Page 26 of Higher Ground
It was different now than it had been when he was younger, though. He was no longer afraid of the deep rumble of thunder, and he no longer jumped in terror when lightning sent flashes through the house. He didn’t have to hide under his covers with his hands over his ears, but every hour of nonstop rain still acted like a hammer to his chest. The hairs along his arms stood tall from the second the rain started, and he knew there was no chance of them falling any time soon.
As an adult, he understood the weather. He knew thunderstorms were a simple part of the cycle, especially in his part of Australia. It was all part of the parcel, really, and he’d grown to accept it over the years. But there was somethingunnerving when a storm like this hit, and he’d never been able to shake off the fear that crept down his spine every time the wind rattled the roof.
It was no longer the storm he feared, but what came next. The change.
Each wretched moment in his life could be tracked against a storm. His father retiring after the flood in the noughties, the storm that played a key factor in Josie’s tragic passing, the rain that poured for weeks on end after his mother died.
He didn’t tell Emory that, though. Didn’t need her pity, for one thing. For another, she had enough on her plate as she tried to calm Clayton. She’d spent the afternoon with her son clinging to her. Byron didn’t want to be a burden with his rattled emotions. He’d survived many storms in the farmhouse, alone, and he’d survive this one too. It was the afterwards he was most concerned with.
Waking in the morning to survey the damage, to see just how flooded in they were, and hear just how long the SES expected the flood to stick around. How long would he be able to keep Emory before she ran?
He spent the evening watching her from afar. He’d offered to help at first, but in the depths of his fear, Clayton had latched onto Emory’s chest and seemed determined to never let go. Byron didn’t blame the boy, and he didn’t try to force his way in when he could see he wasn’t wanted. He did other things, though, as much as he could. He cooked Clayton’s favourite bland pasta and sang songs while they ate. He’d blasted nursery rhymes and Spider-Man cartoons as loud as the TV could go to drown out the pelting on the roof. But still, the boy clung to his mother, and Byron could do nothing to help ease the fear. Three nights of storms was apparently the little boy’s limit.
Long after the last of the thunder had torn through the sky, the wind and rain hung around, still pounding. Clayton neversettled, and Emory had fallen asleep, huddled with the boy under his blankets.
When she’d never returned from putting the boy to bed, Byron had assumed as much and crept his way along the hall to check. He watched them now, sleeping soundly in the tiny bed.
With her back to the door, Emory’s legs were curled around Clayton’s tiny frame. The hoodie she’d worn all day was dropped on the floor beside them, revealing the pink tank she’d worn underneath. Byron had caught a glimpse of it earlier that afternoon, in the kitchen, but he’d never stopped to imagine what it might be like. Why should he have? It was just a simple undergarment after all.
Only seeing it now, he realised it was so much more than that, even though it wasn’t, really. It was tight against her curves, and the thin lace straps dropped low on her back. With his eyes, he traced the deep U shape the fabric made against her skin. He imagined how the lace would feel under his fingers, how she might react if he gave in to the temptation and kissed the centre of her back. He wouldn’t, though. Regardless of the looks they’d been sharing all day, and the silent agreement they’d almost, maybe, hopefully, come to. He wouldn’t wake her from her sleep, and he wouldn’t take her from Clayton when the boy clearly needed his mother’s comfort.
He couldn’t let her sleep all crouched up in that tiny bed, though. It was miniature, made for a toddler, not a woman. Definitely not made for them to share. He had to move them to Emory’s bed in the room down the hall. Only, how?
Byron was a fit man, even for a forty-five-year-old. He knew that. He was proud of it, even. It wasn’t by chance, though. He continued to work hard out on the farm, every day, to make sure he maintained the level of fitness he’d grown to expect of himself. He was strong. But strength wasn’t always all he needed. He could pick Emory and Clayton up, no dramas.Combined, they probably weighed less than the hay bales he was used to throwing around. The two of them together, though, while they slept, it would be awkward, to say the least. There was no chance he could cradle them close without waking them.
He’d have to move one at a time and hope they didn’t wake when he pried them apart. He tapped his fingers against his thigh as he thought through the best course of action. Thankful he never wore shoes in the house, he eventually tiptoed into the room. Clayton’s favourite teddy was squished between the boy and Emory, but neither of them seemed to be holding it. Inch by inch, he tugged it free, then held his breath as Clayton whimpered at the sudden gap. Emory responded in her sleep, scooching herself closer until the boy could nestle against her chest.
Right, step one was done.
Byron took the teddy into Emory’s room and tucked it into the middle of the bed. He pulled the blankets down and arranged the spare pillows to create a low wall along one side of the bed so that Clayton wouldn’t roll off.
Back in Clayton’s room, he scooped the boy up and held him tight. He wriggled in his sleep, stretching out his limbs before relaxing in Byron’s hold.
Step two, Byron thought as he carried his grandson to the next room. He sighed in relief as he placed Clayton in the centre of the bed and pulled the blanket around his tiny body.
Now for the hard part.
Emory needed a little coaxing to roll over and allow herself to be swept into Byron’s arms. She protested, gripping the blankets and holding them tight. With one arm around her back and the other supporting her ass and legs, Byron did his best to think innocent thoughts. He was just taking the woman to bed, that was all. Fuck, not like that.
She was asleep, and he still found her irresistible. There was an urge that started deep in his chest and spread into every corner of his bones to carry her past her room and take her straight to his. He wanted to see her sleeping in his bed. To be able to see the way she might curl against his pillow. Nothing more than that. He was a gentleman, and he had no desire to attempt anything while she was still asleep. But maybe, just maybe, she would find comfort in his bed and in the morning, his pillow would smell like her.
He didn’t, though, because no matter how strong the urge was, he knew where she was needed most. The rain outside had eased a little, but there was no doubt that it would be up again soon before the night was through. Clayton would stir at the pounding noise it made against the tin roof or as sheets of water rammed against the windows. And he would need his mother.
That was more important than Byron’s fantasies.
In her own bed, Emory reached instinctively towards Clayton and pulled him close. The teddy was once again squished between them as Byron pulled the blankets up and tucked them in. A small piece of Emory’s hair fell across her face. Byron’s hand shook as he tucked it away. His fingers lingered on her cheek, tracing her jaw and settling right where her dimple always gave away her smiles.
He left her then, near ran from the room when he realised the new emotion that was swirling. This one didn’t start in his balls, it started in his heart. And it scared the shit out of him.
It was quiet again when Byron woke after yet another restless night. It had taken him an age to fall into his unsteady sleep.Pins and needles had spread from his heart until his entire body was shivering in his bed. He lifted his arms over his head, stretching out of the blankets as the morning sun pierced its way into the room from the gap in the curtains.
The rain had stopped then. But for how long? And at what cost?
Byron didn’t wear pyjamas, so in nothing but his briefs, he felt every degree of the chill in the morning air as he stepped out of bed. The fire must have burnt down overnight, and without it, the house had become cold. Served him right, he supposed. That’s what you get for letting yourself get carried away on a dream. After tucking Emory into her bed and realising the deep feelings that settled in his heart, he’d retreated to the kitchen and poured himself a double shot of his finest whiskey. The amber liquid had burned at his throat as he gulped it down, but he savoured the pain. Maybe, with enough of it, he could melt away the sudden lump of emotion.
He wasn’t kidding himself. There was nothing sudden about his feelings for Emory. He was just finally, for whatever reason, letting himself feel them. He’d have to stop, though. He needed to rein himself in and remember just how this whole situation was bound to play out. How it had to play out.
His bare feet padded across the carpet of his bedroom to open the curtains. The floor-to-ceiling window looked out past the back yard and into the paddocks beyond, and although the sky was now clear, the signs of last night’s storm were glaring. Thick branches and leaves were scattered across the yard, and the old gum tree looked more than a little lighter. Beyond the shed, where the yard started sloping down into a valley, Byron could see the water beginning to fill. It was a shiny glaze over the grass, but it spread wide. All the way through the valley. Past it, the high paddock stood on its hill against a backdrop of deepgrey clouds. A new storm was brewing up north, sending more rain down the river.
