Page 9 of Higher Ground
“I’ll have to be.”
“Let’s see if we can fit these tubs in your car, then.”
Emory pulled the largest tub over the coffee table and grunted as she picked it up. Mya rushed to open the front door for her, then picked up a box of her own.
Once Emory’s small SUV was packed and Clayton was buckled into his seat, Emory turned to face Mya again.
“Thank you for today. And for everything.”
Mya scratched the back of her neck. “Thanks for understanding about Tucker.”
“What are friends for?”
The two women hugged, rocking a little as they held each other close, neither wanting to be the first to let go.
“What am I going to do when you leave, Emory?”
“You’ll have Tucker.”
“Yeah, but he’s a boy. It’s not the same.”
Chapter 4
Byron
Byron rolled his eyes, pulling the deep navy blanket back off the bed and folding it roughly before dropping it at his feet. He was overthinking this. He knew it, and looking around the spare room he had rushed to get ready for Emory, she would know it too.
He’d started by simply changing the sheets. No one had slept in the bed since Tucker moved out almost a year ago, but Byron had figured it needed refreshing before Emory settled in for the next week or more. It had been so long since anyone had even been in this room that he presumed everything was covered in a fine layer of dust, bedspread included.
He’d wiped down all the surfaces and across the windowsill, vacuumed the faded grey rug, and fluffed the pillows as best he could. Remaking the bed after stripping off the old sheets, Byron had felt a sudden urge to domore.
The off-white sheets he used looked fine, but plain. And Emory deserved far more than plain, even if Byron was not the one to ever give it to her. So, he’d added the deep navy blanket and a few of the throw cushions from the couch in the den.They only got used when he and Clayton built forts and collected every pillow and cushion from the house to be their walls, so he knew they wouldn’t be missed. But scattered across the bed, they looked cheap and gave the distinct impression that he was trying too hard to make Emory comfortable. He needed to give an air of nonchalance, not this prissy bullshit.
He yanked the cushions off the bed, throwing them behind him towards the door and turning his attention to the lone bedside table. The lamp was fine, but the books he’d pulled from the bookshelf would have to go. He knew Emory loved to read, but he was kidding himself if he thought he could pick a book out for her. Never mind how downright over the top it was for him to have even attempted it. If she didn’t bring books of her own, she could choose from the wall-to-wall shelving down in the den. Most of the books were left behind from the boys’ younger years, but there were a few old classics Josie used to enjoy. The ones he still hadn’t been able to get rid of might just end up being read again after all.
Byron sucked in a breath at the reminder of his wife. Of how young they both were when she died. It was an age ago now, and Byron had mostly settled into life as a widower. The farm had carried on, and the boys needed him. He’d never had time to dwell, and he preferred it that way. Still, it would be nice to have someone again. To hand him a coffee when he came in after tending to the cows, and to listen to his complaints when the monotony of farm life became all too much. To keep his bed warm on the frosty autumn mornings and to bring light to his otherwise dark and lonely life.
He pictured Emory in that role, and he hated that he did. It looked good on her, at least in his imagination, but it would never do. It wasn’t right. And if she was going to stay for the next however long until the floodwaters dropped again and thecottage was clean and safe, Byron figured he would have to rein in this forbidden fantasy that kept popping up.
Shaking the vision from his mind, he removed the fresh flowers he had cut from the garden and propped in a jar from the dresser by the window, too. If everything else was over the top, they were downright excessive.
The sky was a deep grey, a warning of the storm to come. The rain the night before had been nothing more than a pre-game, and the sky was rapidly growing darker as the next pelting inched closer. Byron hoped Emory would be there soon. He’d said before the storm, but he hadn’t planned on it hitting so early in the afternoon. These roads were dangerous when they were wet, he knew that all too well, and the thought of Emory driving on them was a persistent itch behind his ears.
Trudging down the hallway to return everything to its suitable, unused place, Byron heard the crunching of the gravel driveway. The sound stirred something unusual inside him, anticipation that flooded his veins with lava and left needles all over his skin.
Lightning flashed outside the windows, sending a burst of light through the house. It was the distant, far-off kind that flashed through the air without any real starting point, but Byron knew it was only the beginning. He started to count, even though he could never remember the proper measurements. All he knew was that the less time between the light and the thunder, the closer the storm was.
He threw the cushions and blanket back over the couch in the den, leaving the flowers and books on the raw wood coffee table. And as he raced to the front door, his heart pounded with that same anticipation, but an edge of something else. Excitement tingled down his spine. God, he was pathetic. Surely at this age, he should be over such immature rushes of emotion. He couldn’t help it when he thought of Emory, though.
He got to five one-thousands before the thunder cracked through the air, right as he pulled open the front door. The loud clap shook the branches of the tall gum tree that stood halfway down the driveway. Byron could hear Clayton’s cries from inside Emory’s small car.
His shoulders dropped. He hadn’t realised he’d been holding them so high, but when he saw Emory and finally knew she was safe, an unexpected sense of relief poured over him.
Miff bounded around the house from her kennel out back, barking at the sky. She tangled herself around Byron’s feet, squeezing between them and resting her front paws on his toes.
“Alright, inside,” he told the scaredy dog. He patted her behind, nudging her into the house.
Seeing the boxes in the back of Emory’s car, Byron grabbed a pair of old gumboots that had been propped upside down on the mat, giving them a firm tap on the ground before flipping them up to slide them on. Striding down the steps of the porch, he called out a hello to Emory as she opened her door. She waved, distracted by her attempts to calm the still-crying little boy in the car.
