Page 3 of Billionaire Lumberjack's Bargain

Pops has been rambling more and has made a lot of statements that don’t make sense over the last couple of months but nothing that has caused my blood to run cold likethatjust did.

“What do you mean, Pops?”

His brows rise as if he’s surprised I’m not following. “You know…Dave’s body.”

It takes a moment for me to process the name of our nearest—andonly—neighbor on the actual mountain.

“Dave Bower is dead?”

He presses his lips together in a firm line, shaking his head before he releases an exasperated sigh. “Of course, he’s dead, Dalton. Has been a few months now.”

A few months?

Not so long ago, I could trust anything that came out of this man’s mouth. He was sharp as a tack, always on top of everything. But now, I watch him staring out at the trees as if he’s searching for something he lost.

God knows what that might be—besides his memory.

This could all be nothing more than the ramblings of an old, confused man. I’d love to leave it at that without delving deeper, but something really big might be happening that I’ve been completely in the dark about. Questioning him further won’t get me anywhere.

I reach out and squeeze his arm. “I’m going to make lunch. Are you hungry?”

He nods. “I could eat.”

At least he still has his appetite, but whatever’s causing the cognitive decline only seems to be getting worse. And he won’t go into town to see Doc—despite my repeated insistence he needs to—nor will he let me radio him to come up here to try to figure out what’s happening in his head.

Pops has always been a proud man; that pride might be what kills him.

I keep hoping things will get better, that whatever is going on with him will somehow correct itself. Because the thought of any other possibility makes bile crawl up my throat.

But I can onlyhopefor so long.

At some point, I’m going to have to physically force him into the truck if I want any chance of getting him examined.

I swallow back my concern rather than push into another argument with him and move back into the house, directly to Pops’ office.

He would lose his shit if he knew I was in here without him, making this call on the radio, but I won’t be able to return to my work today without knowing what the hell he meant by that statement about Dave Bower.

Sliding into Pops’ chair, I reach for the CB radio on the corner of his desk and listen to the familiar creak of the cracked leather as I sit back.

The room looks different from this side—bigger—but I don’t take any time to dwell on it, not when the longer I’m gone, the more likely it becomes that Pops comes looking for me.

I adjust to the channel for the sheriff’s office and press the button on the radio handset. “Sheriff Wilson, this is Dalton James.”

It takes a few seconds before I get any response.“Dalton, it’s Betty. He’s just coming in from a call. I’ll grab him for you.”

“Thanks.”

I drum my fingers on the old wooden desk Great-Uncle Tim built before I was even born, waiting for the only person who might have any idea what Pops was talking about.

“Dalton?”Sheriff Wilson’s familiar voice floats through the speakers.“Everything all right?”

As a James Creek native, Travis Wilson knows neither Pops nor I would radio unless there were an issue.

“I’m not entirely sure. Pops said something odd today.”And in the most casual way…“He mentioned that Dave Bower may have died.”

A brief silence looms before Sheriff Wilson responds.“You didn’t know?”

“Shit.” I wince and pinch the bridge of my nose with my free hand. “No…”

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