Cole couldn’t help it; he smiled, thin and quick. “That’s where you’re wrong. I just don’t do it in public.”
He caught the flicker of something—amusement, respect, maybe more—in Ethan’s eyes before the man looked away.
Cole stepped back, gathering the group with a snap of the fingers and a low, “Mount up, let’s move.” The horses fell in line, muscle memory guiding them back to the trail. He watched as Jack mounted, more careful now, less swagger. Harper swung up in one motion, totally at ease. Riley needed two tries, but got there. Ethan hesitated just a second, then kicked free and landed clean.
They rode single-file up the next grade. Cole kept the pace steady, slow enough for the newbies but brisk enough to make them earn it. He listened for stress in the horses’ steps, for worry in the riders’ breathing. He liked to think he could hear everything on a trail—the groan of a saddle, the snap of old bone, the things people were scared to say out loud.
When the fallen branch came—snagged across the trail, brown and swollen with sap—Cole anticipated the reaction before it happened. He called a warning, “Watch the limb,” but Jack’s gelding was already in panic mode. It reared, hooves scraping air, and Jack lost his grip. The group scattered.
Cole was off his horse in a heartbeat, moving fast and quiet, not a wasted motion. He reached the animal’s bridle just as Jack started to slide. With one arm, he steadied Jack’s fall; with theother, he pinned the horse’s head, lowering it with a whispered command.
For a second, no one breathed. Then the horse settled, shuddering and stamping, and Jack collapsed against its side, panting.
Jack’s face was pale, knuckles bone-white on the reins. “I fucked up,” he muttered.
“You stayed on longer than most.” Cole’s tone was flat, but not unkind. “Next time, loosen the grip and ride through it. Horses know when you’re tense.”
Jack nodded, eyes averted, pride battered but not broken. Cole kept it between them, didn’t call attention to it, and helped Jack back into the saddle. He felt the others watching, but kept his focus locked. Dignity mattered, especially with men like Jack.
He led the gelding in a few circles, getting the edge off, then guided them back to the trail. The others regrouped, Harper at the front, Riley a step behind, Ethan trailing in last.
Cole saw how Ethan watched him—intense, searching, not in a hostile way. Maybe he recognized something. Maybe he was looking for cracks in the armor.
They rode on, the rhythm of hooves and heartbeats gradually resuming. Cole held them to the pace, always looking ahead, always expecting the next thing. In the silence, he let himself wonder—for the first time in a long while—if maybe control was overrated.
The trail wound higher, the air thinner, the scent of snow lurking just above the treeline. Cole glanced back, saw the group falling into sync. Even Jack, chastened and sweating, looked steadier now.
Cole tightened his grip on the reins, the old scar on his palm burning in the cold. He remembered what his father used to say: “Sometimes you lead, sometimes you catch the ones who fall.” He’d always hated the lesson, but he couldn’t forget it.
The morning wore on. By the time they broke out into the next meadow, the group had stopped talking so much, letting the quiet do its work. Cole felt it, too—the slow unwinding of tension, the freedom of forward motion, the faint but unmistakable pulse of possibility.
He tried not to think about Ethan’s eyes, but the image stuck with him anyway. It always did, when something was worth holding on to.
The trail narrowed as it climbed, pinching to a hand’s width in places where the mountain shrugged off anything man-made. They rode single file, noses into the wind, the valley falling away on the left like a dare. Cole always took the lead, scanning for loose rock or sweepers, but today his mind kept circling backward, to the look Ethan had given him in the meadow.
He tried to ride it out, to let the ache settle somewhere harmless. It didn’t work. The more he pushed, the sharper it snapped back, insistent and alive. He hated how much it felt like longing.
Three switchbacks up, he heard the slip before he saw it—the distinctive creak of a saddle cinch working loose, followed by a ragged, unsteady thump as Ethan’s buckskin lost its confidence and sidestepped toward the drop. It was nothing, a beginner mistake, but it could’ve been ugly with less room to recover.
“Easy,” Cole called, wheeling his own horse around with practiced control. He pulled up alongside Ethan, boots inches from the other man’s stirrup. “You feeling that shift?”
Ethan was white at the knuckles, jaw locked. “A little,” he admitted, trying to play it off with a tight laugh. “I think I missed something when I checked the straps.”
“Not your fault,” Cole said. His voice came out softer than he’d intended. “These older rigs loosen up in the cold.”
He slid off his horse, boots landing hard on the edge of the trail. He set his hand on Ethan’s boot, grounding him, then bent low to check the cinch.
The space was tight—Ethan’s knee inches from Cole’s cheek as he worked the leather back into place. The smell of sweat and saddle soap hung in the air.
Cole finished the job and then straightened. Their faces were close, the air between them loaded. Cole looked up and met Ethan’s eyes—green and raw and questioning—and for a heartbeat, he forgot everything else.
It broke when Ethan looked away. Cole cleared his own throat, the noise echoing too loud in the thin air.
“That should do,” he said, the roughness in his voice surprising even him. He stepped back fast, making a show of dusting off his hands before remounting.
Behind them, Riley called out, “All good up there?”
“Good,” Cole barked, maybe sharper than needed.
