Chapter 1 - Ethan #2
A few yards from the porch, the dirt opened into a staging area framed by weathered rail fencing and elongated shadows stretching across the ground.
Under the eaves, three figures gathered, each embodying a distinct energy: a woman perched casually on a fence rail, exuding confidence with a relaxed posture; a tall blond man leaning back against the wood, hands buried deep in his pockets, his demeanor radiating an easy charm; and a wiry, hyperalert guy who flicked through his phone, his eyes darting around as if cataloging every detail in their surroundings.
Cole appeared, closing the distance in a few fluid strides. “You must be Ethan,” he said, voice softer than before but threaded with authority. “Glad you found the place in one piece.”
Ethan offered his hand, acutely aware of the way the grip measured him—dry, steady, the handshake a form of boundary. Up close, Cole’s eyes were less cold and more complicated, the blue ringed with tiredness and something else, maybe curiosity.
“This is our pack group,” Cole said, shifting the attention to the others. “You’ll be spending the next two weeks either loving or hating each other. Try to keep it civil until the second day at least.”
The woman hopped off the fence, landing with athletic grace. She was a redhead, tall and tanned, freckles everywhere the sun could reach. Her shirt clung in ways that said she was proud of the work that built those shoulders. She sized Ethan up and grinned.
“Harper Fox,” she said. The handshake was firm, not competitive. Harper tilted her head, a playful smile dancing on her lips as she studied Ethan. “You look like you could use a little adventure,” she said, her voice teasing and warm.
Ethan felt a flicker of surprise. How could she see through him so easily? “Guess I’ve been a bit cooped up lately,” he admitted, a hint of vulnerability creeping in.
“You came to the right place,” she replied, her grin infectious.
Next was the blond—bigger than Cole, square jaw and gym-sculpted, but with the loose posture of a man who never had to prove anything. He wore a neon-branded performance pullover over the kind of shirt that cost more than most round-trip flights.
“Jack Carson,” he said, his voice smooth and confident, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I’m all about investments—whatever’s hot right now. Let’s just say I know how to spot a good opportunity when it struts by.”
Jack’s handshake was firm, exuding a self-assuredness that suggested he was well-acquainted with making connections. Ethan met the grip with equal steadiness.
The last was Riley Evans, wiry and bright-eyed, with a smile so immediate it felt like old friendship. He wore well-fitted layers, sunglasses pushed up, and carried himself with casual competence.
"Riley Evans," he said with a lilting cadence that rose at the end of his name.
His handshake was quick but warm, his wrist limp.
"Digital nomad by trade. Been working from Bali for the last six months—figured I'd trade beach boys for cowboys.
" He winked at Ethan with practiced ease. "Change of scenery, you know?"
Cole pointed them to a row of benches outside the corral. “Let’s grab a seat. I’ll walk you through the trip.”
They moved as a clump—Jack grabbing the spot with the most shade, Harper slinging her pack beside her, Riley flicking his phone to Do Not Disturb. Ethan sat at the end and did his best to blend in.
Cole leaned against the fence, arms crossed, hat tipped back to expose the line of his brow. “You signed up for the Challenge Option. That means long days, early mornings, epic adventures and the possibility of weather so bad you’ll dream about dying in a Marriott.”
Harper leaned forward, elbows on knees. "You had me at 'dream about dying.
'"Cole's eyes narrowed slightly. "We camp at elevation.
Sometimes we make our own path. And we do it all without a single complaint.
"Jack stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles.
"And if we start whining? What's the penalty—our credit cards get charged? "
Cole's lips curled into a thin smile, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “If you start complaining, I’ll have you cleaning the stables for a week. Just a little incentive to keep the whining to a minimum.”
He laid out the logistics—gear checks, meal plans, the rotating assignments for camp duty—and Ethan felt himself pulled in by the cadence, the total control. Cole didn’t oversell. He didn’t even try. He just set expectations and left the rest to fall in.
But it was the hands that got Ethan—the way Cole’s fingers curled over the rail, the clean, deliberate gestures when he pointed to a map or called out an instruction.
It shouldn’t have been erotic, but Ethan’s mind wouldn’t let it go.
He imagined those hands on his own skin, kneading the knots from his shoulders, gripping something more than a lasso.
He snapped his attention back as Cole addressed him directly. “Any issues with horses, Ethan? Allergies? Phobias?”
Ethan shook his head. “No issues.”
Cole nodded, unreadable. “You’ll be fine, then.”
The group sat, sunlight tilting and elongating their shadows, and Ethan tried to force his thoughts into neat, non-threatening boxes.
He had come here to outrun a failed marriage, to let someone else be in charge for once.
But he hadn’t planned on Cole—on the chemical pull, the magnetic field he was desperate to ignore.
Harper broke the silence with a story about leading a school group through Death Valley and having to rescue a kid who thought scorpions were a suitable protein snack. The laughter was real and infectious. Even Jack thawed, eventually offering up a disaster tale from his last Everest “adventure.”
Through it all, Ethan kept looking up, kept catching Cole’s profile against the setting sun, jaw and neck golden, every movement deliberate. He felt his own body react—a flush, a tightness in the gut, a fast skip in the chest.
By the end of orientation, Ethan was both more relaxed and more tense than he’d been since the divorce.
The session ended, and Cole dismissed them with a nod. “Dinner’s at seven. Bar’s open now.”
Harper made a beeline for the lounge. Riley followed, hands in pockets, chatting about trail playlists. Jack hung back, as if looking for a moment alone with Cole. Ethan lingered, pretending to check his phone but watching the two men from the edge of his vision.
Jack said something—Ethan caught the words “leadership style” and “liability waiver.” Cole just listened, arms still crossed, face impassive. Eventually, Jack drifted off.
Cole looked over, blue eyes catching Ethan’s for a fraction of a second. Ethan looked away fast, heat flooding his cheeks. He hoped the other man hadn’t noticed.
The sun dropped behind the hills like a gold coin into a slot. Warm air cooled and stretched the shadows out, turning the lodge yard into an arena of silhouettes and voices.
The group drifted back to the fence after orientation.
Harper balanced on a bottom rail, beer in hand, and launched into a story about how she once used duct tape to reattach a kid’s toenail on the PCT.
Her delivery was all deadpan confidence; the punchline was both perfectly timed and absolutely disgusting.
Jack tried to top it with his own Everest horror story, involving a tent collapse, frozen PowerBars, and a Norwegian socialite who insisted on packing six pairs of heels.
Every sentence seemed designed to one-up the last. Harper let him go, occasionally tossing in a withering comment that Ethan admired as a thing of art.
Riley turned to Ethan every few minutes with a “can you believe this?” expression. The two of them ended up exchanging muttered asides while Harper and Jack jockeyed for the role of Story Alpha.
The horses grazed just beyond the rail, chuffing and snorting with each other, indifferent to the drama.
Cole moved among them, checking tack and water buckets, stopping to give each animal a moment of soft attention.
He didn’t join in the banter, but his presence anchored the chaos—every now and then he’d glance over, blue eyes cool and measuring, as if cataloguing the group’s potential for survival.
The evening grew colder. Ethan zipped his jacket and leaned in close as Harper delivered the final blow of her story—something about super glue and a bear warning gone wrong. The laugh that followed was cathartic, the kind that wrings out everything left inside you and then makes room for more.
Cole called the group over to a demo horse, a burly gray quarter mare with a scar on her shoulder. He showed them how to check the girth, then stepped up to demonstrate the saddle mount in a single, fluid motion.
Ethan watched, breath caught, as Cole swung up and the shirt lifted just enough to show a strip of hard, tanned skin at the waist. It was such a small thing, but it set off a pulse in Ethan’s body—a recognition of form and heat that landed somewhere between desire and terror.
Riley caught him staring and grinned, sharp but not unkind. “He’s got that effect on people,” he whispered.
Ethan choked out a laugh. “It’s just—he’s very good at this,” he said, immediately aware of how lame it sounded.
Riley nodded, eyes still locked on Cole. “I’m sure he’s good at a lot of things.”
Ethan glanced at Riley, looking for sarcasm, but found none.
Jack attempted the mount next and nearly tipped the horse sideways, much to Harper’s delight.
The group collapsed into another wave of laughter.
Cole dismounted, caught the animal gently by the halter, and murmured something only the horse could hear.
His voice was as steady and low as when he’d calmed the runaway colt that morning.
Ethan felt something loosen in him, some knot tied too long.
They spent another hour sharing horror stories and survival hacks, the light fading to a navy blue and then to black. Lamps on the lodge porch flicked on one by one, casting golden circles onto the flagstones. The chill deepened, and the first stars burned through overhead.
As the others peeled off toward the bar and their rooms, Ethan lingered at the fence. He watched Cole walk the horses in for the night, every move practiced and strong, and wondered for the hundredth time what it would feel like to let someone else take the lead. To trust it.
The air smelled of hay and sweat and distant pine. The loneliness in Ethan was real and biting, but for the first time in a long while, it wasn’t the only thing he felt.
The next morning, the lodge grounds buzzed with the quiet, electric hum of anticipation.
Sunrise hit the mountains like a slap, lighting up the snow lines and flooding the yard with fierce, early gold.
In the orientation ring, a dozen horses milled with their heads down, vapor streaming from nostrils.
The chill bit through Ethan’s jacket, but his skin was already prickling from something hotter than the air.
Cole waited by the fence, clipboard in hand, aviators shielding his eyes from the flash of light off the barn. His voice cut cleanly as he called names and matched each person with a horse. He didn’t look at Ethan until the last minute.
“Hayes,” Cole called, holding a halter and lead. The horse next to him was a pale buckskin, muscled and wary.
Ethan took the halter, hands only slightly shaky, and met Cole’s gaze. Up close, the blue of Cole’s eyes was oceanic and deep. For a second, Ethan thought he might say something, but Cole only nodded—a small gesture, but the connection under it landed like a punch.
He led his horse—Ember, according to the tag—around the ring as directed, picking up on the animal’s rhythm, the tension in its gait, the shiver of muscle under dappled hide.
Ethan tried to keep his mind on the basics—heel line, rein slack, eye contact—but every so often, his gaze found its way back to Cole. And every time, Cole was watching.
The others got their horses: Harper with a paint named Magpie, Riley with a stubborn bay, Jack with a massive draft cross that looked like it belonged in a Budweiser commercial. They circled, laughed, shouted tips and insults across the ring.
“Let her have her head, Ethan! Or are you afraid of a little power?” Harper’s voice rang out clearly across the ring.
Jack chimed in with a grin, “I’ll bet you a hundred bucks he gets bucked off by day three.”
Ethan grinned, letting the razzing blow through him like cold wind. It felt good to be part of the banter, to let it in.
Cole’s session was ruthlessly efficient, moving through basic groundwork, then up to saddle and bridle fitting.
Every touch, every correction, was precise and without apology.
He had the kind of presence that made you want to perform, to measure up, to earn something from him—even if you didn’t know what.
After an hour, the group broke for water and shade. Ethan took a spot at the end of the rail, sweat damp at the collar and underarms, breathing deep the mingled scents of pine and horse and something sweeter, like sagebrush.
Riley slid in beside him, eyes shining. “I think you’re a natural, city boy.”
Ethan smiled. “Just following instructions.”
Riley shrugged, then looked back to where Cole stood, sunglasses off now, wiping sweat from his brow. “He’s intense, huh?”
Ethan nodded, not trusting himself to say more.
At noon, they regrouped for the next training block.
The sun climbed high, burning off the last of the chill, turning the yard into a haze of sweat and dust and bright promise.
Ethan took another deep, cleansing breath.
This was what he’d come for—not the horse, not the scenery, but the chance to feel awake again.
As Cole gave the signal to mount up, Ethan looked down at his own hands, strong on the reins. They didn’t tremble anymore. He swung into the saddle and set his eyes on the mountains, ready to see what waited out there—and who he’d become when he found it.