Chapter 3 - Ethan
The scent of cedar and sizzling fat hit Ethan the second he entered the main lodge. Massive beams overhead, long tables set with mismatched pottery, the stone hearth glowing at the far end. Someone had swapped the soft pop playlist from breakfast to Johnny Cash.
He’d changed clothes after the ride, taking a shower and lingering too long under the hot water. His body ached from muscles not used in years. He caught his own reflection in the narrow hall mirror—a towel-scruffed beard, hair refusing to dry in any sane direction.
The pack group was already at their assigned table.
Harper, hair still wet, sipped neat bourbon and held court with Riley, whose sunburned nose matched his cocktail.
Jack had claimed the end seat, laptop out and tethered to the only power outlet in reach, its blue glow the last tie to his real world.
Cole was the last to appear—clean button-down, new bruise on his right knuckle, expression unreadable as he scanned the room before sitting.
Ethan pretended not to notice the way the man’s gaze lingered on him, or the way his pulse thumped when it did.
The first course hit the table—smoked trout, wild greens, tiny golden beets with a horseradish dollop. Harper moaned through her first bite, then grinned at Ethan. “Montana does not fuck around with food.”
Riley snorted then picked a crouton off Harper’s plate which earned him a quick slap on the back of his hand.
Jack ignored the conversation and instead jabbed at his keyboard while he ate, grumbling about Wi-Fi speeds and portfolio volatility. He barely looked up when Ethan slid into the seat beside him.
“Did you guys know there’s, like, no cell service in this entire county?” Jack said, gaze flicking up just long enough to catch Harper’s.
Cole, already finished with his first course, buttered a chunk of sourdough while he waited patiently for the next course to be served.
It was during the second course—steak, rare and swimming in shallots—that the room shifted.
The chatter softened, laughter sucked into the walls like a draft.
Ethan followed the invisible line of pressure and saw the reason: Hershel Walker, all six-foot-something and silver-fox menace, standing just inside the main doors.
He wore a suit the color of ash, tailored and gleaming, with a vest and pocket square that could have paid the month’s utilities.
His boots were polished black leather, soles so clean they probably hadn’t touched dirt since last year’s campaign season.
On his arm was a trench-length coat, slung carelessly.
His eyes swept the room in a single, predatory pass.
Ethan felt the temperature drop. Cole went rigid, fingers whitening around the steak knife.
Hershel’s gaze landed on their table, lingered on Cole, then did a quick circuit of the group: Jack, Harper, Riley, Ethan. Something cold and tactical behind the eyes, like a sniper choosing a target.
He crossed to the bar, ordered something neat, and made a point of tipping the bartender—probably more than the kid made in a shift. Then he moved to their table, presence crowding out everyone else.
“Cole,” Hershel said, the word like an old debt.
Cole didn’t look up. “Evening, Dad.”
Hershel’s smile was pure theater. “You planning on introducing me?”
Cole set his silverware down, slow. “Everyone, this is my father. Hershel Walker. He owns the place.”
Harper gave a little wave, Riley a tight nod. Jack studied his screen as if the numbers mattered more.
Hershel looked each of them over, pausing on Ethan with a flicker of something between interest and contempt. “We get the best of the city out here. Good to see it still brings the right crowd.” He turned back to Cole. “A word?”
Cole stood, chair scraping, and followed his father toward the fireplace. They spoke in low voices, Cole’s body half-turned away from the room, every word a calculated move. Even without the sound, it was obvious: Hershel wasn’t here for pleasantries.
At the table, no one breathed.
Finally Harper let out a soft laugh. “Imagine growing up with that.”
Ethan watched Cole, the way the line of his back stiffened, the forced calm in the way he kept his arms at his sides. Hershel spoke with his hands, stabbing the air for punctuation, while Cole just absorbed it, motionless. The humiliation was surgical, intended to be witnessed.
The conversation lasted maybe a minute. Hershel finished his drink in one brutal swallow, set the glass down hard enough to crack, and stalked out of the lodge.
Through the wide front windows, Ethan watched as a black Escalade rolled to the curb.
A driver in a suit opened the rear door and Hershel slid in without a backward glance.
Cole lingered by the fire, knuckles to his lips, then returned to the table. He didn’t sit, just hooked his hands on the back of the chair and fixed his gaze on the wall behind Jack’s head.
Riley tried to lighten the mood. “Well, that wasn’t uncomfortable at all.”
Harper said, “At least he’s not our dad.”
Jack looked up, face blank. “The inheritance must be killer, though.”
No one laughed. Cole finally slid back into his seat, jaw flexing as he tried to find the thread of the meal again.
Ethan wanted to say something, anything, but nothing seemed big enough to patch the moment. Instead, he reached for the bread basket and nudged it toward Cole. Small gesture, but it broke the spell.
Cole took a slice, tore off a chunk, and finally looked up. His eyes met Ethan’s, blue and ragged. For a second, Ethan thought he saw gratitude—or maybe just the reflection of his own want, twisted and raw.
Across the table, Harper leaned in and said, “You know, if anyone needs to talk about their daddy issues, now’s the time.” She raised her glass. “To imperfect families.”
Riley snorted, lifted his own. “To surviving them.”
Ethan followed, and even Jack managed a reluctant raise. Cole looked at the toast, then at the group, and—after a long pause—clinked his glass softly against Harper’s.
The mood didn’t recover fully, but it cracked open enough for conversation to resume. Laughter returned, cautious but real. They fell back into stories—horse disasters, near-misses on the trail, life in general.
Cole didn’t say much the rest of the meal, but when the group stood to leave, Ethan noticed the man’s hand brush his own in the shuffle for jackets. The touch was brief and left Ethan’s skin hot the rest of the night.
He wondered how it would feel if someone touched him and didn’t let go.
By the time dessert landed—a mountain of huckleberry pie with vanilla ice cream liquefying at the edges—the group had worked through three bottles of Malbec and at least two hours’ worth of various stories, most of them heavily embellished.
Ethan felt loose for the first time in years, part of a pack instead of a lone operator.
Even Cole seemed lighter, shoulders less loaded, the lines of his face softer under the waning lamplight.
Then the world shifted again, the kind of left turn you didn’t see until the air itself told you to run.
It started with a shout in the kitchen, high and urgent, followed by the unmistakable whump of a grease fire catching. Smoke poured through the service window, oily and thick, followed by a blast of heat that sent the candles on the tables guttering.
For half a second, nobody moved. Then all hell broke loose.
Jack sprang up, nearly upending the table, and scanned for a fire extinguisher with Wall Street intensity.
“There—by the bar!” he yelled, vaulting a chair like it was a hedge fund intern.
Riley went straight into action mode, moving guests away from the kitchen door with the kind of authority that made you believe he’d done this before.
Harper corralled the staff, her voice calm, getting them to safety before any could panic.
Cole and Ethan reacted in unison. Cole made for the swinging doors, eyes narrowed, Ethan right behind. Inside the kitchen, orange tongues clawed up the side of a battered steel fryer, flames doubling every second. A teenage line cook stood frozen by the prep station, spatula in one hand, jaw slack.
Cole grabbed a wet towel, snapped it at the kid’s shoulder. “Get back. Go.” The order was absolute.
Ethan went for the emergency cutoff, smacking the red button with his palm.
The fryers whined down, but the fire kept gorging itself on pooled oil and old breadcrumbs.
Without thinking, he shouldered past Cole, yanked a heavy sheet pan off a rack, and slammed it over the source of the flames.
The burst of smoke was instant, savage, and for a second Ethan couldn’t see.
Cole moved in from the side, grabbed a second pan and shrouded the neighboring fryer before the fire could jump. The heat was ridiculous, suffocating, and made Ethan’s eyes water uncontrollably.
In the distance, Jack arrived with the fire extinguisher, hands shaking but eyes sharp. “Move!” he yelled, popping the pin and aiming low. The powder coated the area in a chemical snowstorm, cutting the flames to nothing but a stinking mess.
Harper poked her head in, Riley behind her, and surveyed the damage. “Ten points for teamwork,” she said, voice dry as ever.
Cole wiped a sleeve across his face, stared at Ethan with an intensity that burned hotter than the fryer. “You good?”
Ethan coughed, tried to laugh, then nodded. His hands were shaking and he wasn’t sure if it was adrenaline or the aftershock of standing this close to Cole, working in perfect, dangerous sync. He wanted to say something but the words jammed up behind his teeth.
They stumbled out to the main lodge. Jack was already telling the story, hands wide, painting himself as the star of the night. Riley was in the corner, comforting a staffer who’d gone ghost-white.
Harper found a bottle of bourbon on the bar and poured five neat shots. She set them out in a row, one for each of the group. “To not dying,” she said.