Page 11 of From Rivals to I Do

“There’s nothing to discuss Joe,” I assert as I go to open my car door. However, as I reach for the handle, he leans against the car,

trying to get in the way.

“Just let me stay Darla, please,” Joseph pleads, and I can see the desperation in his eyes.

“I don’t want nothing to do with harboring a fugitive,” I say as I open the door and glare right into his eyes. “I’m not about to be your

stepping stone, Joe.”

“Darla!” he cries out as I shut my door. I roll the window down, and he smiles, probably expecting me to give in. But instead, I give him

a smirk back.

“Good luck to you, Joe,” I say. “You better be off my property by the time I get back.”

“You don’t mean that,” Joseph says as he rushes to the other side, and I lock the door.

“I do,” I reply. “I mean it with every fiber of my being.”

“You’re going to regret this,” Joseph says as he jiggles the handle, his face becoming redder and redder by the second.

“You know,” I say as I smile, even though it’s killing me inside to watch him flounder. “I don’t think I will,” I say as I start the car and

crank up the radio as I begin to back out of the driveway while he continues to follow on foot.

Tears threaten to stream down my cheeks as it hits me—even though I am so angry at him, that I feel so much hatred and resentment

toward him. . . a part of me still cares deep down. Still wants to be there for him. But I can’t and won’t let that side win out. I will never

ever let anyone treat me like Joe did. Not ever again. Not even if I still love them. That sweet innocent, summer child Darla is gone, and

I won’t let him think for a second that he can ever get me back.

I rev the engine, hit the gas, and peel out of that driveway, leaving him in the rearview, coughing on my dust. As I speed down the

road toward town, I choke down my tears so I don’t make a mess of my makeup. I don’t want to look like an unhinged ragamuffin on

my first trip to the store.

First appearances are everything, you know.

Chapter four

Chapter Four

It’s been a long day of feeding, mucking, and ranching, and my dogs are barking as I head into the shed and look for the feed for my

oldest horse, Tango. He’s an old dapple gray, the very first horse we ever got when we moved to the ranch, in fact, and he’s pushing on

in years. About twenty-five I reckon, and he needs special feed and such, unlike the newer, younger horses. Easier stuff to chew with

more vitamins and such to help with bone health.

“Shoot,” I sigh to myself as I sift through the bags of feed.

“What’s wrong?” Mitch asks, coming up behind me with a mucking rake in his hand, setting it against the wall next to some other

tools.

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