Page 3 of Billionaire Lumberjack's Bride

“No reason.”

Except I may be in deep shit.

That car turned up the mountain, and there isn’t anything up there except a handful of cabins owned by people who don’t want that kind of trouble—including me.

I give Jensen a parting wave and climb back into the truck. Whiskey crawls through the open cab rear window to take his seat next to me, still vigilant and watching everything outside, my anxiety putting him on high alert.

“It’s probably nothing, boy.”

He tilts his head suspiciously.

Yeah, I don’t believe it, either.

My gut tightens, and by the time I reach the stop sign, my hands visibly shake on the wheel.

It isn’t him.

It can’t be.

There’s no way he found me.

The same words I’ve repeated to myself over and over since I fled that life, those people, that world, and settled into this one ring in my head. In the past, it’s been enough to settle my worries. Though, this time, I’m not so sure I believe them.

I turn right and start the slow climb up the mountain toward the cabin.

Knuckles white.

Jaw clenched.

Stomach in a knot.

Whiskey paces and shifts on the bench seat, sensing the unease and carrying it on his shoulders as much as I do.

Each mile we ascend up the old gravel road, my disquiet grows until I’m tapping my palm against the steering wheel so persistently that the noise starts to annoy even me.

As I approach each turnoff for the very few “neighbors” up here, I slow and glance down the unpaved paths leading into the woods, hoping to glimpse that sedan. But all of us have our cabins set well back, away from prying eyes, so if it were a visitor at one of their places, I wouldn’t be able to see it.

It’s a futile effort.

And deep down, I know that’s not what the car is doing up here.

Whoever that is…they’re here for me.

It was only a matter of time before someone found me, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to go down without a fight. Years of anticipating this have prepared me for what I might have to do.

Each minute of the remaining hour up the narrow road leading to my property gives me more opportunity to consider my options.

There aren’t many.

Only one that will end this for good.

I glance at the shotgun mounted behind me in the truck cab. Whiskey looks at it, too, like he’s anticipating the same reckoning coming that I am.

The barely visible path tucked between two high hedges that leads back to my property comes into view, and I turn in. Thick, dark woods engulf the truck, and my entire body tenses.

Home.

My safe haven.

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