Chapter 4
Ethan woke to the distant scent of bacon and smoke. He shrugged on his shirt, gritty with sleep and bourbon, and made his way to the main lodge for breakfast.
Sunlight blew out the east windows, flooding the long refectory table with gold light. Harper was already at the far end, hair still damp from the world’s shortest shower, shoveling eggs and home fries onto her plate. She looked up, raised a fork in greeting. “Slept in, city boy?”
“Didn’t know there was a wake-up call,” Ethan said, voice husky. He reached for the carafe and poured himself a mug, sloshing some onto his hand.
Harper smirked. “Guess you’ll have to adjust to ranch time. Day starts at six.”
Jack appeared next, gym shorts and compression tee belying his hangover, which he wore like an expensive cologne. He eyed the buffet then filled his plate.
“Morning,” he said, popping a grape tomato into his mouth. “I’m starting to believe this whole rugged-wilderness experience is just an excuse for them to feed us like prize cattle.”
“Shut up and eat,” Harper said, not unkind.
Riley wandered in last, hoodie zipped to his chin, sunglasses hiding most of his face. He went straight for the coffee, bypassed food, and dropped into the chair beside Ethan. “I’m not a morning person,” Riley announced, like it was a warning.
Ethan grinned. “Are you ever?”
“Only after sex.” Riley deadpanned.
Cole entered with no fanfare—fresh jeans, plain black T-shirt, and the kind of stride that let you know the day’s schedule was already tattooed behind his eyes.
The room shifted around his gravity. He offered a tight nod to each of them, then grabbed a single egg, black, unsugared coffee, and perched at the end of the table.
“Eat up. Pack out in thirty,” he said. The command brooked no argument.
Conversation went sideways from there— Harper going all-in on the anatomy of mountain hangovers, Riley texting even while chewing. Ethan picked at the food, appetite caught between last night’s aftertaste and the pressure of what was next.
Cole ate in silence, jaw moving slow, eyes fixed on the dark stretch of window beyond the kitchen. Only once did he look up, and when he did it was right at Ethan—bare, unfiltered, the stare a blunt instrument.
Ethan dropped his gaze to his mug. He tried not to think about the shape of Cole’s mouth, the split-second brush of hands the night before, or the fact that he’d dreamed about both.
Cole stood, finished first. “Meet at the barn when you’re ready,” he said, voice even. “It’s cold out. Dress smart.”
Harper knocked back her juice and started stacking plates. “You’ll want boots, Ethan. Proper ones, not those city loafers. There’s a locker room next to the tack shed if you didn’t bring any.”
“Noted,” he said.
She eyed him for a moment, her gaze sharp but not unfriendly. “You ready for this?”
Ethan shrugged. “Define ‘ready.’”
Harper grinned. “Don’t die on day one and you’ll make the slideshow. Come on, I’ll help you with the gear.”
They headed out together, boots echoing down the flagstone corridor. Ethan breathed in the pine and woodsmoke and let the adrenaline settle. The yard was already alive—horses saddled and shifting, wranglers moving in efficient arcs, the day crisp and brutally honest.
They found their packs lined up against the barn. Harper went to work with methodical precision, sorting her gear into waterproof bags, double-checking every cinch and buckle. Ethan did his best to mirror her, though his hands fumbled with the knots.
“You ever camp before?” she asked, slicing the silence.
“Only the kind with Wi-Fi and turn-down service,” he admitted.
She laughed. “You’ll do fine. Just keep your head up and listen to Cole. He’s good. Knows the land better than Google Maps.”
Ethan risked a glance toward the far paddock.
Cole was alone with the horses, moving from one to the next, checking saddle fit and bridle tension, giving each animal a wordless, grounding touch.
His movements were almost intimate—like he was calibrating the world to himself, one living thing at a time.
Ethan found himself watching the lines of Cole’s body: the way his back flexed under the thin tee, the cut of his shoulders, the absolute certainty in every motion. He wondered if it was possible to envy a man and want him in the same breath.
“You’ll want to hydrate, too,” Riley’s voice cut in, sudden over Ethan’s shoulder. “Altitude headache is a bitch.”
Ethan took the proffered Nalgene, noting the stickers: national parks, rainbow flags, a line of tiny metallic hearts. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” Riley said, lowering his sunglasses to peer at Ethan with unguarded curiosity. “You doing okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Riley shrugged. “First time out here, new crowd, lots of—” he gestured in the general direction of the horses, mountains, sky, “—energy. It’s a lot. Especially if you’re used to running solo.”
Ethan was about to object, but then realized Riley wasn’t teasing. “Yeah. It’s a lot. But it’s good.”
“Thought so,” Riley said, smile returning. “You’ll fit right in.”
Cole called from the fence line. “Circle up!”
The group gathered, city gear replaced with trail layers and an unspoken mutual respect. Even Jack looked the part in a windbreaker and actual hiking boots.
Cole’s eyes swept the circle, landing on each of them with the same analytical precision. “Here’s the deal. First leg is six miles, mostly flat with one tough incline. Stay with your horse. If you’re uncomfortable, tell me. If you’re scared, tell me. If you need a break, we take it as a group.”
He paused, letting the words settle. “No phones. No music. Listen to the forest.”
Harper nodded, dead serious. Riley grinned like he’d been waiting his whole life for a rule like that. Jack smirked.
Ethan felt something in his chest loosen—a sense of permission he hadn’t realized he needed.
Once everyone was mounted, Cole did a final check—walking the line, adjusting straps, murmuring low words to horse and rider alike. When he reached Ethan, he paused just a beat longer.
“You’ll do fine,” Cole said, voice pitched for only the two of them.
“Thanks,” Ethan replied, feeling the words tangle.
Cole’s eyes lingered, blue and complicated, then he moved on.
They rolled out in single file, hooves pounding frost-hardened ground, the sound swallowing up any last doubts.
Harper rode up front, chatting easily with Cole.
Riley slotted in behind, scanning the trail for movement.
Jack took up the rear, already angling for the best angle for his next social post.
Ethan was third in line—close enough to watch the shift of muscle under Cole’s shirt, to see the way sunlight picked out the silvers at his temples when he looked back to check on them. The air was so clean it hurt to breathe, and the ache in Ethan’s body felt more like promise than threat.
They rode out of the yard, under the split-rail gate, and into the wild that waited beyond.
Ethan looked ahead at Cole, the man’s silhouette sharp against the impossible blue of Montana sky, and felt the old world slough away, one stride at a time.
The horses took to the trail like they’d been bred for nothing else.
It was a slow, muscular rhythm—hooves sucking into soft dirt, the shudder of tack with every step, the underlying thump of heart against ribcage that Ethan felt in his own chest. After the first half mile, the ranch disappeared behind a shoulder of timber, and the mountain ate the world whole.
Ethan tried to catalog what he felt, to keep it sorted: adrenaline, nervousness, a creeping sense of weightlessness he hadn’t known since college.
But mostly what he noticed was Cole, maybe twenty feet ahead, riding with an easy straightness that seemed at odds with the torque and tangle of trail.
There was never a moment he wasn’t in total control of his animal, never a second where he seemed surprised by the land beneath him.
Every ten minutes or so, Cole would glance back, checking the line. The flicker of blue eyes above the shoulder, the curt nod if all was well.
Jack, now riding just behind Harper, used the winding trail as a kind of stage. Every new landmark—scar of boulder, gnarled lightning tree, a sudden field of wild lupine—became a cue for another story.
“You know what’s funny?” Jack said, voice echoing along the path. “Most people think you need a guide for stuff like this, but I once summited Kilimanjaro on nothing but willpower and PowerBars. Guide actually quit day four. Altitude sickness.”
Harper didn’t break stride. “Sure. And I once performed open heart surgery on my cat. You want a medal, or just a round of applause?”
Jack snorted, but the punch didn’t land. He tried another: “You ever notice how these old-growth pines look kind of…phallic? Maybe it’s just me.”
Harper deadpanned, “Your trauma is showing, Jack.”
Riley, just behind Ethan, made a show of pulling out his phone—then remembered the rules and tucked it back into his vest. “You two should be a podcast,” he said, angling up alongside Ethan for a better view of the bickering.
Riley whispered, “You’re doing great, by the way. You sure you’ve never done this?”
“Never,” Ethan said. “But I like it.”
Riley’s eyes flicked up the line to Cole, then back to Ethan. “He’s not so scary when you get to know him.”
Ethan didn’t respond. He focused on the saddle, on the rise and fall of the horse’s breathing, on the way the smell of sun-warmed fur mixed with the earthy tang of pine needles.
As the trail grew steeper, the group’s banter faded.
The path threaded through a stand of Douglas fir, sunlight slicing in narrow, surgical bands.
It looked fake, almost movie-perfect, and yet nothing about it felt gentle.
The slope got meaner, rocks and tree roots converging to test your balance and resolve.