Impulsion (Station 32 #1)(90)

“You got this,” Easton said.

Wyatt shook his head. “You don’t get it. Harley thinks things through, sometimes too much. She has done whatever this is for a reason. I have no problem telling Garrison I love her, but at the same time I think I should tell her I’m here, what I want to do. Let her play this part first.”

Memphis met Easton’s gaze, then Wyatt’s. “Look,” Memphis said in the calm, level voice he was known to have. “I was eighteen when I lost my dad. It killed me. I really don’t think it would matter how old he or I was when it happened; it would have hurt the same. Harley is grieving early, preparing early. She wants him to die thinking she’s safe, or will be. All your mother was saying to you is that if you love her, then tell the man. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“He could tell me that I’m not good enough for her.”

“Would that stop you from loving her? Being with her?” Memphis asked.

Wyatt shook his head.

“Then it doesn’t matter. You’re saying your piece to a dying man.”

“By all accounts, he’s a stubborn son of a bitch, stubborn enough to tell his doctors to go to hell and live another ten, fifteen years.”

“Maybe so, but there is no promise in that—” Easton started to say but was cut off.

Wyatt’s phone was ringing. It was the same man that had answered the phone before, asking Wyatt to come to dinner that evening, telling him a car would be there to pick him up within the hour.

All at once, the gravity of this situation seemed to feel all too real to Wyatt.

By the end of the next hour, Wyatt was dressed in one of his nicest suits and was in the back of a Lincoln Town Car which was pulling into a massive driveway that was hidden by a wrought iron gate.

Wyatt had always tried to imagine the wealth that Harley came from, the idea of it. He was sure he had a handle on the magnitude of it, but pulling up to that house, he knew he wasn’t even close. The house reminded him of a storybook palace.

He didn’t feel like a man as he was led inside—he felt like a boy. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he passed Claire Tatum, if she was at this dinner. Memphis and Easton had coached him over and over on how to keep his cool, how to count to three in his mind before he answered any harsh words she said.

“Mr. Doran, it is a pleasure to finally meet you,” the man that greeted him said. “Donald Matthew.”

Wyatt told himself not to smirk, not to ask the man if he meant to make him half-mad every time he called this house. The words stayed in, but the smirk didn’t.

“This way.”

Donald led him through a vast entryway where people were rushing from one side to the other, clearly getting ready for whatever party this was. He guided Wyatt down long, wide hallways with elegant paintings and works of art that made this place look more like a museum than a home.

Donald stopped at the end of one hall, pulled the double doors open, and extended his arm for Wyatt to enter.

It was a library, a two story one. It was dim. The dark leather furniture, massive dark oak desk only added to the wealthy ambience.

Garrison Tatum was walking in the room from a doorway on the side, all alone.

“Mr. Doran. In my home,” he said with a tone that reflected more Texas than New York, a tone deep with power.

Wyatt gave his most polite smile, walked to meet him, shook his hand, the firm handshake his father had taught him to use when he was just a boy.

The man didn’t look sick to him; just as powerful and intimidating as he did when Wyatt met him when he was just a kid.

His hair may have been white, there may have been age lines across his face, but his shoulders were still broad, and he still looked Wyatt dead in the eye, as if he could read his every thought.

“Happy Birthday, sir.”

“Why, thank you, though you are a day early.”

“I didn’t want to disrupt the party that has been planned for so long.”

Garrison laughed. “That party is not for me. It’s a stage for strategy, strategies in all walks of life. Have a seat, son,” he said to Wyatt, nodding to the round table that had been set for dinner.

“I understand I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

Wyatt tilted his head in confusion as he took his seat.

“You pulled my Harley from the cab of a totaled truck.”

Wyatt held his stare. “I don’t know if you recall him, but Easton Ballantine was the first from my department at her side. Once I saw who was on that horse trailer, I assisted. But Harley was unharmed all in all, no real danger.”

“You assisted,” Garrison said with a raspy chuckle. “I’m sure you walked as calmly as you could to the cab of that truck.”

Wyatt let a slow smile come to his face as the fear he did feel in that moment flashed in his ice blue eyes. “I have only met real fear a few times in my life. That moment was one of them, no doubt, sir.”

The conversation halted as a servant rolled in the dinner that was served to the two of them and poured a glass of wine for Wyatt.

When Wyatt ignored the wine, Garrison said, “I’m sure we have beers, too. Of course, I’m assuming since they keep them from me. This half glass of wine is my limit, supposed to ease me.”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“Meeting fear…interesting,” Garrison said to pick up the conversation once more. “When did you meet fear before then?” Garrison asked with a glance to Wyatt. “In a fire, or was it on the back of one of those wild horses you tend to tame with that deep, southern tone of yours?”