Cole’s mouth set in a line. “Just a spook, Dad. I’ve got it handled.”
Hershel Walker—because it could only be him—shot a glance at the colt, then at Cole. “Handling it means I don’t hear aboutit. We have a full booking. Some of these people are worth more than the ranch. You get me?”
Cole’s jaw ticked once, almost a shrug but not. “I get you.”
Hershel’s gaze swept the lot, pausing on each guest, taking inventory. His eyes landed on Ethan with the briefest hint of calculation, then moved on.
“Remember what I said about keeping the right clientele, Cole,” Hershel said.
Cole nodded, stone-faced. Hershel pivoted on a boot heel and strode back toward the house, taking the cold with him.
Ethan feigned interest in his duffel, fingers sifting through the fabric, while the words hung in the air like a storm cloud, heavy and oppressive. So that’s how it was—legacy, image, nothing out of place. He could practically taste the tension between father and son, sharp and metallic in the air.
Cole untied the colt and walked it back to the stable, barely sparing a glance.
Ethan slung the duffel across his chest and started for the porch. Behind him, the day was cloudless, but something heavy hung overhead anyway.
A few yards from the porch, the dirt opened into a staging area framed by weathered rail fencing and elongated shadows stretching across the ground. Under the eaves, three figures gathered, each embodying a distinct energy: a woman perched casually on a fence rail, exuding confidence with a relaxed posture; a tall blond man leaning back against the wood, hands buried deep in his pockets, his demeanor radiating an easy charm; and a wiry, hyperalert guy who flicked through his phone, his eyes darting around as if cataloging every detail in their surroundings.
Cole appeared, closing the distance in a few fluid strides. “You must be Ethan,” he said, voice softer than before but threaded with authority. “Glad you found the place in one piece.”
Ethan offered his hand, acutely aware of the way the grip measured him—dry, steady, the handshake a form of boundary. Up close, Cole’s eyes were less cold and more complicated, the blue ringed with tiredness and something else, maybe curiosity.
“This is our pack group,” Cole said, shifting the attention to the others. “You’ll be spending the next two weeks either loving or hating each other. Try to keep it civil until the second day at least.”
The woman hopped off the fence, landing with athletic grace. She was a redhead, tall and tanned, freckles everywhere the sun could reach. Her shirt clung in ways that said she was proud of the work that built those shoulders. She sized Ethan up and grinned.
“Harper Fox,” she said. The handshake was firm, not competitive. Harper tilted her head, a playful smile dancing on her lips as she studied Ethan. “You look like you could use a little adventure,” she said, her voice teasing and warm.
Ethan felt a flicker of surprise. How could she see through him so easily? “Guess I’ve been a bit cooped up lately,” he admitted, a hint of vulnerability creeping in.
“You came to the right place,” she replied, her grin infectious.
Next was the blond—bigger than Cole, square jaw and gym-sculpted, but with the loose posture of a man who never had to prove anything. He wore a neon-branded performance pullover over the kind of shirt that cost more than most round-trip flights.
“Jack Carson,” he said, his voice smooth and confident, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I’m all about investments—whatever’s hot right now. Let’s just say I know how to spot a good opportunity when it struts by.”
Jack’s handshake was firm, exuding a self-assuredness that suggested he was well-acquainted with making connections. Ethan met the grip with equal steadiness.
The last was Riley Evans, wiry and bright-eyed, with a smile so immediate it felt like old friendship. He wore well-fitted layers, sunglasses pushed up, and carried himself with casual competence.
"Riley Evans," he said with a lilting cadence that rose at the end of his name. His handshake was quick but warm, his wrist limp. "Digital nomad by trade. Been working from Bali for the last six months—figured I'd trade beach boys for cowboys." He winked at Ethan with practiced ease. "Change of scenery, you know?"
Cole pointed them to a row of benches outside the corral. “Let’s grab a seat. I’ll walk you through the trip.”
They moved as a clump—Jack grabbing the spot with the most shade, Harper slinging her pack beside her, Riley flicking his phone to Do Not Disturb. Ethan sat at the end and did his best to blend in.
Cole leaned against the fence, arms crossed, hat tipped back to expose the line of his brow. “You signed up for the Challenge Option. That means long days, early mornings, epic adventures and the possibility of weather so bad you’ll dream about dying in a Marriott.”
Harper leaned forward, elbows on knees. "You had me at 'dream about dying.'"Cole's eyes narrowed slightly. "We camp at elevation. Sometimes we make our own path. And we do it all without a single complaint."Jack stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles. "And if we start whining? What's the penalty—our credit cards get charged?"
Cole's lips curled into a thin smile, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “If you start complaining, I’ll have you cleaning the stables for a week. Just a little incentive to keep the whining to a minimum.”
He laid out the logistics—gear checks, meal plans, the rotating assignments for camp duty—and Ethan felt himself pulled inby the cadence, the total control. Cole didn’t oversell. He didn’t even try. He just set expectations and left the rest to fall in.
But it was the hands that got Ethan—the way Cole’s fingers curled over the rail, the clean, deliberate gestures when he pointed to a map or called out an instruction. It shouldn’t have been erotic, but Ethan’s mind wouldn’t let it go. He imagined those hands on his own skin, kneading the knots from his shoulders, gripping something more than a lasso.
He snapped his attention back as Cole addressed him directly. “Any issues with horses, Ethan? Allergies? Phobias?”
