He let the horses set the pace, for once not fighting the pull.
Chapter 3 - Ethan
The scent of cedar and sizzling fat hit Ethan the second he entered the main lodge. Massive beams overhead, long tables set with mismatched pottery, the stone hearth glowing at the far end. Someone had swapped the soft pop playlist from breakfast to Johnny Cash.
He’d changed clothes after the ride, taking a shower and lingering too long under the hot water. His body ached from muscles not used in years. He caught his own reflection in the narrow hall mirror—a towel-scruffed beard, hair refusing to dry in any sane direction.
The pack group was already at their assigned table. Harper, hair still wet, sipped neat bourbon and held court with Riley, whose sunburned nose matched his cocktail. Jack had claimed the end seat, laptop out and tethered to the only power outlet in reach, its blue glow the last tie to his real world. Cole was the last to appear—clean button-down, new bruise on his right knuckle, expression unreadable as he scanned the room before sitting. Ethan pretended not to notice the way the man’s gaze lingered on him, or the way his pulse thumped when it did.
The first course hit the table—smoked trout, wild greens, tiny golden beets with a horseradish dollop. Harper moaned through her first bite, then grinned at Ethan. “Montana does not fuck around with food.”
Riley snorted then picked a crouton off Harper’s plate which earned him a quick slap on the back of his hand.
Jack ignored the conversation and instead jabbed at his keyboard while he ate, grumbling about Wi-Fi speeds and portfolio volatility. He barely looked up when Ethan slid into the seat beside him.
“Did you guys know there’s, like, no cell service in this entire county?” Jack said, gaze flicking up just long enough to catch Harper’s.
Cole, already finished with his first course, buttered a chunk of sourdough while he waited patiently for the next course to be served.
It was during the second course—steak, rare and swimming in shallots—that the room shifted. The chatter softened, laughter sucked into the walls like a draft. Ethan followed the invisible line of pressure and saw the reason: Hershel Walker, all six-foot-something and silver-fox menace, standing just inside the main doors.
He wore a suit the color of ash, tailored and gleaming, with a vest and pocket square that could have paid the month’s utilities. His boots were polished black leather, soles so clean they probably hadn’t touched dirt since last year’s campaign season. On his arm was a trench-length coat, slung carelessly. His eyes swept the room in a single, predatory pass.
Ethan felt the temperature drop. Cole went rigid, fingers whitening around the steak knife.
Hershel’s gaze landed on their table, lingered on Cole, then did a quick circuit of the group: Jack, Harper, Riley, Ethan.Something cold and tactical behind the eyes, like a sniper choosing a target.
He crossed to the bar, ordered something neat, and made a point of tipping the bartender—probably more than the kid made in a shift. Then he moved to their table, presence crowding out everyone else.
“Cole,” Hershel said, the word like an old debt.
Cole didn’t look up. “Evening, Dad.”
Hershel’s smile was pure theater. “You planning on introducing me?”
Cole set his silverware down, slow. “Everyone, this is my father. Hershel Walker. He owns the place.”
Harper gave a little wave, Riley a tight nod. Jack studied his screen as if the numbers mattered more.
Hershel looked each of them over, pausing on Ethan with a flicker of something between interest and contempt. “We get the best of the city out here. Good to see it still brings the right crowd.” He turned back to Cole. “A word?”
Cole stood, chair scraping, and followed his father toward the fireplace. They spoke in low voices, Cole’s body half-turned away from the room, every word a calculated move. Even without the sound, it was obvious: Hershel wasn’t here for pleasantries.
At the table, no one breathed.
Finally Harper let out a soft laugh. “Imagine growing up with that.”
Ethan watched Cole, the way the line of his back stiffened, the forced calm in the way he kept his arms at his sides. Hershel spoke with his hands, stabbing the air for punctuation, while Cole just absorbed it, motionless. The humiliation was surgical, intended to be witnessed.
The conversation lasted maybe a minute. Hershel finished his drink in one brutal swallow, set the glass down hard enough to crack, and stalked out of the lodge. Through the wide frontwindows, Ethan watched as a black Escalade rolled to the curb. A driver in a suit opened the rear door and Hershel slid in without a backward glance.
Cole lingered by the fire, knuckles to his lips, then returned to the table. He didn’t sit, just hooked his hands on the back of the chair and fixed his gaze on the wall behind Jack’s head.
Riley tried to lighten the mood. “Well, that wasn’t uncomfortable at all.”
Harper said, “At least he’s not our dad.”
Jack looked up, face blank. “The inheritance must be killer, though.”
