“Easy, dammit,” Cole hissed, voice notched down to pure muscle. “Easy!”
The horse’s eyes rolled, showing more white than brown. Jack clung to the horn, face drained, feet windmilling. Another inch, and both would be off the edge.
It was Ethan who moved next, no hesitation, no city-boy fuckup. He was out of his saddle, hands on Jack’s jacket, haulinghim upright with a force that didn’t fit his frame. Together, Cole and Ethan became an anchor, one on the reins, one on the man. Cole heard his own heartbeat roaring, but he could also hear Ethan’s breath, sharp and hungry, as they braced against the wild torque of animal and man.
Jack slid, almost lost, but Ethan got a grip around his waist and pulled hard. Cole used the momentum to drag the horse upright, keeping the reins tight to avoid a panic run. The animal’s hooves dug in, shuddering, but found a hold.
Jack was dragged up by Ethan, scraping up Jack’s arms but at least he was alive and not an inch away from falling a hundred feet off a cliff.
The horse steadied, sweating and scared but unhurt. Cole looked at Ethan, eyes narrow with surprise and—something else.
Ethan held his gaze, steady as an old horse.
“You okay?” Cole asked, voice low.
Ethan nodded, the movement barely there. “Fine. You?”
Cole grunted, adrenaline still sparking under his skin. “Fine thanks to you, I appreciate the help.”
They got Jack and the horse upright, dusted, and across the rest of the ledge. Only when they were safely on the wide plateau did anyone breathe again.
Harper dismounted, jogged over. “Is everyone intact?”
Riley, a step behind, “Shit, that was insane.”
Jack, pale but functional, checked his own limbs. “I almost pissed myself.”
Harper patted him on the back.
Cole waited until the group had gathered themselves. Then he set his hand on Ethan’s shoulder—brief, businesslike, but it lingered half a second too long.
“Good work,” he said, letting go before it could mean anything.
Ethan’s cheeks went pink. “You too.”
They mounted up and rode the rest of the ridge in silence. But for Cole, every nerve stayed lit, his arm remembering the weight of Ethan’s body, his skin still hot where they’d pressed together. He forced his mind back to the trail, to the chores, but nothing dulled the echo of Ethan’s hands on him.
Exhausted from the close call and tougher trail, the group decides that it would be best if they made camp early. Three hours before sunset, at a strip of earth barely flat enough for five tents and a ring of trampled grass. The valley cupped them on all sides, pines ragged above, anemic stream below. The air hung with the residue of terror—everybody moved like a hungover boxer, eyes flicking to the ledge they'd left behind.
Cole threw himself at the work. He corralled the horses in a fold of granite, lashed the food packs tight in a ponderosa snag, dug out the fire ring and ringed it with fresh rock. The motion emptied his head, gave him purpose. Whenever the noise in his body started up—the memory of Ethan's touch, the heat in his own chest—he just set his shoulders and did the next thing.
The others were less adept at ignoring the day.
Jack parked on a bedroll, jaw set, refusing to look at the drop-off they'd almost plummeted over. He winced as Harper dabbed iodine on the cuts along his arm. Harper then wrapped his arm in gauze with methodical care.
Riley ferried water up from the creek, filling canteens and shaking out the last of the trail mix into everyone’s palms. He cracked jokes, but they didn’t quite land.
Ethan rolled out his gear by the fire, hands pink and raw. When he flexed them, Cole could see the split skin at the base of his thumbs—rope burns from holding Jack so tight. There was blood under one nail, a line of red tracking the web of his hand. Cole didn't want to stare, but couldn’t look away.
He built the fire up, breaking sticks over his thigh. When the flames were steady, he circled the ring, checking for sparks,then sat on a boulder with the group. The space was smaller than usual—five bodies, five egos crammed in a circle barely big enough for their shadows. Nobody spoke for a while, the only sound the pop of sap and the snap of the fire.
Harper broke the silence first. “Not the day any of us wanted,” she said, lifting her metal cup in a toast. “But nobody died, and I call that a win.”
They raised their cups.
Ethan stared into the fire, his face split between light and dark. The wind pulled at his hair, turned the skin along his jaw gold. He looked older, tougher, as if the near-death experience had carved him down to something essential.
Cole wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he busied himself with the med kit, rooting for the tube of antibiotic and a fresh pack of dressings.
