Chapter 3 - Ethan #2
They drank in a single, burning swallow. The tension bled out, replaced by laughter, louder and more ragged than before. They recounted the fire from every possible angle, each time upping the drama.
Ethan tried to tune out the afterimages: Cole’s body pressed against his, the heat, the smell of sweat and danger.
By the time the plates were cleared, the smoke had thinned and the staff had resumed business like nothing had ever gone wrong.
The group was reassembled at the table, looser now, limbs splayed, voices easy.
Harper lounged with a leg slung over the arm of her chair, Riley resting his chin in his palm, Jack finally off his laptop.
They had just gotten to the part of the story where Harper compared the kitchen fire to her last relationship when the window rattled with a sudden clang—hoofbeats, desperate and fast, and a shout from the direction of the stable yard.
Cole’s head snapped up. He was out of his chair before anyone else registered the noise.
Ethan followed, half by instinct, barely feeling the chill as he shoved through the lodge doors.
The night outside was clear and sharp, the moon a silver blade.
Down the hill, a horse—one of the draft crosses—barreled along the split-rail fence, eyes wild, nostrils flaring steam.
A couple of ranch hands sprinted after, boots sliding on icy gravel.
Cole scanned the scene, then broke for the gear shed. “Rope,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone.
Ethan saw where the horse was heading: the east meadow, open except for the utility barn and a fence line that would end with a hundred yards of nothing but hard ground and frost-burned weeds. He sprinted after Cole, lungs already screaming from the altitude, every step pounding in his temples.
Cole emerged with a lasso, whirled it once, twice, and launched it over the horse’s head with flawless aim.
The rope cinched, the animal screamed and reared, but Cole leaned in with his full weight, digging heels into dirt.
For a second, Ethan thought they’d both go down, but the rope held, and Cole barely moved.
Ethan flanked wide, cutting off the animal’s only exit route. He moved slow, hands out, voice low. “Easy, buddy. You’re all right.” The horse shuddered, huffed, then went still, sides heaving. Cole handed off the lead with a nod, sweat streaking his brow despite the cold.
The ranch hands arrived a moment later, panting and out of breath, one with a minor cut on his palm. “Sorry, boss,” he said to Cole, voice sheepish. “Gate was loose. He saw his chance.”
Cole shook his head. “Happens. No one’s hurt.”
He looked at Ethan, a ghost of a grin under the exhaustion. “Good assist.”
Ethan didn’t know what to do with the pride that bloomed in his chest.
They walked the horse back together, close enough for Ethan to feel the brush of Cole’s arm every few steps. The energy between them was electric, charged with more than just the aftermath of danger.
When they handed the horse off to the wranglers, Cole lingered. “You handle chaos pretty well,” he said, voice pitched low. “Not everyone can.”
Before Ethan could answer, the rest of the pack group arrived, breathless and laughing. Harper high-fived Ethan, Riley slung an arm around his shoulder. Jack caught Cole’s eye and nodded, grudgingly impressed.
They stood together in the night, hearts still hammering, the smell of horse and burnt sugar thick in the air. It felt, for a moment, like nothing outside the ranch existed—no jobs, no expectations, no one but the people who’d just lived this hour together.
An hour after the chaos in the yard, the pack group found themselves camped around the old stone fire ring out back, the ranch’s twin propane lanterns hissing and glowing above the conversation.
Someone—probably Riley—had foraged a six-pack of Rainier and a half-empty bottle of bourbon from earlier.
The fire pit crackled, throwing long shadows against boots and denim knees, faces gone orange and gold.
Cole appeared with a battered Martin guitar in hand, shoulders sloped in that way men have when they want to look invisible and know they never could be. He tuned it fast, picked a run of notes that sounded both hopeful and haunted, and played while the group talked and drank.
Ethan sat between Harper and Riley, the edge of the seat so close to the fire he could feel the heat through his jeans.
The events of the night had burned away his self-consciousness; he was loose and stupidly alive.
Every now and then, he caught himself staring at Cole’s hands on the fretboard, the subtle flex of forearms as he changed chords.
The way the music leaked out—spare and honest—made it impossible to believe this was the same man who faced down stampeding horses and sociopathic fathers without blinking.
For the first fifteen minutes, conversation clung to the familiar—how close the horse had come to breaking a leg, how Cole’s lasso throw was “some serious Yellowstone shit” according to Jack. Riley kept the liquor moving, pouring generous shots for anyone willing.
But it was Harper who shifted the current, draping her legs over a log and saying, “I think we should play something more fun. No more ‘never have I ever.’ We all know you’re a slut, Jack.”
Jack tipped his head, saluted with his bottle. “And proud.”
Harper grinned. “What if we each say something about ourselves nobody here would guess? No filters. First one to chicken out does the dishes for the whole trip.”
Riley perked up immediately. “This is the energy I live for. Ethan, you’re up first.”
Ethan hesitated, but the bourbon’s warmth had gone to his head and he didn’t much care anymore. “I—uh. I like woodworking. Like, actual hand tools. I built my own bookshelves last year.”
Riley beamed. “That is both adorable and on-brand for someone who wears flannel for fun.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Weak. I can top that in my sleep. I have a massive collection of vintage comic books. Like, floor-to-ceiling. I dated a girl who called it my ‘virgin wall.’ She was an asshole.”
Harper howled. “Oh, that’s beautiful. Riley?”
Riley made a show of thinking, then said, “I went to ballet school for three years. Not a joke. I have tights and everything.”
Jack gave him a look. “That… actually makes sense.”
Harper pointed at herself. “When I was twenty, I rode in an illegal motorcycle race across the Mojave. Lost half a toenail, gained a tattoo, fucked a hot biker guy, and my mom still thinks I went to a geology conference.”
They all turned to Cole, who had stopped playing but was cradling the guitar like a shield. The firelight made his eyes shadowed and unreadable.
He looked up, finally. “I write poetry,” he said, voice almost embarrassed. “I don’t show anyone.”
Silence, sharp as a tack.
Then Riley, breathless, said, “Holy shit. You’re a cowboy Rimbaud.”
The mood turned easy, laughter thick and rolling. Cole went back to playing, softer this time, the sound drawing everyone a little closer.
Harper started telling the Mojave story, milking every detail. Riley sprawled on the grass, feet up, hair haloed by firelight. Jack leaned back with his beer, for once not the center of attention.
Ethan caught himself drifting—watching Cole, the tilt of his head, the curve of his mouth as he lost himself in the music. Every few songs, Cole’s eyes would find his across the flames, hold for a heartbeat, then flick away. It felt intentional, like a game of chicken neither wanted to win.
Halfway through the bottle, Riley dared Harper to slow-dance him around the fire. She agreed, immediately and with terrifying confidence, dragging him by the hand. “I’m leading,” she declared.
“You always do,” Riley replied, but he let her spin him in a loose, laughing circle, boots sliding in the dust.
They collapsed together on the log, winded and happy. Cole played something slow and twangy, voice finally joining in—a whiskey-and-weathered sound that made Ethan’s skin prickle.
When the song ended, Cole asked, “Anyone want to learn a few chords?”
Ethan’s hand went up before his brain caught up. “I’ll try.”
Cole beckoned him closer, motioned for Ethan to sit on the log next to him. “It’s easy once you get the calluses,” Cole said, offering the guitar.
Ethan took it, surprised by the weight, and tried to mimic Cole’s position. His hands felt clumsy, fingers too thick for the strings.
Cole reached around him, their arms brushing. “Here,” he said, his voice soft, “thumb on the back, like this.” He placed his own hand over Ethan’s, guiding, the touch lingering just long enough to catch. Ethan felt the heat, the electricity.
The moment shrank to just the two of them, the hush of guitar and breath. Cole’s fingers pressed Ethan’s into place, his chest pressed to Ethan’s back, and for a moment the rest of the world receded—no ex-wives, no broken fathers, no audience.
“Try it,” Cole said, barely above a whisper.
Ethan strummed. The chord rang ugly and loud.
Cole winced, but patted him on the back anyway. “You’ll get it,” Cole said.
The night spun on—stories, more drinks, a round of truth or dare that got dangerous fast and left Jack half-naked behind a bush for ten minutes. By the time the fire was embers, the group was sprawled on the grass, heads against backpacks, eyes glassy with sleep and whiskey.
Cole was a few feet away. Ethan felt the weight of everything unsaid, all the possibility straining at the edges. He wanted to speak, to bridge the last inches between them, but the words were locked behind old, familiar walls.
Cole glanced up and finally broke the groups trance. “Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day. Pack trip starts shortly after sunrise. I’d get some sleep if I were you.” Cole’s lips twisted into a real, genuine smile. “Goodnight, all.”
Harper dragged herself up, pulling Riley along. Jack staggered after, already making plans for breakfast.
The group split off, but Ethan hung back, feeling the chill cut through his shirt, unsure what to do with the feeling left buzzing under his skin.
He watched Cole disappear into the night, boots scuffing out a rhythm.
Ethan went to bed buzzing — excited for the adventure to begin.