He decided then and there that it was over. That whatever hope he’d dared to feel was a mistake he wouldn’t make again. The world would go back to the way it was: cold, controlled, alone.
He could survive that. He always had.
He stood, brushed the pine needles from his back, and began his descent down the ridge. The ground beneath him was loose and uneven, but he maintained his balance, each step deliberate. He felt the sting in his palm, the dull ache in his gut, and pressed on, moving toward the dim glow of camp.
As he neared the edge of camp, he slowed, straining to hear the soft rhythm of sleeping breaths, the gentle rustle of horses shifting, and the whisper of the wind against the tarps. He lingered in the shadows, allowing the chill of the night to seep into his bones, waiting until his hands stopped shaking enough to quietly unzip his tent without alerting anyone—especially Ethan.
He slipped into the tent and zipped the world out behind him. Inside, the darkness enveloped him like a shroud. He lay there in silence, the sound of his own heartbeat echoing in his ears, and waited for the pain to fade. He knew it would; it always did. But tonight, it felt like an eternity before numbness would come, stretching the ache into something unbearable.
Chapter 15 - Ethan
Ethan woke to a taste in his mouth like old pennies and burnt wood. The campsite was already alive—Cole on the far side, rolling and stowing gear with a precision that was almost military. Sunlight came in, mean and unfiltered, bouncing off the fly of every tent.
He fumbled his way out of the bag. The motion made his stomach lurch. His hands shook as he packed, every action slowed by the churn in his head. He’d had less than three hours of real sleep; all of it spent dreaming in circles, memory and regret ricocheting until he was left with nothing but ache.
Cole never once looked up. He cinched a strap, tested a knot, then turned away so hard it looked deliberate.
Ethan caught Riley watching him, a faint sympathy in the angle of Riley’s mouth. Riley bent over the tiny stove, hands working the pour-over coffee in silence. Ethan’s head throbbed; he dug in the bear bag for a protein bar and forced himself to chew.
A new sound—Harper’s laughter—split the hush. She zipped out of her tent, wild hair flaring like a torch. “God, this morningis gorgeous,” she announced, stretching high enough to pop her back. “You guys smell that? It’s pure. Clean. Like the air after a thunderstorm.”
Riley poured coffee into metal mugs, walked one over to Ethan, and handed it to him. No words, just a small squeeze on Ethan’s shoulder, fingers lingering for a half-second. Riley’s face said it all—Give him time.
Ethan drank. The heat was almost too much, but it jumpstarted something in his chest. Across the camp, Cole never stopped moving. He’d re-hobble a horse, then check the girth strap, then double back and repack something in the saddle bag. Ethan wanted to scream.
He forced himself to walk over and close the gap.
“Morning,” Ethan said, trying for normal. “Need a hand with anything?”
Cole didn’t even turn. “All set.” The words were clipped. Final.
Ethan watched the line of his back, the fists of his hands. He waited for a glance, some crack in the armor, but there was nothing. Just the sound of the creek and Cole’s low, deliberate breathing.
“Let me know if that changes,” Ethan said, and hated himself for the attempt.
Cole hunched further into his work, making it clear that there was no room at the table.
Harper and Jack drifted in with bowls of instant oatmeal. Harper set hers down with a thunk, then inhaled it in three bites. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “We’re almost to the meadows, right?” She aimed the question at Cole, but he was halfway down the horse line.
Jack elbowed Ethan. “You look like hell, Hayes. Did you party without us?”
Ethan tried to laugh. “Something like that.” He kept his eyes on his oatmeal, the milky grains swimming like dead fish.
Across the fire ring, Harper and Jack launched into a sparring match about what to do when they reached the fabled Glacier Meadows.
Ethan spooned up breakfast, but the food had no taste. He glanced over at Cole, who stood in profile against the pale morning, mouth a hard line. Cole’s hands were never idle; he’d braided the tail of his gelding, then untied it, then started again.
Ethan felt it all crashing around him. He wanted to talk to Cole, to say—what? He didn’t know. He just knew it was his only shot, that he couldn’t let it fester like this.
He set his mug down and walked over again. “Cole,” he said, trying to meet his eyes. “Last night—”
Cole spun, voice cold as January. “Drop it.” His gaze was a hammer, flattening every hope Ethan had that they could recover.
Ethan bit down the urge to keep pushing, to grab Cole by the shirt and force him to listen. But something in the tilt of Cole’s head, the raw fury just under the surface, made him stop. He stepped back. “Okay.”
The rest of camp packed up in a blur.
Ethan was the last to load his duffel, not because he wanted to be, but because every movement took triple the effort. He had to will his arms and legs into action.
