Chapter 19 - Cole
Cole woke to the sound of his own teeth grinding. The sky was black except for the glow at the horizon. He lay still, waiting for the riot in his chest to quiet, but it only got worse as the tent’s walls pressed closer with each heartbeat.
When he peeled back the zipper, the outside air hit like a slap.
It should have felt like victory. He’d survived another night with the ghosts of his failures, had even managed to hold them at bay for a few hours of dark, stuttering sleep.
He could still feel the pure pleasure of Ethan’s warm, wet, tight throat around his throbbing hard cock.
He stepped onto the frost-kissed ground, the icy air biting at his skin. Cole’s hands shook as he rolled his tent. He almost thought about what he’d done yesterday—what he’d become—and he wasn’t sure he could stomach it so he buried the thought as soon as it arrived.
The horses were clustered together, shaggy and half-asleep, noses white from the hard freeze.
He heard a tent zipper behind him. A glance—out of habit, before he could stop himself. Ethan. Of course.
Ethan stood hunched in the predawn, face red from the cold, eyes bruised with a sleeplessness that matched Cole’s own.
He moved in a tight, self-conscious rhythm, avoiding Cole’s gaze as he reached for his boots.
Cole looked away immediately. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he let himself watch. He wasn’t sure if he could survive it.
Another zipper rang out, “Morning,” Riley said.
Ethan greeted Riley with a soft, sleepy, “Good morning.”
Cole nodded. “Morning” He kept his face still, his voice tighter than usual.
He was aware, at the edge of his vision, of the way Ethan’s hands moved. Quick. Neat. They reminded him of the way they’d looked last night, wrapping around his cock, steady and full of purpose. He bit down on the memory, ground it into powder, and focused on tying a figure eight in the horse line.
Jack was next out, hair spiked in every direction. “Christ, it’s cold. Coffee ready yet?”
Riley was already on it. ‘Not yet. Maybe you should try taking a turn making it for everyone.”
Harper emerged from her tent, her eyes bright and her hair a fiery cascade that caught the pale morning light. “Good morning, everyone,” she called out cheerfully.
“Just in time. Coffee’s ready!” Riley chimed in.
Ethan stepped in, filling a mug, and said something low to Riley. Their voices barely carried, but Cole felt every syllable like a splinter. He risked a glance, just to be sure. Ethan’s eyes were on the fire, his shoulders hunched, mouth drawn.
For a moment, Cole wanted to go over, to say… what? Sorry for losing my mind and running out on you? Thanks for making me feel something other than dead? He had no idea what would come out if he started talking, and so he did what he always did—stuffed it down and went back to work.
Breakfast was a quiet, businesslike affair—no jokes, no stories, just freeze-dried eggs and hunks of hard bread eaten in silence.
Even Jack, who usually blabbered on about nothing, just shoveled food and stared out at the ridge.
The quiet made every tiny noise—the scrape of metal on tin, the crackle of the fire—feel huge.
Cole packed his own gear with a fury. When the bag stuck, he yanked it harder, nearly ripping the zipper off. He caught himself, glanced around, saw Harper watching from the corner of her eye. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t need to.
He wasn’t supposed to lose control. He was Walker stock, cut from the same bone as every man who’d ever run the ranch. He was supposed to take pain and bend it until it broke, not the other way around. And yet, here he was, barely holding it together because of a man he’d known for barely a week.
He hated how much he wanted to talk to Ethan, even more than he hated himself for last night.
The sun finally crested, flooding the meadow with a hard, clear light. The wildflowers glittered with frost. For a moment the whole world looked sharpened, like it might cut you if you weren’t careful.
They broke camp, rolling up tents, stowing cooking gear, and leading the horses to feed on the dew-damp grass. Saddlebags were tightened, bedrolls lashed, and in no time they were ready to move.
Cole lined everyone up beside the trailhead. “Alright,” he said, voice firm. “The return trail is much easier and will get us back to the ranch faster. I want us through the narrow canyon by midday.”
No one argued. Jack slung his bag onto his horse and gave a tight thumbs-up and a faint smile. Riley mounted his horse and then began humming softly. Harper hung back at the end, calm as always.
Ethan swung into the saddle with smooth confidence that made Cole’s chest tighten.
Cole’s fingers trembled as he mounted. He gripped the reins until his knuckles whitened, then lifted his chin. “Let’s go,” he said, eyes on the west, where the trail plunged into shadowed rock walls.
Cole took the lead. Jack, Riley and Harper fell in behind and Ethan brought up the rear. Cole felt that distance like a weight in his chest.
They picked their way down the steep hillside, switchback after switchback through pale grass and scrub pines.
His body moved on autopilot while his thoughts tried in vain to shut off.
Every time he caught himself wanting to glance back—just to make sure Ethan was holding his place—he forced his eyes forward, tracing the worn hoofprints in the dust.
After a couple of hours the trail smoothed out, and Cole signaled a break. He tightened a strap on his saddle, checked each horse’s hooves, and tried not to look over at Ethan, who had dismounted and drifted into the shade beside a boulder, head down, hands buried in his pockets.
Harper sidled up. “You good?” she asked, voice low.
He nodded, keeping his gaze on the canyon mouth. “Just making sure we don’t lose time.”
She studied him a moment, then gave a small, knowing nod and stepped back.
Cole wanted to tell her everything—ask for help, or just admit how shaky he felt—but he swallowed it down.
When everyone remounted, Cole brought them back into line with a sharp whistle. Riley snapped a salute; Jack gave an exaggerated groan; Ethan climbed up quietly and fell into place, eyes briefly meeting Cole’s before darting away.
The switchbacks grew rockier and steeper, and conversation dried up. Horses’ breaths steamed in the cool air. Cole led with careful precision, every command low and measured.
He heard Ethan’s soft cough behind him but forced himself not to look back. He counted each turn, each drop in elevation, until the trail finally flattened out on a broad plateau. Ahead lay the next canyon, and beyond that, the gentle winding path toward the ranch.
Cole made a show of checking the weather.
The clouds were building faster than he liked, darker and meaner by the minute.
He ran the math: two hours to the canyon mouth, maybe three more through to the other side if they didn’t stop.
He calculated every risk, every possible fuck-up, because it was easier than thinking about what he’d done.
The closer they got to Storm Canyon Pass, the more Cole’s anxiety ticked up, a steady thrum in his forearms and the base of his spine.
It was supposed to clear and sunny day, but the wind was all wrong; it pushed through the notches in angry, uneven gusts, rattling dead branches and driving the horses half-crazy.
He could feel the eyes of the group on him.
The only way out was through.
He urged the horses on, faster than safety allowed, but not so fast anyone would dare call him on it. The clouds grew darker and more swollen as they loomed overhead.
He tried not to think about Ethan. Tried not to think about the way it had felt to be wanted, to be taken care of, even for a minute. Tried not to think about what his father would say if he knew what he had become.
But the thoughts wouldn’t leave. They spiraled through him, faster than the horses ever could.
At the edge of the canyon, the wind went quiet for a single, perfect second, and he heard a voice behind him, softer than he expected.
“Cole?”
It was Ethan.
He nearly turned around.
But he didn’t.
He just squared his shoulders, flexed his hands until the shake left them, and rode into the pass.
Because if you stopped moving, even for a second, the whole thing might fall apart.
And Cole Walker knew how to survive. He’d been surviving his entire life.
For a few hours, a sense of normalcy washed over them.
The pass unfolded before them, wide and inviting, a gentle arc cradled between towering, snow-dusted cliffs.
The sunlight filtered through the gaps in the rocks, casting playful shadows on the trail, while the distant sound of rushing water echoed like a soothing lullaby.
The air was crisp, filled with the earthy scent of pine and damp stone, offering a brief respite from the turmoil that churned within Cole.
For a moment, the weight of his worries lifted, replaced by the beauty surrounding them and the rhythmic cadence of hooves against the rugged terrain.
The horses seemed relieved to be on a real trail instead of slick rock or tangled meadow. Riley broke the silence with dumb stories—bad dates, hangover cures, a blow-by-blow of the time he’d been stuck in a New York elevator for three hours with a D-list soap actor.
It would have been funny, under different circumstances.
He let himself believe for a split second that this could last, that the spell would hold until they made the cutout below the pass. But then the air changed.