This side of the farm, this side of the business, was not where Wyatt’s interest lay. More times than not, he was on the other side of the farm, the one his father managed. That side had the bulls, the broncs, was the wild side as his mother called it, but Wyatt managed to find a reason to be in his mother’s world, in the mix of her endless riding lessons more often than not when Harley was around. That should have made them obvious, but it didn’t.
Clandestine was green when he first came to Willowhaven Farms, scarcely broken to ride much less jump, which was where Wyatt and Truman came in. They had grown up breaking horses, training them. Wyatt’s long, strong legs and build were assets in that heart-racing addiction, not to mention that the ability to bond with horses was instilled in him from birth. He had a raw respect for the ride, knew the limits, when to push, when not to, a notion he used in more than one area of his life, meaning when it came to Harley.
Girls were just girls before Harley. Wyatt may have had a wayward crush here or there at school, gone to a few middle school dances or hangouts with a girl now and again, but most times he was too into when his next ride would be, into the boy toys the farm was stocked with. Four wheeling, the tractors, fishing, the trucks, all of it; Wyatt’s world was his family’s farm.
Then out of nowhere, Heaven descended on his family’s farm when he was just shy of sixteen and life hadn’t been the same for him since. Every thought, she haunted, more so when she was not at the farm, when she was away at school or home, when they couldn’t even dare to call one another. That was hell on Earth, Wyatt was sure of it.
Wyatt could still remember how uptight his mother was about the ‘Tatum girl’ coming to the farm. Camille had met Harley’s mother and found it offensive the way she looked at their farm as if it were some backwoods redneck playground. The woman seemed disgusted with nature in general. Even the plantation home that had been in Wyatt’s family for near a hundred years failed to impress that woman. Insulting, considering it had hosted several presidents in its lifetime.
The only reason Wyatt’s mother even dared to put up with the notion of the proposition of training Harley was that she knew Clandestine’s bloodline. She had heard of Harley, too, seen clips of her riding.
Camille had pulled out all the stops weeks before Harley arrived. Twice the number of farm hands were hired, and she brought on board a full-time housekeeper and cook.
Wyatt hated Harley before he met her. He was sure they all did, simply because instead of riding his four wheeler or even breaking horses, along with everyone else he was making sure that water buckets were scrubbed, if not replaced, cobwebs were swept away, the rings were dragged, the tack was cleaned, and anything and everything that could be was cleaned or restored.
But when she stepped out of the rig that had brought Clandestine, when the wind brushed her long, strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder, when the sun hit her eyes, which were a mix of green and blue, when he saw her shy smile—he felt the wind sucked completely out of him.
He was expecting some holier than thou girl, uptight, rude. What he found instead was that she was timid, somewhat at least.
Harley was the one that let down the ramp to get her horse off the rig, a horse he was sure was too big for her. She was barely five-three, a hundred pounds soaking wet, and Clandestine was well over seventeen hands, a warmblood, nothing but power. It would be up to Wyatt to harness that power and his mother to finesse that grace, to bring that out in the horse and the rider.
At first, they assumed Harley was just with the transport driver, his daughter or something. Truman even made the wry comment, “Well, look-a-there, boys, money can buy happiness.” He glanced at Harley. “Did you meet the owner, or was the butler there when you picked him up? If his rider is anything like the mother, ya’ll might want to hang close. Apparently, they don’t like dirt.”
Harley looked him dead in the eye. “I have more of my father in me than my mother. And yes, Donald, the butler, was there when we loaded. He likes to give Clandestine carrots and wanted to make sure he had plenty for the long ride.”
Truman’s eyes went wide, and his mouth gaped in mortification. Wyatt burst out laughing at that point. Camille had rounded the trailer just in time to hear her youngest son humiliate her, and she let her hard glare say as much.
“You rode all the way down with him?” Wyatt asked once he had backed out Clandestine.
“Why would I not?” she said as she ran her hand across Clandestine’s neck. Under her breath, she said, “Everything that I own is on this trailer.”
And that was true. She may have had a top-notch education, any clothes and what have you to her name, but all of that was handpicked by her mother, a suffocating mold she was forced to fit into. This gelding. She found him. She was the one that carefully laid out all the reasons she wanted him to her father.
At the time, there wasn’t even a stable at her New York home, but there were ones at the school, and that was a point she used with him. She told him that because her grades were flawless and she already rode at the school that without a doubt the school would board him. Harley ensured she had the history of Clandestine’s bloodline, the name of the finest trainer in New York, every detail in place, literally months of planning before she approached her father.
She had to wait for a moment alone with him. She wanted to look him in the eye when she asked, wanted him to see that this was not some whim, but a well thought out request. Even though Garrison spoke to Harley every day while she was away, when Harley was home her mother rarely left her alone with her father and was obvious about that point. Harley could not figure out how any mother could be jealous of her own daughter, but she was almost positive her mother was.
One day at a charity event, her mother rose to give her speech to the crowd. That was when Harley spoke to her father. She even handed him the file that she had strategically hidden under her place setting. As she made her plea, she caught the glare of her mother from the podium.
Garrison Tatum was well aware of the tension in his family. Though he knew what kind of woman his wife was, Garrison was the type to use every adversity as an advantage, which was why he was so revered, why his wealth had more than tripled in his lifetime.
“Why is your voice shaking, Harley?” he asked her, leaning before her, blocking Harley’s view of her mother. Even though Harley knew she would catch hell for that later, she gave all of her attention to her father.
“Daddy, I’ve never wanted anything this badly before. It feels perfect to me.”
He smiled. It was a warm smile he only gave to her. “Then demand it with reverence, passion, and determination. That makes it yours. Never beg for what already belongs to you.”
At that moment, he clapped just like the rest of the crowd. Harley had no idea if that was a yes or a no. Colleagues pulled her father away before she could reshape her plea in the form he had asked her for.
Not long after that, once the charity party’s entertainment was in place, Harley felt a sharp pinch on the back of her arm. She didn’t bother to make a face or pull away. Instead, she walked with her mother into the house and down the hall to the library.
“How dare you,” Claire Tatum said after she pulled the doors closed. She only barely glanced over her shoulder as the words spilled from her like ice.
Claire Tatum was a stunning woman. She was fit (should be, she had two personal trainers), her deep red hair was pulled into a complicated twist, and her royal blue cocktail dress was fitted and accentuated the diamonds around her neck, as well as the ones on her wrists.
Harley made no point to comment; it would only have made this worse.
Claire turned around dramatically, anger dwarfing her green eyes. “You have humiliated me, your father, and this entire charity event.” She stepped forward, even angrier that Harley had not looked down or even flushed.
In her mind, Harley was hearing her father, him telling her to demand what she wanted. There was always a lesson when she spoke
to her father, some hidden message. He was always trying to make her stronger.
Claire was well aware that Harley wanted a horse. Harley’s riding instructor at the school had mentioned it more than once to Claire, and each time Claire would use her fake smile and say something along the lines that she and Garrison would take it into consideration. First and foremost, Harley was at that school to learn, not meddle in the dirt.
“Is that what the finest girls’ school in New York teaches you? That it’s fitting to throw temper tantrums during charities? Maybe I should look into schools abroad.”
Claire Tatum was the second generation of her family to live in the U.S. and often threatened to send Harley overseas for refinement, among other things. Basically, she threatened to take Harley away from her father, but thus far her father had never allowed that to occur.
“I was discussing an investment with my father.”
“An investment? How so? Are you really that naïve? This little whim of yours will do nothing but cost money. You are already spoiled beyond measure. ”
That statement was ludicrous. Harley never asked for anything, mainly because at a very young age a response like this would come. Somehow, she had taught herself never to show how much she wanted something, loved something—she knew if she did, whatever it was could or would be taken away in some form.
“It’s an investment in my future.”
“The nerve,” Claire said with a furious gasp.
Harley never spoke back to her mother. She took what she was given, seen but never heard.
“This sport teaches me respect, patience, diligence, mannerism, pride. I could go on,” Harley said as evenly as she could, she could hear her heart thundering, feel the heat in her cheeks. She felt the danger in this plea.
Before Claire could say a word, they both heard Garrison’s voice from the second level of the library. “Character. An investment in character, no doubt.”
Claire let out a tense smile. “Darling, why on earth are you in here? The governor was asking for you.”
Garrison moved down the stairs gracefully. For an older man, he was fit, too. He was fifty-eight when Harley was born. His greatest accomplishment, as he said in the statement he gave to the press when they sought a comment, as well as any other time he introduced Harley to someone new.
“I was rudely interrupted when speaking to Harley before. I wanted to finish our conversation.”
“It’s nonsense, dear. Just a whim, some girlish daydream that she will be over before the next week is out.”
Garrison had reached the bottom stair now. Under his arm was a file, but it wasn’t the one Harley had given him. She assumed she had just lucked out, that he was in his study on the second floor getting that file and happened to overhear them. It was rare that Claire had been caught speaking to Harley in this tone. In front of Garrison, she treated Harley the same as he did, basically doted on her.
“Girlish daydream,” he grunted. “Strong imagination you have there. Harley, how long has this fantasy played out now? Six months?”
“At least,” Harley said, a bit shocked that he knew that—but then again, not much got past Garrison.
“Garrison, the horse her trainer brought to my attention is an infant, only four, and will cost a fortune, and I’m not even speaking of all the training he will need, everything he will need. Harley needs to focus on school now. This horse, that bloodline, is intended for professionals. It would be a travesty for him to have an inexperienced rider.”
Garrison smirked, glanced at his wife. “This horse is worth less than what you are wearing tonight, my dear.”
Harley glanced over at her mother, not sure how her outfit added up to two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, but she was positive the jewels, if not her wedding band alone, helped meet that mark.
“I do, however, agree that a horse such as this needs a skilled rider.” Before Harley could even dare to think that her dreams had just ended, he went on. “So I had my assistant contact the best trainer for Harley. Willowhaven Farms has agreed to meet with us.”
Harley’s gaze was shifting between her parents. She knew her father was efficient, so was his staff, but researching farms in under an hour was a push. Harley knew exactly where Willowhaven Farms was. She had ridden in competitions against Camille Doran’s students. She knew it was at least a thousand miles away, deep in the south. In her mind, her father was going to buy this horse, but she would never ride it, at least not for years down the road.
Garrison laid out a file on the center table of the library and pulled out a pen from his breast pocket. His glance motioned for Harley to come closer. When she reached his side, she saw the four-year-old gelding she had been dreaming about endlessly, his coggins, all of his papers.
“You sign here, and he’s yours.”
Harley was speechless. She wanted to ask how he knew or when she could ride him, everything.
Her father let out a deep laugh at her expression. “In order for the Dorans to train you, your horse, you will need to board there. Does that bother you? Are you willing to give up your summer holiday for this?”
“Yes.”
She heard her mother gasp, but she didn’t care. Harley had no desire to go abroad for the summer or on whatever lavish vacation her mother had booked.
“Exactly where is she boarding? In a stall? Garrison, we should discuss this.”
“You are correct. We should have discussed it when the trainer brought this matter to your attention, how advanced Harley was. Instead, I heard of it from one of my colleagues that had seen her ride. You can imagine how shocked I was when I called the school and spoke with her trainer to see what we could do to help Harley aid this passion, only to discover options were already laid out.”
Garrison nodded for his daughter to sign, then looked back at his wife. “Tomorrow, you will fly to Willowhaven Farms. If you find any reason that I would not want Harley to stay there, you will tell me, and then I will fly there myself to see your reasons. If the place is not found lacking, when the semester is over Harley and her horse will be traveling to and staying in Willowhaven for the summer.”
Claire didn’t bother to argue. Instead, she turned cold, almost pouted, the way she always did when she felt that Harley had gotten away with murder.
“She could get hurt, Garrison. She’s your legacy, and you’re placing her in danger.”
“No. I’m teaching her to face danger, for she is my legacy, and any Tatum knows that we do not ask for what we want—we claim it.”
The next day, after Harley’s mother left, her father took her to a stable not far from her home, took her to her horse. They spent that weekend buying everything that Clandestine needed.
When her mother returned, the only complaint she had was the fact that Harley would be staying with two boys that were her age. Garrison did travel to Willowhaven, but not until Harley had been there for three weeks, and he found no fault in Wyatt or Truman, the cousins, or the other farm hands’ kids that were also on the property. In fact, when he wasn’t watching Harley’s lessons, he spent his time with Beckett, Wyatt’s father, watching the bulls, watching Wyatt ride. He even made the comment that Wyatt was him made over when he was a boy.
When Harley came home after her first summer at Willowhaven, she found a new stable in her own backyard. It was her sanctuary, where she spent all day when she was at home.
It took Wyatt half of that first summer to understand that first statement that Harley made, the one about how everything she owned was on that trailer. When he did figure out the life Harley came from, the stiff line she had to walk between her parents, who seemed to be worlds apart, in some way that broke his heart. Harley seemed so lost, so alone.
“His barn name is Dan,” she said to the crowd around her that first day at Willowhaven as she led her horse from the trailer.
“Come on, Danny Boy,” Wyatt had said as he led him inside the barn. When he looked over his shoulder, he was surprised to meet Ha
rley’s gaze, even told himself she was watching her horse, not him, but when his brother Truman elbowed him and said, “Mom got enough hell about us being on the property, you want to stop drooling?” he had a spark of hope that she felt the same odd pull he did when he saw her for the first time.
Before that day, Wyatt was his father’s son, always had a dare in his veins, a wild streak that pushed every button his mother had, or anyone that had to oversee him, to the limits. Most times, what damage was done was undone. If he was ever grounded, or limited, his father Beckett would come to his defense and say that, “Boys will be boys, they only push you when hold ‘em back. Let ‘em run, Momma, let ‘em run.” Camille would dare to smile at her husband, and then whatever heat Wyatt was under faded.
After that day, all bets were off. Wyatt walked a tight line. He kept his nose clean, for more than one reason. One, he didn’t want there to be any chance that he’d be sequestered from Harley. The other, Harley drew something out of him, some kind of respect, maturity, balance—she made him want to be a better person just by breathing. Of course, his mother assumed that Wyatt had just grown out of his rebellious ways, just the way her husband had promised.
During the day, there were only brief moments Wyatt and Harley had alone, sometimes seconds. The time they cherished was just after dawn, when they would both be at the main barn alone, and then just after the farm went to bed. Sometimes, at least a few times a week, they would sneak out, find some nook or hiding place on the property, secret lovers that had never crossed that one sacred point of no return.
They didn’t always use that stolen time to steal a kiss, to push that physical barrier. There were also a lot of long conversations, deep ones. Ones where they saw the inside of each other, where they discovered a part of the other that no one else knew.
The Five Stages of Falling in Love Page 30