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.