Darren stood in the cemetery, feeling like he was doing something wrong. He glanced around again, satisfied that no one else was there. He stared down at the headstone Farrah had been looking at a few months ago.
Gary Karl Lewis.
Gary Karl Lewis.No Irvine in sight. So not her—not the father of her baby. Not her baby either. No, this man was sixty-four-years-old, and Darren’s need to know who he was a sixty-four out of ten.
He turned away from the headstone and strode over to Paintbrush. The horse snacked on the grass under a tree, and Darren led him out of the shade. One more furtive glance around, and he swung up onto the horse’s back.
“Let’s get out of here,” he muttered.
It had been days since Farrah had told him about part of her time in LA. She had such a big heart, and had alway
