Page 19 of Billionaire Lumberjack's Bargain

I’m terrified I’m going to losehim.

He presses his palms flat against the desk and leans across it toward me, and I know that look in his eye. It’s the same one he would give me when I wouldn’t finish my chores on the property as a child.

Not anger.

Moreconcern.

That hurts more than if he were pissed.

His shoulders sag slightly. “You don’t trust me.”

Shit.

“It isn’t that, Pops.”

“Oh, really? Then what is it?”

“You’re seventy-five years old, and maybe youwilllive forever, but what if you don’t? What happened to Dave Bower could happen to you tomorrow.” I spread my hands across the desk and the various stacks of papers. “How am I supposed to make sense of any of this when you won’t even let me see any of it, when you don’t let me know what needs to happen every day to keep everything running? How?”

His jaw tenses, and a muscle there tics.

I want to believe that his reluctance has nothing to do with his not believing I can do it and everything to do with whatever has been messing with his memory lately. That it isn’t because he doesn’t trust me or thinks I’m incapable.

“I’ll teach you when you can prove to me that you’re not a child any longer.”

I clench my jaw and rise to my feet, matching his height now. “I’m twenty-three years old, Pops. I’m not a child, and I’ve lived every moment of my life on this mountain, proving that.”

“Not every moment.”

I wince at his comment, squeezing my eyes closed, and that ache in my back intensifies, the scars flaring and burning as hot as the memory. It isn’t like him to bring it up. I certainly don’t need the reminder of the car accident that took Mom and Dad from me or the fact that I was the reason we were off the mountain the day it happened.

It’s something Pops would never use as a weapon against me.

Not if he were in his right mind.

Which only proves to me that heisn’t.

I open my eyes and meet his—ones that match my own and look so much like Mom’s. For some reason, that’s one thing I can always remember when other memories of her and Dad have faded over the last two decades. Maybe because I see them when I look in the mirror or at Pops. Or maybe because I chose one thing to cling to and never let go.

“This conversation is over, Dalton.” He points toward the door. “Get out of my office.”

Hell.

This certainly didn’t go as planned.

I had intended to address the issue at Camille’s homestead.

Even if I could walk away from a woman and child in peril—which Icouldn’tunder any circumstances—considering we own that land, that cabin, and all the other buildings on that property, it’s in our best interest to ensure it remains in good condition.

He should be as worried about it as I am, but I wasn’t even given the chance to delve into what I saw today because it went off the rails so damn fast.

I reluctantly back away from the desk and step out of his space because I won’t get anywhere with him tonight.

Maybe in the light of a new day, I can make some progress—both on getting him to admit thereisa problem and opening up to me about the business and ways to help Camille.

God willing.

I’m too wound up to head upstairs to my room, though. I tug open the front door and stalk out across the porch and down the few steps that lead to the gravel drive in front of the cabin.

---