Chapter 14
Byron
Byron was growing used to the sound of laughter echoing through the house.
It made him smile at the man he saw in the mirror when he stepped out of the shower.
Maybe he was seeing things, but he could have sworn the wrinkles on his face were changing.
He’d never really cared about the frown lines forming on his forehead.
After all, it was just a part of growing older.
But they seemed less so now. Instead, small lines darted out around the corners of his eyes.
He was smiling more—and frowning less—and his face was beginning to show it.
Drying his body in a rush, he pulled on clean clothes.
He needed to double-check the rope he’d used to secure Betty.
Earlier, he’d tied it off in such a rush.
He hadn’t cared when he first stripped down to his underwear and leapt into the floodwaters to save the blasted cow.
More focused on the fact she was bound to float away to the next town over, the thought of being near naked around Emory hadn’t even crossed his mind.
But walking out of the water, he felt her eyes taking him in more than he felt each rivulet of muddy water that trickled down his skin.
It wasn’t bad, he supposed, to be ogled. But he’d felt exposed and a little awkward. Plus, with Clayton running around their feet, he’d been careful not to say anything too crass. Better to act like he was completely unfazed by the whole situation. Thinking back, he was sure he’d pulled it off.
But his mind had still been elsewhere as he tied the rope around one of the poles along the pergola, and he wasn’t sure he trusted his muscle memory that much. Now she’d had a taste for swimming, he could just about guarantee Betty would want to give it another go.
Stepping into the hall, Byron noticed the laughter was coming from Clayton’s room, rather than the living room.
The door was open a little, and Byron poked his head in.
Just to see what they were doing, nothing more.
As much as he was enjoying spending so much time with Emory and Clayton, he knew that it wasn’t always his place to step in.
They needed time alone. They deserved it, even when they were staying in a house that wasn’t their own.
Sitting on the tiny bed, Emory read Clayton a book. Byron couldn’t see what it was, not that it should have mattered. But through the silly voices she was putting on, Byron could piece together the basics. A witch and a broom, and a frog that wanted to hop on.
Clayton laughed at almost every line, even the ones Byron didn’t think were meant to be funny. But the little boy was enjoying it all the same, clapping at his mother’s exaggerated inflection and the way she pointed at the pictures as she read.
Something in Byron’s chest began to ache.
Nothing painful, but a longing. A pulling towards Emory and Clayton he had to fight to ignore.
The picture of them, cosy and happy on the bed, was searing itself into Byron’s mind, and all he wanted was to join them.
To be a part of that picture. To be a part of that family.
But he couldn’t do either. He couldn’t disrupt their time together. Sure, they’d probably welcome him with open arms, but he was mindful not to overstep and was certain there was a line around here somewhere that he dared not cross.
And more importantly, even if he did join them today, he couldn’t be part of their tiny family.
Emory had been through enough heartbreak at the hands of a Gardner man, and Byron wasn’t going to add to that list. Not that he thought he would break her heart.
Quite the opposite, actually. He was beginning to learn that, given the chance, he would spend the rest of his life loving her with every fibre in his body.
And how did that old saying go? If you love someone, let them go?
Byron thought that was it, and he believed now that was what he had to do.
He had no idea what Emory’s plans for the future were, but he doubted it involved sticking around with her ex-boyfriend’s dad.
She thrived in the hustle and bustle, not in the busy solitude of farm life.
That much was clear. Byron had been in the café on more than one occasion, and even when the women who seemed to hate her barely gave her a second glance as they ordered their coffee, Emory always had the biggest grin on her face as she did her best to make small talk.
Being around people was what she needed more of, not being around one lonely and grumpy farmer.
Resigned to stay lonely a while longer, Byron backed away from the door on tiptoes. He didn’t return to his normal gait until he had cleared the hallway altogether.
Through the kitchen window, he couldn’t miss Betty grazing on the manicured lawn he considered his backyard.
It was a small space, really. Just enough flat ground for Byron to feel like the farmhouse was any other home.
Beyond the turf, the slope fell toward the valley, now covered in water and the paddocks beyond.
A gum tree, not quite as tall as the one along the drive but still decades old, towered over the yard, and in its shade, he’d set up a small set of play equipment for Clayton.
It had been his, once, that’s how old it was.
The wooden cubby was faded, and a few of the wall panels had fallen off over time, but the ladder was still secure, and the small slide still worked, even if it was more than a few shades lighter than it once was.
Byron had found it in the back corner of the shed when Clayton was still a baby.
He’d pulled it out, full of memories from his youth, and Clayton had been using it ever since.
He hoped Clayton would keep using it for years to come.
Even if Byron couldn’t have what he wanted—meaning, Emory and Clayton moving in with him permanently—he still wanted to be there for them both.
He needed Emory to know that watching Clayton was so far from a hassle.
It was the opposite; a joyous, wondrous thing that Byron would love to continue with for as long as Emory needed.
It was the closest Byron would get to being part of their immediate family, and it would have to do.
Rolling out his shoulders, Byron tipped back on his heels and whistled. Who knew a brooding countryman could be so soppy and emotional? Having Emory in the house had really done a number on the safe he tried to keep his emotions locked away in.
Outside, Betty mooed. The sound didn’t exactly shock Byron, but it did remind him of the task at hand. He stepped outside as Betty stretched her tether as far as she could. Byron raced forward to grab the rope as the cow pulled the knot free.
See, distracted minds do shitty work.
This time, Byron focused as he tied the knot, looping the rope around the pergola post and back over itself.
Once he was certain his second attempt would hold Betty secure for the next week or more, he followed the long lead to the cow’s neck and gave her a good scratch.
What was he going to do with this blasted animal?
She was more pain than she was worth. He still didn’t understand what kind of voodoo had washed over him when he purchased her.
Truth was, she stuck out like a sore thumb in his herd of Holsteins.
And for all the affection she gave him, times like now, she caused just as much grief.
Like the fact she was here, not over in the paddock with the rest. He couldn’t bear the thought of selling her on, though.
Still, he couldn’t have her eating his small patch of actual lawn dry.
With the rope now securely tied, he trudged over to the shed and hauled out a bale of hay.
The dry stalks scratched along his bare arms, but he welcomed the familiar sensation as he carried the bale back towards the house.
The thud as he dropped it to the ground by Betty’s post echoed across the water.
As she wandered over to check out his offering, Byron gave his beautiful red cow another scratch before heading back inside.
The house was quieter now. Clayton’s door was pulled closed, and through the cracks, Byron could hear the soft sounds of lullabies. Emory hummed along to the tune.
There was that pulling again.
Byron rubbed his palm across his chest, as though he might erase the feeling that lingered there. He rolled his eyes at himself, then carried on down the hall to his den.
His book was sitting on the coffee table, but instead, he reached for a puzzle from the stack on the shelves underneath. He grabbed the first one, not looking at what it was until he was tipping the pieces out on the green felt of the pool table.
The image on the box was a mix of deep blues and greys.
The Sydney Opera House took up almost half the picture, with the harbour and bridge in the background.
Byron couldn’t remember when or why he’d got this puzzle.
Probably some Christmas present from some distant relative once upon a time.
Although there was a chance it used to be Josie’s.
Or his parents’. That was the thing with this room, there was so much history if you knew where to look.
Despite the cityscape not being what he had in mind when he decided to do a puzzle, he got to work hunting down the flat edge pieces all the same.
Turned out the picture itself didn’t matter.
His mind was racing around as he began to assemble the border of the puzzle.
He needed to figure out a way to stop thinking about Emory.
To stop thinking about how perfect she was.
To stop hoping she was also thinking about him.