Chapter 10
Byron
The last of the cattle were dragging. Protesting against Miff’s incessant barking, the way she ran up close then backed off for another round.
Normally, the cows would hustle under her lead, but today, Byron was surprised none of them had given her a swift kick to the face.
Especially Betty. She was the feistiest dairy cow Byron had ever come across, and her deep mahogany coat stood out against the herd of black and white Holsteins, but Byron had all but fallen for her at the auction two years ago, and it had been a love-hate relationship ever since.
Especially now, when the Aussie Red was ever so slowly creeping away from Miff’s herd.
The cattle dog hadn’t seen her yet, but Byron had.
Determined to get all the cows secure in the high paddock, then back to his farmhouse before the rain started up again, Byron jumped down from the quad bike.
Making sure Clayton was steady on the seat, he pulled the key from the ignition and shoved it into his pockets.
“Clayton drive?” the little kid asked, and Byron agreed, tapping the handlebars.
Clayton always loved ‘driving’ the quad bike.
It was the easiest way to keep him occupied when Byron had work to do.
It reminded him of all the times he had spent riding around the farm with one of his own sons on his lap.
Emory always praised Byron with thanks for looking after Clayton so often, but honestly?
Byron enjoyed it more than he cared to admit.
Having Clayton around brought a little youth and light back into Byron’s otherwise monotonous life.
And helped him feel like he could make up for lost time.
He hadn’t meant to get so emotional when he asked Emory to leave Clayton with him this morning, but once the tears began to flow, he couldn’t stop them.
It was the chance to right his wrongs, even if therapy had him convinced it wasn’t ever his fault.
Still, he wasn’t about to risk it all happening again.
In the end, opening up felt cathartic, and he was glad he’d done it with Emory.
Truth was, he wished he’d done it sooner.
Maybe it would have eliminated all the times she brushed off his help or thanked him a few too many times.
The past three years of looking after Clayton had brought a little joy back into Byron’s life.
If anything, he should have been thanking her.
With one eye still on his grandson, Byron ran through the grass towards the wandering cow, arms wide like he was going to wrap her in a bear hug. He nearly did. He would have, if she hadn’t seen him coming and pranced away.
The little—well big, really—fucker thought it was a game.
“C’mon, Betty.” Byron huffed as he circled around her.
Tucker moved away from his position holding the gate, rounding to corner Betty off and help guide her into the paddock.
With Byron on one side, Tucker on the other, and Miff barking her way closer, Betty’s only choice was to go the way they wanted.
Her tail dropped, and she turned in a wide circle, padding her way to the gate and joining the rest of the herd in the high paddock.
Now at Byron’s feet, Miff barked to show her agreement. A paw propped up to tap Byron’s knee.
“Hold on,” he mumbled. The blasted gate latch always caught.
It was never a big deal because they never used this paddock.
It was too high on the hill, and a fraction too small for the more than two hundred cows who now huddled around the scattered trees.
Byron wished he could have secured them in the barn, but it was on low ground. It wasn’t worth the risk.
Tucker shoved his old man out of the way, throwing all his weight onto the gate until it dropped down and he could latch it closed. “Never got around to fixing this one?”
Byron huffed. “Never needed to.”
“I’m going to inherit a run-down old farm that’s more work than it’s worth, aren’t I?”
Byron didn’t respond. He left his son’s side and walked back to the quad bike. Clayton’s helmet was a fraction too big, sitting lopsided on his tiny head. Lifting the boy off the bike, Byron unlatched the strap and pulled the heavy head protection off.
“Unky Tuck!” Clayton barrelled towards Tucker with his arms wide. Mud squelched under his boots, but that didn’t stop Tucker from hoisting him up.
“Who says you’re the one inheriting it?” Byron jabbed. It was rhetorical, really. Everyone in the whole town, probably the whole state, knew that Tucker Gardner would inherit the family farm.
There may have been a while there when the boys were young and Byron thought he might have to choose between his sons, but Jaxon made it clear he wasn’t interested long before he decided to skip town.
The harsh reminder of his son’s incompetence as a father burned at Byron’s throat. He’d raised his sons better than that, but sometimes, it seemed, a bad seed could grow from even the cleanest of crops.
“Besides,” Byron added, ignoring the way all this talk of inheritance made his head pound, “I may be getting older, but that doesn't mean I’m ready to pass the farm on. I’m only forty-five.”
He felt every year of his age, too. But he wouldn’t tell Tucker that. Didn’t need the chirpy twenty-one-year-old knowing his old man was on his way to just that, being old. That thought burned through his insides even more.
“Wasn’t grandpa in his forties when he passed the farm to you?”
“He was forty-nine.”
“Well, you’re in the right decade then.” Tucker sighed, crossing the muddy path to stand next to his father.
He shifted Clayton onto one hip and placed his free hand on his father’s shoulder.
Byron’s resolve collapsed under the calming gesture.
“Look, I don’t mean to come across like I’m shoving you out, I swear.
I just want us both to have realistic expectations, and maybe we can come up with a plan.
I reckon I’d need more than five years to figure out how to run this place anyway. So maybe we should start.”
Change. Byron could feel it. He knew the flood would bring it, he’d been waiting for it.
He just hadn’t expected it to hit so soon.
Or for it to feel this … easy. “You’re right,” he admitted.
“But you’ve got a better understanding of the whole thing than you give yourself credit for.
And besides, we need to get through the flood first.”
He climbed onto his quad bike and reached his arms out. “Come on, Clayton, let’s drive.”
Clayton squirmed out of his uncle’s hold and toddled back through the mud. After hoisting Clayton up, Byron tucked the helmet back over his head.
“Can we address the other elephant in the room?”
Byron held in his grunt. He didn’t want to.
He knew exactly what Tucker was referring to, and it was one thing to ‘not’ talk about it with Emory and another for Tucker to inadvertently bring it up.
Or figure it out. Byron appreciated the friendship he and Tucker had grown into over the past few years, but there were some lines that definitely didn’t need crossing between a father and his son. “We’re not in a room.”
“In the bloody paddock, then. Fuck, Dad, stop being so literal.” Tucker climbed onto his own quad bike but made no move to turn it on. “Where’s Emory?”
“What makes you think she isn’t back at the farmhouse?”
On cue, Clayton clapped. “Drive, Papa!”
“Not yet, kid,” Byron said, resting his chin on Clayton’s helmet. “What if I just wanted to bring Clayton out with me? Wouldn’t be his first time out on the farm and it sure as shit won’t be his last. Does Emory have to be somewhere for it to happen?”
Clayton appeared to hear none of what Byron had said, except for the swear word. He proudly repeated it.
“You’re in trouble,” Tucker mused. With a leg on either side of the bike, he hoisted one foot up onto the front of the seat and rested an arm against his knee.
“She went to town,” Byron admitted. The acknowledgement of how far away Emory was pulled at something in his chest. That protective beast was grumbling, ready for her to return, so he knew she was safe.
“What could she possibly have needed in town?” Tucker questioned.
He might as well have been talking directly to Byron’s untamed beast. “Café’s closed for the flood, so she’s not working.
Mya’s not at the library, so she won’t hang around there, and last I checked, you had enough food to last a small army a whole winter.
Why would you let her leave? What if the bridge closes? ”
“It won’t,” Byron growled.
“It might.”
“She’ll be back before it does, just like you’ll be gone before it does, too.
I can’t force her to stay when there is a clear way out, no matter how much I might think it’s the best for her.
She … ah … needed to get away.” Byron stumbled over the words, immediately realising he’d said too much without saying much of anything.
Tucker ran a hand over his face, his fingers lingered in his beard, scratching at his chin. “I don’t think I want to know the answer to this question,” he started.
“So don’t ask it.” Byron’s tone was flat.
Nodding, Tucker turned the key, and his quad bike revved to life. “Don’t fuck it up, old man,” he called out as he sped off down the muddy track that led back to the farmhouse.
Emory’s tiny bright green hatchback was parked next to Tucker’s truck when the men returned from the paddock.
Clayton cheered in Byron’s lap, clapping for his mother, but he didn’t wriggle or squirm out of the seat.
He waited, just like Byron had always shown him, until the quad bike was parked safely in the back shed and turned off before climbing down.
He ran for the back door, pushing it open and storming into the house.
Byron cringed at the thought of how much mud his little gumboots would be traipsing through the house.
It was a problem for later, though, because Tucker stood with his arms folded across his chest, staring at Byron.
He raised an eyebrow, and Byron felt every piercing stab of his son’s disapproving gaze.
“I thought you didn’t want to know the answer to whatever question is brewing inside that brain of yours.”
Tucker snorted. “I don’t, I’m not asking it. There are some things a son does not need to know about his father.”
Byron cleared his throat and turned away. Even if Tucker asked the question he clearly wanted, there was nothing to tell. There was nothing between Byron and Emory other than a fleeting attraction and a temptation they had to resist.
“You should get back across the bridge. Stay safe.”
In response, Tucker only nodded and climbed into his truck.
Walking inside, Byron tried to ignore the way each breath felt like knives in his lungs.
The house smelled like … Emory. A candle was lit on the kitchen bench.
Not the one he’d bought, but one that smelled fruity and fresh, like baked pear and lemonade.
It reminded Byron of the subtle hints of Emory’s shampoo he always did his best not to fixate on.
There was that change again.
Only this one, he thought maybe he could get used to.
Some tiny part of him began to imagine what it would be like if being forced to stay together for a few weeks became the start of something more between him and Emory.
The more he never allowed himself to picture because it still felt so wrong to want it, but he was realising he wanted it nonetheless.
But he couldn’t try to convince her to stay with him after the flood receded. He knew what it was like to be thrown into a life you never had a choice in, and he couldn’t ask that of her. Not when just being in Gardner Creek was enough of a change for her.
Besides, Emory was in her twenties. Of course she wouldn’t want to move in with a middle-aged man, and of course she wasn’t going to fall in love with him. Knowing that didn’t turn off the sheer attraction he had for the woman, but it was an icy dose of reality.