Ethan took the halter, hands only slightly shaky, and met Cole’s gaze. Up close, the blue of Cole’s eyes was oceanic and deep. For a second, Ethan thought he might say something, but Cole only nodded—a small gesture, but the connection under it landed like a punch.
He led his horse—Ember, according to the tag—around the ring as directed, picking up on the animal’s rhythm, the tension in its gait, the shiver of muscle under dappled hide. Ethan tried to keep his mind on the basics—heel line, rein slack, eye contact—but every so often, his gaze found its way back to Cole. And every time, Cole was watching.
The others got their horses: Harper with a paint named Magpie, Riley with a stubborn bay, Jack with a massive draft cross that looked like it belonged in a Budweiser commercial. They circled, laughed, shouted tips and insults across the ring.
“Let her have her head, Ethan! Or are you afraid of a little power?” Harper’s voice rang out clearly across the ring.
Jack chimed in with a grin, “I’ll bet you a hundred bucks he gets bucked off by day three.”
Ethan grinned, letting the razzing blow through him like cold wind. It felt good to be part of the banter, to let it in.
Cole’s session was ruthlessly efficient, moving through basic groundwork, then up to saddle and bridle fitting. Every touch, every correction, was precise and without apology. He had the kind of presence that made you want to perform, to measure up, to earn something from him—even if you didn’t know what.
After an hour, the group broke for water and shade. Ethan took a spot at the end of the rail, sweat damp at the collar and underarms, breathing deep the mingled scents of pine and horse and something sweeter, like sagebrush.
Riley slid in beside him, eyes shining. “I think you’re a natural, city boy.”
Ethan smiled. “Just following instructions.”
Riley shrugged, then looked back to where Cole stood, sunglasses off now, wiping sweat from his brow. “He’s intense, huh?”
Ethan nodded, not trusting himself to say more.
At noon, they regrouped for the next training block. The sun climbed high, burning off the last of the chill, turning the yard into a haze of sweat and dust and bright promise. Ethan took another deep, cleansing breath. This was what he’d come for—not the horse, not the scenery, but the chance to feel awake again.
As Cole gave the signal to mount up, Ethan looked down at his own hands, strong on the reins. They didn’t tremble anymore. He swung into the saddle and set his eyes on the mountains, ready to see what waited out there—and who he’d become when he found it.
Chapter 2 - Cole
Cole Walker led the group out of the yard and onto the singletrack that threaded the property’s wild perimeter. He rode point, same as always, so he could see every mistake before it happened. They followed in a straggling line, their city gear and clumsy posture screaming greenhorn.
He breathed in the hush of the forest. The air tasted of pine resin and old ice, sharp enough to cut. It dulled the noise behind him: Jack’s eager banter, Harper’s dry retorts, Riley’s compulsive commentary. Ethan—he rode third, keeping a silent gap, the buckskin moving under him with a beginner’s unease.
A mile out, the trail narrowed, a band of gold needles and fresh dust. Cole slowed his horse with a touch to the neck and heard the group’s shuffle as they adjusted their spacing. He didn’t have to look to know what was happening behind—every click of the bit, every nervous laugh, told him more than words ever could.
The morning’s hush broke suddenly with Jack’s voice, pitched louder than it needed to be. “Don’t say you didn’t see that, Harper—I’m getting the hang of him!” Jack’s gelding—a spotted Appaloosa with more attitude than sense—snapped its head upat a pine squirrel and danced sideways. The move was nothing, barely a two-step, but Jack overcorrected and nearly unseated himself.
Cole glanced back. “He’s testing you,” he called, his voice low and steady, no judgment. “Don’t give him a reason to think you’re not up for it.”
Harper shot a glance at Cole, then at Jack. “Maybe let him set the pace. Wouldn’t want to make you look bad before breakfast.”
The group laughed, tension dissolving like sugar in coffee. Cole kept them moving.
They cleared the first switchback, the trail rising through a stand of young larch. Light filtered down in narrow columns, motes turning the dust to gold. Cole eased off the path, letting the group bunch up in a clearing by the stream. He scanned their faces, cataloguing every micro-expression. Jack: still cocky, but embarrassed. Riley: wired, eyes wide. Harper: relaxed, ready. Ethan—hard to read.
Cole checked his own posture. He always carried the expectation that someone was watching—his father, the old wranglers, even the horses. The trick was to never show the strain.
He dismounted, boots crunching in the damp loam, and led his horse to the water. The rest followed, copying his every movement, like schoolkids in a fire drill.
He let them take five, watched how they clustered. Jack and Harper squared off with banter and bared teeth; Riley poked at the stream with a stick, always fidgeting. Ethan stood off to the side, eyes on the far bank, hands buried in his jacket pockets.
Cole drifted over. He kept a foot of distance, not wanting to spook him. “Not a bad first mile,” he said. “Most people don’t make it past the first gate before they regret signing up.”
Ethan glanced over, the green of his eyes shockingly alive in the cold light. “It’s harder than it looks. The trail. The horses.” He sounded almost apologetic, like he’d failed some private test.
“It gets easier.” Cole made sure his voice was level. “It’s mostly trust, and letting go. Control’s an illusion, anyway.”
Ethan’s mouth quirked. “Spoken like a man who never loses it.”
