Page 17 of Higher Ground
He wanted her to at least acknowledge what he’d said. It was important. With all the rain yesterday, he had no idea how high or how fast the floodwater would come in. Even with the clear sky today. Until he got a better idea, it was safest for them all to stay in the farmhouse.
He growled. He hadn’t meant to make such a guttural sound, but some protective subconsciousness stirred in him and ached to be let out.
“Emory, I mean it,” he warned.
She huffed behind him, and that was all he could take; the low sound that came from her was so similar to the sounds she had made the night before. The sounds he wasn’t supposed to hear, but he’d heard anyway, and he’d enjoyed.
He dropped the plates into the sink and spun around, and he was ready to stride back over to the table and tell her to cut the crap but when he saw her cowering in her chair he couldn’t. Her cheeks were that vibrant shade of crimson red again, and all he wanted to do was pull her close and tell her that she didn’t need to be embarrassed. About last night, about her dressing gown, about anything.
Byron’s arm twitched to reach out for her, but he held it firm as he returned to the table and sank into his chair.
“Look,” he started, but he stopped to shake his head when the word came out all rough and hasty. “Emory,” he tried again.
Her arms were wrapped tight around her middle, and her chin was on her chest, but she raised her eyes to look at him.
“We can either talk about it, or we can pretend it never happened, or we can acknowledge that it happened and just move on.” He tapped his knuckles on the table.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Byron nodded. “Got it.”
“I can pack our stuff back up. We’ll go to the community centre. I’m sure they still have space. Or they would have to make space.” Her words were shaky, and she dropped her gaze back down to the table.
“You can still stay here, Emory,” Byron insisted. “I’d prefer it, honestly.”
“But—”
“There’s no but. We aren’t talking about it.”
Emory took a long sip from her coffee, grimacing as she swallowed. It was probably cold by now, but she kept her hands clasped around the mug as she set it back down.
“Okay,” she said with a sigh. “But I’d like to head into town today. I’ll take Clayton, we’ll go to the park and the library. We’ll get out of your hair while we still can.”
That protectiveness in Byron stirred again, pulling at his chest until it hurt to breathe. “Can’t,” he choked out.
Emory’s brow furrowed. She tapped her trim nails against the mug in her hands. “The bridge?”
“Not yet, but up north had a lot of rain last night. We can’t risk crossing the bridge until we know we’d be able to get back.” If they had no rain for twenty-four hours and the bridge stayed open, they’d be safe to head into town if they needed. But if it started raining again, they’d have to stay.
Emory didn’t question Byron’s judgement. Her nod was short and curt, and she didn’t say a word as she stood from the table and returned her mug to the sink.
“Byron,” she said before stepping back into the living room. “I don’t think I can just pretend it never happened, but I still don’t want to talk about it.”
Byron chuckled, moving towards her and caging her in against the wall that formed the elaborate archway between the rooms. “I can’t pretend either, Emory. But we don’t have totalkabout it.”
He lingered longer than he should have. There was an inch of air between their bodies, but he felt every bit of it as he hesitated. Emory gasped and pulled her lower lip into her mouth.
“I’ll check the bridge. If it doesn’t rain today, you can head into town tomorrow before the next storm hits.”
Byron spent most of the day hidden in the den. He could try to tell himself he was just giving Emory the space she needed all he wanted, but there was no denying the truth. Shortly after breakfast, Emory had taken Clayton to play on the old slide outside, and Byron had attempted to do the washing up. Truth was, he kept getting distracted, staring at Emory out the window.
So, as soon as the dishwasher was loaded and the pans were drying by the sink, he’d run down to the back end of the house like an embarrassed teenager. He liked it down here, honestly. The brick walls and dim lights made the room feel cosy and warm, even in the dredges of winter. Relaxing on the couch to do the word puzzle from the paper or read a book was calming enough that he almost forgot all his worries. Down here, he wasn’t overworked from long days fixing fences and herding cattle. He wasn’t stressing over the wheat fields or whether itwas time to pull the bull from the field of heifers. Heck, down here, he didn’t even care if theywereheifers or not. All he cared about was his peace.
And down in the den, with its wall of books and faded pool table, peace is what he found. Even today, after a night like the last. Byron was able to forget it all for a moment.
Most days, he would have trudged back through the house by now. Although truthfully, he probably wouldn’t have been down here so early in the day. It felt more than a little odd, not findingsomethingto do outside. But the threat of the storm and flood had been too much for him in the week prior. He’d worked himself to the ground getting everything sorted, and there wasn’t much else that could be done.
Sure, he still had to move the cows to higher ground, and all the chickens would have to deal with being in one coop instead of two, but Tucker was due tomorrow to help with all that. Byron had sent the other farmhands home two days ago, telling them to prepare their own properties and not worry about his.
