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 chestpressed 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.
Chapter 4 - Ethan
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.”
