“Told you, altitude,” Riley whispered.
Ethan laughed, shook out his legs, and looked up at the sky. The air was so clear it made the world feel further away, every sound exaggerated. Insects buzzing, the low cough of a horse, Jack’s endless mutterings.
Cole did a circuit, checking hooves and straps, refilling water from the emergency stash in his saddlebag. When he got to Ethan, he barely met his eyes. “How’s she treating you?” he asked, patting the horse’s neck.
“Pretty well,” Ethan said, trying for casual.
Cole’s mouth twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “Watch your grip on the reins. Give her more slack downhill, keep your center over the horn.”
Ethan nodded, absorbing every syllable.
Cole moved on. The touch of his hand on the animal, the sound of his voice, the economy of movement—it all left Ethan feeling both steadied and unmoored.
They mounted up again, this time with less ceremony. The second leg was rougher, more exposed. Every switchback brought a new view: jagged ridges to the north, a stream flickering below in a silver coil, distant snow lingering in theshadowed gullies. The world smelled of living green and cold stone, and somewhere below it all, the faint promise of water.
Jack resumed his monologue, now focused on market analysis, “Believe me, wilderness retreats are the next big bubble. You could make a killing franchising this shit.”
Riley, more subdued, spent most of the ride scanning the undergrowth. Every now and then he’d point: “See that? Pine marten. They’re rare up here.”
Ethan was glad for the distraction. If he let his thoughts wander, they landed on Cole—on the roughness of his hands, the way he never lost patience with the group, the way he said Ethan’s name like it was already familiar.
Somewhere past the two-hour mark, the air changed. The wind, always present, got cooler and picked up the first traces of running water—clear, insistent, impossible to ignore. The trail dipped, the forest thinned, and then the sound of water swelled to fill the silence.
Cole stopped at the ridge’s lip, dismounted, and walked forward on foot. The group followed, tethered by curiosity.
The clearing opened, and there it was: Thunder Falls Basin. The waterfall was a white sheet, thirty feet tall, punching down into a bowl of stone. The spray caught the sun in fractured rainbows, the pools below clear enough to see fish darting over sunken logs. Pines and scrub ringed the basin, turning it into a private amphitheater of noise and color.
No one spoke for a long moment. Even Jack was stunned into silence.
Cole turned, the wind flattening his shirt against the hard frame of his chest. “Welcome to our first campsite.”
Ethan tried to breathe, tried to absorb it all. The cold air, the relentless music of the falls, the tight pull of his muscles, the ache in his hands from gripping the saddle. He felt small and infinite at the same time.
Jack just stared, mouth open, like he’d found the one thing money couldn’t buy.
Riley grinned and looked at Ethan, eyes bright. “See? Worth every step.”
It was. Even the ache, even the uncertainty. Everything was worth it for this.
Cole walked to the edge of the basin, pausing to let the mist hit his face, and for the first time since they’d left the ranch, Ethan saw the man smile. Not a flicker, but the real thing, and for a second it felt like the world itself had changed trajectory.
Camp setup was a choreography all its own. Cole, as promised, taught a masterclass in mountain tent security. He showed how to anchor the lines with “deadman” rocks, how to angle the stakes against the wind, and how to use boughs of pine as insulation from the frozen ground. Even Harper, usually unflappable, watched with open admiration.
“You ever do anything half-assed?” she teased, as Cole drove the final stake with the butt of his hatchet.
Cole just grunted. “Half-assed can get you killed.”
Cole worked in quiet tandem with Harper, the two of them moving through the steps like an old habit. Riley and Jack bickered over who was better at hammering in tent stakes, with Jack finally conceding the point only because Riley pretended not to care.
Ethan managed to set his own shelter, fingers numb but pleased with the result. The small dome tent was slotted close to the water.
He was stowing his sleeping bag when Cole called him over. “Ever fished before?” Cole stood at the water’s edge, rod and reel in one hand, tackle box in the other.
Ethan shook his head. “Not since I was a kid. My dad was never really into the type of thing. Took me once just to check it off the parenting milestone list.”
Cole patted the spot beside him on a smoothed boulder. “You should give it another shot, you might find that you find it fun as an adult.”
The falls roared in the background, but up close the water moved with a different kind of music—tumbling, chaotic, never the same two seconds in a row. Cole threaded a lure with clinical precision, then handed the rod to Ethan, stepping in so close that Ethan felt the brush of Cole’s thigh.
