Cole scanned the scene, then broke for the gear shed. “Rope,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone.
Ethan saw where the horse was heading: the east meadow, open except for the utility barn and a fence line that would end with a hundred yards of nothing but hard ground and frost-burned weeds. He sprinted after Cole, lungs already screaming from the altitude, every step pounding in his temples.
Cole emerged with a lasso, whirled it once, twice, and launched it over the horse’s head with flawless aim. The ropecinched, the animal screamed and reared, but Cole leaned in with his full weight, digging heels into dirt. For a second, Ethan thought they’d both go down, but the rope held, and Cole barely moved.
Ethan flanked wide, cutting off the animal’s only exit route. He moved slow, hands out, voice low. “Easy, buddy. You’re all right.” The horse shuddered, huffed, then went still, sides heaving. Cole handed off the lead with a nod, sweat streaking his brow despite the cold.
The ranch hands arrived a moment later, panting and out of breath, one with a minor cut on his palm. “Sorry, boss,” he said to Cole, voice sheepish. “Gate was loose. He saw his chance.”
Cole shook his head. “Happens. No one’s hurt.”
He looked at Ethan, a ghost of a grin under the exhaustion. “Good assist.”
Ethan didn’t know what to do with the pride that bloomed in his chest.
They walked the horse back together, close enough for Ethan to feel the brush of Cole’s arm every few steps. The energy between them was electric, charged with more than just the aftermath of danger.
When they handed the horse off to the wranglers, Cole lingered. “You handle chaos pretty well,” he said, voice pitched low. “Not everyone can.”
Before Ethan could answer, the rest of the pack group arrived, breathless and laughing. Harper high-fived Ethan, Riley slung an arm around his shoulder. Jack caught Cole’s eye and nodded, grudgingly impressed.
They stood together in the night, hearts still hammering, the smell of horse and burnt sugar thick in the air. It felt, for a moment, like nothing outside the ranch existed—no jobs, no expectations, no one but the people who’d just lived this hour together.
An hour after the chaos in the yard, the pack group found themselves camped around the old stone fire ring out back, the ranch’s twin propane lanterns hissing and glowing above the conversation. Someone—probably Riley—had foraged a six-pack of Rainier and a half-empty bottle of bourbon from earlier. The fire pit crackled, throwing long shadows against boots and denim knees, faces gone orange and gold.
Cole appeared with a battered Martin guitar in hand, shoulders sloped in that way men have when they want to look invisible and know they never could be. He tuned it fast, picked a run of notes that sounded both hopeful and haunted, and played while the group talked and drank.
Ethan sat between Harper and Riley, the edge of the seat so close to the fire he could feel the heat through his jeans. The events of the night had burned away his self-consciousness; he was loose and stupidly alive. Every now and then, he caught himself staring at Cole’s hands on the fretboard, the subtle flex of forearms as he changed chords. The way the music leaked out—spare and honest—made it impossible to believe this was the same man who faced down stampeding horses and sociopathic fathers without blinking.
For the first fifteen minutes, conversation clung to the familiar—how close the horse had come to breaking a leg, how Cole’s lasso throw was “some serious Yellowstone shit” according to Jack. Riley kept the liquor moving, pouring generous shots for anyone willing.
But it was Harper who shifted the current, draping her legs over a log and saying, “I think we should play something more fun. No more ‘never have I ever.’ We all know you’re a slut, Jack.”
Jack tipped his head, saluted with his bottle. “And proud.”
Harper grinned. “What if we each say something about ourselves nobody here would guess? No filters. First one to chicken out does the dishes for the whole trip.”
Riley perked up immediately. “This is the energy I live for. Ethan, you’re up first.”
Ethan hesitated, but the bourbon’s warmth had gone to his head and he didn’t much care anymore. “I—uh. I like woodworking. Like, actual hand tools. I built my own bookshelves last year.”
Riley beamed. “That is both adorable and on-brand for someone who wears flannel for fun.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Weak. I can top that in my sleep. I have a massive collection of vintage comic books. Like, floor-to-ceiling. I dated a girl who called it my ‘virgin wall.’ She was an asshole.”
Harper howled. “Oh, that’s beautiful. Riley?”
Riley made a show of thinking, then said, “I went to ballet school for three years. Not a joke. I have tights and everything.”
Jack gave him a look. “That… actually makes sense.”
Harper pointed at herself. “When I was twenty, I rode in an illegal motorcycle race across the Mojave. Lost half a toenail, gained a tattoo, fucked a hot biker guy, and my mom still thinks I went to a geology conference.”
They all turned to Cole, who had stopped playing but was cradling the guitar like a shield. The firelight made his eyes shadowed and unreadable.
He looked up, finally. “I write poetry,” he said, voice almost embarrassed. “I don’t show anyone.”
Silence, sharp as a tack.
