Page 4 of Billionaire Lumberjack's Bride

The only place I’ve ever truly felt protected from what lies below the mountain.

But today, it doesn’t feel that way.

Whiskey stands at attention, focus forward through the windshield, waiting for whatever has me so rattled.

Good boy.

Even before I pull through the last of the trees and into the small clearing that houses my cabin, I know what I’ll find—the black sedan parked in front of the porch.

Fuck.

Sometimes, I hate being right.

I stop the truck, throw it into park, and grab my shotgun. Whiskey issues a low growl, hackles up, as he stares at the car. He knows it shouldn’t be here as well as I do, and he’s ready to get rid of the intruder.

Me, too, boy. Me, too.

My hand tightens around the stock, and I throw open my door, racking it as I step out. Whiskey jumps down behind me, and the driver of the sedan slides out onto the dirt in thousand-dollar loafers and a suit that costs at least twenty times that.

Whiskey charges while I move forward, leveling the barrel at our “visitor’s” chest. He sees me and the dog and staggers backward, his ass hitting the open door, hands raised in surrender.

Familiar, hard brown eyes meet mine, and my steps falter. Whiskey barks and snarls in front of him, but he won’t attack unless I give the word. It sits on the tip of my tongue, yet I can’t bring myself to issue the command or pull the trigger.

At least, not until I find out why he’s here and how he found me.

Watching Whiskey carefully, the man I never thought I’d see again offers a tight smile as he examines me. I’m not the same boy he knew. Years of working alone up here have helped me pack on muscle, and the tattoos that cover almost every inch of my skin hide what he surely knows lies underneath. “Silas—”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

He glances down at Whiskey, still poised to lunge at him with a single breath of the command from me. “We need to talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about…” I keep the gun on him, though it’s really overkill at this point, with Whiskey ready to take him down. “How did you find me?”

And who else knows where I am?

Who else might be coming?

His shoulders tense, but he keeps his hands up. “We have a lot to discuss.” He releases a shaky breath. “Your father is dead.”

It takes a moment for his words to register.

Father is dead…

I should feel something.

Anger.

Anguish, perhaps at the loss of my last remaining parent.

But an overwhelming sense of relief washes over me, releasing some of the burden I’ve been carrying for years.

“Good riddance.” I practically spit it at the messenger. “The world is better without Phillip Bolton in it.” I motion to his car with the shotgun. “Now, get out of here, Ronald.”

He shuffles forward, a move that Whiskey mirrors, bringing his jaws even closer to the attorney who has cleaned up all the messes for Father and Uncle Marty for decades. “I can’t. We have to talk about—”

Two massive steps bring me to Whiskey’s side, the barrel mere inches from Ronald’s chest. This close, I can see the fear in his eyes—something I’m not sure I ever witnessed during my eighteen years living with this man around almost every day. “There isnothingto discuss, Ronald. When I left, I told all of you that I wantednothingto do with what goes on in that family anymore. I thought I made thatcrystalclear.”

His head bobs nervously, his hard eyes darting from the gun to Whiskey. “You did, Silas. You most definitely did, but things have changed now that your dad is gone. Your uncle…”

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