Wyatt stole Harley’s breath from the first moment she saw him. To this day, she had yet to understand the pull he had on her. No doubt his image alone was addictive, but there was more to it than that. He wasn’t cold, a mold of his father focused solely on himself like most of the boys she knew, the ones her mother always placed her with during her famous charity events. No, Wyatt had a good soul, something that could be palpably felt in his presence.
Wyatt had a way of being strong and vulnerable at the same time, though she doubted many had seen that vulnerable side. The first time she saw him nervous was three summers ago down by the back creek, on the fourth of July, just before he leaned in and kissed her, a real kiss. A first for the pair of them. She was sure she was in love with him before that night ended. As that first summer moved on, as the nerves left those stolen kisses that they would fall into when there was no chance they could be caught—there was no questioning that notion. When the summer ended and she had to leave and it felt like her soul was ripped from her body, she knew without a doubt that she’d never get over him. Whatever souls were made of, hers and his were one in the same.
The summer that followed was hotter—in more ways than one. They dared to sneak away more, to explore more. To share more. They always held back, found a way to stop, to hold on to their virtue, their innocence a little longer.
Harley had told herself that this summer was going to change her life, that this summer she was going to give him something she could never take back, that no matter what, no matter where life took them, they would forevermore live in each other’s memory. They were living in an immortal summer.
The first few weeks of this summer started like the rest, with her deep in her shell, uptight. It was hard for her to move from one lifestyle to the other, for her to let her shoulders down and breathe in, relax. Most times, she made it to Willowhaven Farms in mid-May and didn’t leave until the end of August. Over Christmas break, she would fly in for a week just to ride, and if she was lucky she would find a way to spend at least part of her spring and fall breaks there as well. The time in-between was hard. Doran Farms possessed the two things she was sure she could not live without: her gelding, Clandestine, and Wyatt, the love affair that she had no choice but to keep clandestine.
Wyatt’s mother would kill them both if she ever figured out there was something between them. Not because she didn’t adore Harley, but because she was a woman of her word. She had sworn to the Tatum’s that she could safely board Harley as she trained. Claire, Harley’s mother, pointed out more than once that Camille had two sons near the same age as Harley. Camille took offense to that and clearly voiced that her sons were southern gentlemen, not brood stallions.
Nevertheless, Camille built a two-bedroom apartment over the main barn. Everyone assumed it was for Harley simply because it was no ordinary barn apartment, but built to perfection, built with southern luxury, but in the end the boys took over the apartment and Harley stayed in the main house when she was there. Wyatt and his brother, Truman, didn’t mind, in fact, they loved it. It was their independence, their freedom. Their mother had warned them more than once that it came with responsibility, and daily she walked the apartment, twice, not only to make sure it was clean, but also safely kept.
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.