They fell quiet, both staring into the orange and blue at the heart of the flames.
Harper launched into a story about her first trail job—something about getting stuck in a storm with a pair of German honeymooners who tried to dry-hump through their rain gear. Jack shared a tale about a weekend in Cabo that nearly ended with him in a Mexican jail, but didn’t, thanks to a bribe and a box of Cuban cigars.
Cole listened, nodding along, but never really relaxed.
Eventually, as the fire burned down, Harper challenged them to a final round of “truth or dare,” but this time, the dares were all about honesty.
“Truth, Cole,” she said. “What’s the biggest thing you’re afraid of?”
Cole stared at the embers, then said, “Being the reason something goes wrong.”
It got quiet, but it was a good quiet. Riley felt the words settle over the camp, like an extra layer of warmth.
They drank more, talked more, and when the fire had faded, they turned in, one by one.
In the tent, Riley listened to the creaks and sighs of the forest, to the slow, deep breathing of the others. The day’s heat still buzzed in his muscles.
He closed his eyes and drifted off.
Chapter 6 - Cole
Cole Walker woke before the first blue knife of morning split the ridge, a hard ache running down his back. The valley was silent but for the drag of wind over frost and the distant shuffle of a horse rooting for grass. The others still slept.
He stoked the breakfast fire and boiled coffee, then walked the lines, testing every knot, every cinch, every snap in the feed buckets. When the sun finally crested, the air went from steel to silver, and he could see his own breath turning white as a birch switch. Good. Better to start cold—it would keep everyone alert.
The group emerged in shivers and grunts, drawn to the warmth and smell of eggs and meat.
Harper was first, eyes swollen but clear, her hair in a flame-fisted braid.
Jack followed, moving stiff but not broken, the cold peeling the sleep from his face.
Riley was a vaporous ghost, arms tucked into his armpits, every step an accusation against the concept of morning.
Ethan—always last—stepped from his tent in an early morning daze, blinking at the brightness. He looked raw, honest. Like a man peeled down to nerve endings.
Cole made sure they ate heavy, double-rations of protein and carbs, then ran them through the day’s plan: an early push into the high country which means three hours of rough climb, two more over the pass, and maybe—if they didn’t fuck around—a sheltered slot near the old surveyor’s cairn to camp before dark.
“Trail’s going to get nasty,” Cole said, flat and clear, as he tossed a strip of bacon to the fire. “We ride tight. Don’t talk unless you need to. If something spooks the horses, get low and hold your line.”
They packed in silence, the kind that sharpened focus. Cole liked this part—the slow slide from human noise to animal urgency, each person falling into their role. He checked his horse last, running his palm down the withers, feeling for heat or spasm. Satisfied, he mounted and wheeled to the front.
The first half-hour was easy, the trail still wide and soft, a rolling avenue of golden grass and frost-glazed sage. But soon the path choked off, turning to switchbacks and ankle-wrecking shale. Pines crowded the sky above, sunlight trickling through in broken lines. The air grew thinner with every climb, and even the horses started to show sweat.
Cole led at a steady pace, but he checked over his shoulder every hundred yards. Always scanning. Always measuring the slope, the looseness underfoot, the way Riley’s horse kept dropping its head, or the nervous twitch of Harper’s gelding near the more exposed curves. But it was Ethan he tracked most—the way the man’s body swayed with the horse, more fluid now, less afraid.
An hour in they reached the first real test: a ribbon of trail etched along a granite face, the drop to the right dropping offa clean hundred feet, the edge crumbled to sand in spots. Cole slowed to a crawl, signaled with a raised hand.
He could hear the scrape of Jack’s boots as he tensed in the stirrups. “Jesus,” Jack said, voice brittle.
“Just keep it straight,” Cole called back, never looking down. “Don’t stop.”
They crept across, each horse nose-to-tail, the slope so sharp you could smell the roots holding the mountain together. The wind picked up, slicing through every layer, freezing the sweat before it could finish beading. Harper went first, her horse a stone, each step measured and calm. Riley followed, hunched but game, teeth clenched. Then Ethan, hands tight but steady on the reins.
Jack’s mount was last. The animal was breathing ragged, flecks of foam dotting the black line of its mouth. Cole saw it happen in slow motion: a pebble, nothing more, pinched out by a hoof, then another. The horse’s rear leg slipped. Jack lurched left, over-corrected, and the animal went down on one knee.
“Whoa!” Jack shouted, panic slicing the air. The horse’s front legs scrabbled, back hoof losing purchase, and in a blink the man and beast were spinning toward the open edge.
Cole was off his horse before the shout was done. The slope was loose shale, every step a test of friction and balance. He reached the animal in three strides, adrenaline blanking out pain and cold. He grabbed the bridle, set his weight backward, heels digging into the earth.
