He waved the group forward, not trusting himself to say anything else. They fell back into line, but the dynamic had shifted. He felt it every time Ethan’s horse drew close, every time the man’s laugh traveled up the trail and knocked something loose inside Cole’s chest.
Cole focused on the simple work of leading, on the terrain, on anything that could drown out the new and unwelcome noise inside his head.
They stopped for water at the first good creek—a short, flat bend where the current ran cold and clean over black river stones. Cole called a break, then walked the line of horses, running his hands along their legs and checking hooves for stone bruises. He did it partly for the animals and partly to keep his mind busy.
The group scattered. Harper strode straight for the water, knelt, and scooped a double handful to her lips. Riley followed,but more slowly, surveying the area for the perfect rock to sit on. Jack hung back, taking out his phone and snapping a quick selfie, then pocketed it when he realized Harper was watching.
Ethan was last to dismount. He stood for a long moment by his horse, head bowed, hands resting on the horn. The pose should’ve looked uncertain, but instead it radiated a calm that reminded Cole of certain old stallions—too stubborn to show hurt, but always aware of everything.
Jack made his move the second Harper turned from the water. He sidled in, posture open and unthreatening, but his voice pitched just loud enough for the whole clearing to hear.
"You handle that horse like you were born in the saddle," Jack said with practiced charm, his body angling toward her. "I'd love to show you some of my favorite riding techniques sometime."
Harper rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched. “I’ve been riding since I was five. I doubt there’s much you could teach me.”
“Maybe not. But there’s more than one kind of riding, isn’t there?” Jack said with a smirk.
Harper didn’t give him the satisfaction. She looked over his shoulder, spotted Riley perched on a sunlit boulder, and said, “Riley, you ever deal with one of these egos before?”
Riley grinned, playing along. “Only every day. Want some pointers?”
Harper joined him by the rock, leaving Jack hovering in the open.
Cole watched the whole thing from the edge of the clearing, cataloguing every move like a chess game. He’d seen a thousand versions of this.
But what caught him now wasn’t Jack, or even Harper. It was Ethan—alone at the log, hands clasped tight, staring down at the rushing water. The light hit his face at a perfect angle, picking out the tension in his jaw, the straight line of his nose, the almost delicate hollow at the base of his throat.
Cole realized, too late, that he’d stopped working and was just standing there, staring.
He turned away fast, moving down the row of horses, checking girths and buckles with more force than necessary. He heard Ethan behind him—felt the heat of the man’s gaze like sunlight on the back of his neck—but kept his own eyes down.
Jack, left without an audience, wandered over to Cole. He affected a casual tone, “Hey, Walker—any advice for a guy whose horse seems to think it’s in charge?”
Cole didn’t look up. “Horses are like people. They remember how you treat them.”
Jack bristled, but let it drop. Cole finished his inspection and moved to his own mount, checking the bit and rubbing the animal’s nose until it sighed.
The break lasted only ten minutes, but it was enough to shuffle the group’s mood. Harper and Riley returned to their horses, laughing about something only they found funny. Jack hung back, shooting occasional glances at Harper but mostly keeping to himself.
Ethan mounted up without help, swung his leg over the saddle with none of the awkwardness from before. When Cole checked the lineup, he noticed Ethan was closer now—second in line, right behind him.
They started up the trail again, moving through a denser patch of pine. The shadows grew thick, the temperature dropping despite the sunlight overhead. Cole kept the pace slow, mindful of the terrain but also of the silent conversation happening between him and the man behind.
The climb got steeper, the air thinning. Ethan didn’t speak, but Cole sensed the tension in him, the effort it took to hold back.
They topped a ridge and stopped for breath. Cole took off his hat and ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. He turned tocheck the group and caught Ethan’s eyes on him—unflinching, hungry, almost angry.
Neither of them looked away.
For a moment, everything else dropped out—the group, the job, the weight of expectation. It was just the two of them, locked together in the kind of stare that stripped both men down to bone.
Cole wanted to say something, anything, but his throat was dry. Instead, he nodded once, the gesture loaded with meaning he couldn’t put to words.
Ethan nodded back, lips parted, then looked away, the color high in his face.
As the sun arced west, the rhythm of the ride took over. Cole led, Ethan at his heels, the rest of the group behind. It felt natural, inevitable, like the mountain had set it up this way from the start.
Cole allowed himself a smile, quick and secret.
