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.
A mile in, Cole slowed at a switchback and held up his hand for a break. The group fanned out in a little clearing. Harper slid from her saddle with the grace of a gymnast, while Jack groaned and stretched his spine like he’d just returned from combat.
“Legs,” Jack muttered. “Nobody tells you about the legs.”
“Rookie mistake,” Harper said, tossing him a jerky stick from her pack.
Ethan tried to dismount with dignity, but his thighs screamed. He landed half a step too hard, knees almost buckling. Riley caught his arm, steadying him.
