Chapter 2
Byron
Byron leant all his weight against the old windmill, urging it to return upright.
The late afternoon sky was turning dark, and he’d been out fixing damn fence posts all day.
Same ones he’d fixed last summer, and the year before that.
The problem with farm fences was that they never seemed to stay up.
Maybe because he always half-assed fixing them.
He wasn’t ready to take the blame, though.
He was ready to pack it in, but the farm wasn’t.
He just needed to secure the supports for his late wife’s windmill, and then he and his adult son, Tucker, could finally call it a day.
He strained against the weight of the structure, muscles aching after the long day of hard labour, as Tucker poured a bag of concrete in the hole they had dug around the posts.
“You reckon it’ll set before the rain?”
Byron looked from Tucker to the deep grey clouds that hung low on the horizon. “If we’re lucky. It’s meant to hit worse up north today, down here tomorrow. But I don’t like the look of those clouds.”
Byron trusted the sky more than he did the weather forecast. The rain would come tonight, and then all he could do was hope the weatherman was wrong about how long it would last. And how widespread it would hit.
The bureau was forecasting weeks of endless rain from here in Gardner Creek right up to the New South Wales and Queensland border.
With so much rain on such dry ground, along such a long stretch of the river, they were also expecting a flood higher than they’d seen in almost twenty years.
And Byron remembered that flood. Back then, he’d been helping his old man with the farm, learning the ropes because they both knew he’d be taking over one day soon.
Even then, in his twenties, Byron knew this was the way of life for Gardner men.
The town was named for them after all. He’d known then, even when his eldest son Jaxon had been no more than four years old, that he’d be the one to pass the farm down and carry on the family legacy.
He wasn’t sure what he was going to do now, because at forty-five, he knew he didn’t have a great many years left of caring as much as he needed to, or working as hard as he did.
And sure, he had plenty of men helping him out, and his youngest son, Tucker, helped when he could.
But Tucker was only twenty-one and had only just moved out into his own place on the other side of the property. And Jaxon was … well, Jaxon was gone.
Turned out, that flood in the noughties was the final straw for Byron’s dad.
Once the waters receded and the stench had cleared, they had fixed all the broken fences and repaired the barn, and then at fifty-one years old, he’d called it quits on farm life.
Byron’s parents had moved into the small cottage in town, and he had taken over the farm.
Shit, the cottage. He’d have to call Emory when he got back to the farmhouse, make sure she knew about the flood and had somewhere safe to go.
He scolded himself for being so rushed to get back to fixing damned fence posts that he hadn’t thought to check when she came to pick up Clayton.
He’d have to make sure she knew that she and Clayton could stay at the farmhouse.
The farm was full of rolling hills, spreading over the hectares Byron called home.
The farmhouse took pride of place at the top elevation.
Byron turned to admire the heritage home, way in the distance, up on its hill.
Even from here, it was a beauty. He could just make out the steep gabled roof and wrap-around patio against the dark clouds that continued to roll in.
The place was huge. Full of empty bedrooms and unused spaces.
Plenty of room for Emory and Clayton to come and stay, safe and dry.
The thought made Byron’s Adam’s apple bob, a firm lump forming in his throat. His heart raced. At his age, he shouldn’t feel this way about any woman in her twenties, let alone Emory.
“You right, Dad?”
Byron shook his head, pushing off the now upright windmill and rolling his shoulders out. “Thinking of the flood is all.” He didn’t need his son’s opinion when it came to Emory.
Byron knew what he would say, anyway.
“Not thinking of Mum? Wasn’t this her windmill?”
A short puff of air escaped Byron as he held back his surprise at the question. Tucker rarely asked about his mother. He’d been so young when Josie had passed. Byron turned to face the windmill, stretching his neck up to watch the blades spin ferociously against the wind.
“Yeah, she loved this thing. I’d hate for a flood to steal it from her.”
Tucker nodded but wrapped one arm around his middle. His free hand pushed his scruffy sun-bleached hair off his face.
The two men stood, watching the windmill, remembering Josie, for a while.
Wildflowers rustled all through the paddock, swaying in the wind.
Neither of them gave notice to the way the flowers shook, to the warning in the air.
A low grumble of thunder crept along the rolling hills, forcing them to finally look down from the rotating blades.
“Rain’s coming,” Byron said, breaking the silence that lingered between the men. “Might not stop once it does.”
“Does Emory have somewhere safe?” Tucker asked.
Byron gulped at the lump in his throat and willed his heart not to race away like it always did whenever Emory was concerned.
Before he could summon an answer that wouldn’t give away his true feelings, Tucker stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled.
The sound rang in Byron’s ears, but his cattle dog Miff raced over and slipped between Tucker’s legs.
He ignored her for a moment, planting his hands on his hips to roll his eyes at Byron.
“I’ll call her,” Byron said when he couldn’t think of anything better. “Let her know she can stay at the farmhouse. I’ve got plenty of room.”
“You think that’s a good idea?”
No, but he wasn’t about to let Tucker know that.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
Tucker sighed, stepping forward.
“Right,” he said, drawing out the word.
Byron shoved his son’s shoulders. “Right,” he repeated, but Tucker stood firm.
With a groan that matched the echoing rumble of thunder, Byron tipped his head to the grey sky.
“Emory is an attractive woman, and she is also kind and intelligent and a wonderful mother to Clayton. But I’m no bloody fool.
She deserves more than this old bloke can offer her.
” He wasn’t old old, but he was older than her by a little more than twenty years.
“She’s Jaxon’s ex. And you’re her son’s grandfather.”
“Exactly.”
“But you like her?”
It was Byron’s turn to sigh. Because he did, and it was so wrong on so many levels.
Even if she wasn’t his son’s ex, she was young and just finding her feet after motherhood arrived on her doorstep unannounced.
There was no way Emory would even look at him twice, so he wasn’t about to go kidding himself by getting his hopes up.
“I don’t need to have this conversation with you.” He didn’t need to have it with anyone, really. He knew he needed to hold back his blasted feelings; he didn’t need his son reminding him so.
The problem was, he had tried holding them back. He’d been trying for the past 4 years, ever since he’d first laid eyes on her. But they still lingered under the surface of his skin like an itch he couldn’t reach. By this stage, he figured that they always would. He’d never act on them, though.
“So, you think her and Clayton coming to stay is a good idea?” Tucker climbed onto one of the quad bikes, clicking the engine on.
Miff yapped beside him, her patience wearing thin as she waited for her treat.
Her tail thumped against the dry ground as a loud crack of thunder echoed through the air.
Byron shivered at the sound. He knew all too well what this much rain could bring. Change. And too much of it.
Byron rummaged through the pockets of his oversized tan jacket to find a jerky treat for the dog. Finding none, he lifted his shoulders. “Sorry,” he said, as though she might understand.
She yapped again, but he ignored her, moving to climb back onto his own dusty quad bike. Miff gave up, jumping onto the tray behind Byron.
“Nope,” he called out over the sound of both engines revving, “but it just might be her only choice.”
He kicked the bike into gear and sped off up the hill, wanting to get back to the house quickly now, before the rain landed.
Even with the house’s prime position on the hill, Byron had a list of things to get done in case the roads were closed earlier than they needed to be.
There should be enough food to last him through a flood, but if he could convince Emory to stay, he’d need almost double what he normally would have planned.
Little Clayton ate almost as much food as Byron did during a growth spurt.
It’d be nice, having Clayton around more. Byron would give the whole situation that, at least. He would shove aside his personal discomfort for the sake of his grandson. That little tike lit up Byron’s days like nothing else. Made him feel a little less old and a little more lively.
“I’ll be back in a couple of days to help get the cows up,” Tucker said after they had parked the quad bikes in the back shed and made their way around the house.
“You might not be able to get back across the bridge in a few days, it’ll be the first to close.”
“I’ve got the boat.”