Page 10 of Billionaire Lumberjack's Bargain

Inhaling deeply, I hold the air in my lungs for a few seconds, pressing my hand over my stomach.

One.

Two.

Three.

I release it and open my eyes to meet Dalton’s concerned ones.

His gaze darts down and widens slightly. “Are you—”

“Yes.”

What can only be pity flashes across the green, and his jaw tenses. “Then you probably don’t want to be out here to see this”—his attention darts to Davey—”and he shouldn’t be, either. Tell me where everything is.”

“The barn storage room and behind it, near the woodshed.”

“Do you have someplace I can bury her?”

Oh, God.

There goes my stomach again.

I swallow the bile. “West side of the property. There’s a clearing. It should be easy to get in and out of it with the backhoe.”

If he can’t, he’d have to dig by hand, and that could takedays.But we need it as far away from the house as we can get it, as quickly as possible.

“This might take all afternoon, maybe even into the evening.” Now it’s Dalton’s turn to look queasy. “It’ll be messy.”

That’s a massive understatement.

He’s trying to downplay what he’s about to do and make me feel better about this entire situation he’s been brought into.

His gaze softens the longer it takes me to say anything, but I can’t seem to find the words for what he’s doing for us. “I really am sorry about your husband. I didn’t know him since my grandfather was always the one coming up here, but…”

He trails off, seemingly as lost as I am when it comes to finding the right thing to say.

Swallowing through the emotion clogging my throat, I blink away the threatening tears. “Thank you.”

Dalton rubs the back of his neck, making the thickly roped muscles in his arms and chest shift under his open shirt. “You’ve been up here alone since he passed?”

His question claws at my chest, threatening to rip me open, and I start to lose the battle with the telltale burn in my eyes.

He scans the property.

Probably seeing all the ways I’ve failed since Dave died.

The overgrown brush surrounding the clearing the house sits in.

Weeds growing up the haphazardly patched livestock fences.

All the damage the last storm did to the cabin and greenhouse that I haven’t fixed.

The chickens running wild when they should be contained—if I could manage to catch them.

It’s a mess.

But he doesn’t say anything about any of that.

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