoyance.
“You got something to say?” she asked, not breaking her stroke.
He could have left it there. Could have swallowed it, let the moment pass, been the bigger man. He didn’t. “I’m sick of people acting like I need to be looked after. Or, hell, like I’m some fucking group project that needs fixin’.”
She put the brush down with a thud. “Nobody’s here to fix you.”
He stepped in, crowding the space. “You really believe that? Because all I see is another person waiting for me to screw up, just so you can feel better about your own shit.”
She spun around, eyes cold and clear. “You don’t know me.”
He was close enough now to see the tiny flecks of gold in her irises, the faint pulse ticking at her temple. He leaned in, voice low. “I know you never quit. I know you push everything and everyone until they give up or break. I know you came here because it was the only place left for you to go.”
Her mouth tightened, a muscle jumping in her jaw. She looked away, then back, eyes narrowed. "Guess we're both running from something, then."
He expected her to retreat, but she moved closer, squaring off until there was barely air between them.
“You want to talk about quitting? You ran out here to the ranch because you’re scared of what happens if you go back to Texas.
You’re scared of living up to the McAllister name, or worse, failing it.
” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “And you’re so busy being pissed off about it that you can’t see when someone’s trying to just be there. ”
His own hand shot out, catching her wrist before she could retract it. The contact was electric—skin on skin, pulse against pulse. “You’re not helping. You’re making it worse.”
She didn’t pull away. “You’re not the only one with scars, Gavin.”
His throat closed up. For a second, he didn’t know what to do with the words. His hand loosened, but her wrist stayed in his grip, soft but iron-strong.
“You think you’re the only person who wakes up every day and wishes it was different?” she said, voice shaking now. “You think you’re the only one who wants out?”
They were so close he could feel her breath on his face. He wanted to say something—maybe an apology, maybe fuck you, maybe both—but his words tangled. He looked down at her mouth, then up, and saw that she’d done the same.
The air went electric, tighter than a guitar string.
He made the first move. Half a step forward, a question, not a demand. She answered by tilting her chin up, a challenge in the motion.
If she’d blinked, or laughed, or even turned away, it would have been done. But she just waited. So he did, too.
They hung there, suspended. Rage, attraction, a raw need neither could name.
It was too much. He let go of her wrist, stepped back so hard he hit the edge of the gate. “This is a fucking mess,” he said, breath ragged.
She didn’t move. “Then clean it up.”
He didn’t know if she meant the barn, or himself, or the two of them together.
He couldn’t handle the ambiguity. He turned and stalked out, slamming the gate behind him so hard the rails shook and a few stray chickens scattered outside.
He walked two steps, stopped, and put his palm flat on the barn door, like he needed proof that it was real.
His whole body hummed, a nervous, hungry vibration he couldn’t switch off.
He stood there, just outside, breathing.
One count at a time.